If Things Are Amiss

     If  things are   amiss...

Even in your dead tired sleep,

You   figure out something

Running higher, big, looming large,

 growing With its clubbable

 companions. I  construe  it is

  like   a  take off , a   Frisbee  move,

 from one corner into another,

  Into   a drift of frizzle and play

  In a   circus tent. I tried to  catch

  But  all amiss . The  next morn

 You realize it is  adventure

 In   real  life  scene, a meticulous

  Drive of  cobweb, not  a miss

 But wilful push off  to

Accommodate decorative

 wall paper , Your  warm friend .

A Rasping Companion

   A rasping  Companion

It is  like    gargantuan  New Arrival,

A  New  Direction  in the

Semi  mad  whirl  of  the Wind.

Just   a gentle   push button,

Speeds   along two immeasurable

Lengthy  tracks, carrying  Onus

Of myriad  commuters. Standing on

The platform, it is  the feel of a

Mesmerizing  agent approaching you.

Those  were  days  when

Charcoal and spooky smoke

Bursting  through upward tunnel

Propelling  factor. Repellent for the

‘No other go’ passengers. Tardy  engines

Perforated with  figures   and  numerals,

No  charm  for  us, but  a  special  charm

For those bogies, for  throughout  they 

Are  their companions.

Now what  does  it  matter?

Whether   you relish kurkure

Or  scribble  on your notepad,

The  agony of  the abandoned child

Which is   in erasable for,  you  are

Restrained :your orthodoxy does

Not permit you to take it further.

Memories  are  the  same .

They  linger  ever.

What can be greater...

      What  can  be  greater......

Sorrow  in  its  dull  attire   retraces

Its  musty  past   ruminating  its

Quorum of steeped    memory.

Yields  are  bewildering   numerous.

Queries  are  wholesome new.

What  can   be  more  hurting

Than  the  ruinous  ignorance

Clubbed  with  the  messy  dark,

Sidelining  you  the  victim ,

For  its    romping  prosperity?

What  can  be  more  gnawing 

to  know  than the  Growth

due  in you  is  stunted  by a

Diabolic  lot  of   vixen fox.

Nothing  short of  throwing  axe.

Childish wonder though, at times,

 beneath the  rough exterior of  groundnut,

Nothing  solid  stays  or  pops out

A healthy  nut to  consume.

Why  this  sad  terrain to mourn?

What  can be  more  consoling

To know  than realization stemming 

From your plethora of experiences,

That  none   can  be  ruthless   insidious

When He The Supreme solid by your stand.

Sea's governing principles are God's

      Seas ‘governing principles are God’s

 On unruffled day, the waters are calm,

Rare  phenomenon to  observe. Queen Moon

Sees  Her  Visage  in the reflections

Of  her ever friendly  mode.

But  we  all  wait  for the  waves to  be  proactive.

the waves  touch   and  go, a  free play.

Sea’s  cool, gratified  by shingles on the Beach. 

Ships  royal  anchorage  are  like Queen’s

Majestic  scepter.  Traffic  goes on .

Beneath  the countless  gyrations,

The Deep  is wary  and  watches   the

Profound activity ,also trade  that provokes

Seas  go  on. Fury is  boundless,

 catches   one of  the prime Elements.

“Beauty was never the whim of a demi-god,”

Holocaust is  also its Duty.

They Were Rare

They  Were  Rare

They were   select  four.

A  group of  very  rare,

High-spirited  always,

Set out in search  of a game,

But destiny willed  otherwise,

It  was  their endgame.Their  lives too.

Admired  sunrise   and  sunsets ,

Rowing   boat, songs  of  rhythmic

Melody  in tune with  every  row.

Rowing, rowing, every  spirited  OAR

Pops  out of  their  breath  and  blood.

But  Destiny, does  it  spare anyone?

The  boat  capsize  is  the rude  shock

Sending  waves  of  fear for  the neighbors.

History  proves,water  engulfed 

good and  others too.

But   these  were  retrieved sooner

For   a  short  while.

Who  can  undo  their karma?

Karma of  any  kind whatsoever?

Their will read  later,

But written earlier  and  ahead

Expressed  their desire

To donate eyes  and  Brains

They  were  rare  four,

Gone down in history of yore.

What Your Clarion Call Means To Me.

It  is  not  just  a  call,

A  specific  wake up  Call,

I see  the  Dawn, the spectacular  Sun

Rising ,the  just blossoming   yellow

Flower  as if  breaks  the  Dark

Slowly receding  now.

Call  for  a  Day of  Hopes,

Seamless  serendipity ,and  undoing

 Of Desiccation  of  suspended  spirits.

Aroma  of  flower spreads  like the

Mantra  or  Chantic effects.

You   shake off your  slumber:

Come  to  feel the  Yellow  flower

With  the   Call, it is an  Awakening.

Mysterious  it is.

All Silenced To why?

All   silenced to why?

   Shot  and  ghastly   sound

  Unusual  and  scary,

  Undoing  all good in  a second.

 The   jubilant music hall till now

Vibrant  with  Melody  is

Turned  into  Malady of frozen blood.

Peace  on Dove has flown now

to  a temporary distant mode.

 What you see unwittingly  now

Is   a   void  of  cacophony ;

 Your  Sudden Silenced  voice

holding  your  breath  and

pulse. Gunmen  induced not

pellets but hatred  and cruelty

in  their   instruments, their  aids,

to raid   their  surroundings.

You  are a  mute witness

To this volley of  bloodshed,

Know  not how long?

A Shot,a sound to terrify.

 A   shot, a  sound   to   terrify.

Bowls  of  milk ,orderly,

Neat in  white  melamine  cups.

In good segments. Cats  mew

And  come  closer  to  taste,

 Sparrows   from  their  ancient

Coves in houses, scatter   and chirp.

 Raindrops  from  roofs flood

The  pillar gates  and floor.

 No  more word of  drought

In the dictionary, at least

 this year Anymore.

Dark looms   large, blind  our

Vision. You  keep  writing  and

Continue  to  ruminate . The  life

You  witness, the  world you

 see  is not  the  same.

The  drama  enacted   is not what  it is  to be.

 Burst of  a  cracker ,sudden  and sound

Of  a  blast enough to scare all of us.

Real  fright is  elsewhere.

The  gates   are open.

Broccoli Wails

        Broccoli  wails.

Yesterday  I was  proud with  my crest on,

But today some crude hand chopped off

My fertile green head; my stem uncared for

Left behind. I was pot boiling with my spicy

Companion on the frying pan. I am construed

Such  a good hearted /wanted one for Cancer cure.

Does it mean I  should  dance here for  sure?

Look  at  my  brethren, there on the plants,

Some  are getting  dried, wither,

For  not being  watered. For the  lazy gardener

Away  for   short while, that is  the way

The world works now.

Sculpture speaks

           Sculpture  speaks

    Many inquisitive ones visited  us ;

    Recently, eager  and agile.

   Me  and my  brethren stay, live  here

  for long, though  splashy waves 

   and   battening  rains corrode  us  at  times,

  anvil  and  chisel  shape us inside  and out.

  A Saint  or  Shiva, Buddha  and

  Bohemian cult, Purohits   and pundits

   Pop out of  the  expertise  carve.

   Delve  is  systematic  and  serene.

   As hammering  goes on,

  We don’t   bemuse, but sturdy  and firm.

   Breeze  from  the Bunyan 

   Is  a  thrice fold  Boon for us.

At Many Cross Roads..

1)    At   many  cross roads..

  Mind  is restive, not  for

 a  dulcet moment now.

At the  hustle bustle cross roads,

Zebra  crossing and  signal sign posts,

Waiting  to read the automatic trans tile,

No chameleon  on the  wink,

But  the  peel of  a plantain

Irksome   and sticky on your

Fast   moving  heels.

A  thin  wire like your  eerie  fear

Might  camouflage your brave put up.

Thews and  sinews of  hands  shake

Behind the willed wallet you don.

You  want  to shake  the  storage

Of  Mind that  is  restless.

A thin  shadow, a  cat crossing,

Not  an  ill omen  now,

At this juncture. Move  on.

Cross  roads are  teasing  and trying.

You Do not Die

You do not die.

 She  too is a  tool of

Uncommon wish  for

A  petrified   cessation

Of this seamless Breath.

Torn between  Death wish 

and  desire for perpetuation of  life,

she  sways  with  uncertainty

and  emotion . Enacts the drama,

gruesome  and merciless

to grip the  clamps of  Death,

‘oh! God! When do you plan to

knock me down?’ God  nods.

The   Omniscient   admonishes

With   gentle smile, The Plant

Is mine, you have  no  right

To uproot the Tradition

And  Longevity. You have

To water  many plants.

On The Teeth Of Wheeling Death.

           On  The  Teeth  Of Wheeling  Death.

 On the twangs of  wheeling painful Death

Something sparks, silent and  steadfast,

What you call this painful paradox.

A rehearsal  of  mix of  pages, you revisit now.

Verdant broccoli, just  unpacked, now

In its  sauce pan,boiling  with  spices,

Now looks  as if keen on going back

To its stem  and  clan. A vain  yearning.

It is  the  gardener’s fault,

Owner’s treat, its angst.

Woe  to  the  Creator 

It  bemoans with certitude.

Take   break, go back  to this life

Of  fallen  foliage  and shrinkage.

Your  delve  into  philosophy

Continues  with  assemblage  of  facts.

There is reverberating Life, craves

 Not  For  reprisal, but  for  redress.

Many a   sages  and  many  a  saga

Have unleashed , encrypted  this

As Death Wish. Again   this is 

a  penitential   cry  for  a  feel

of  deeds, represented by your

dictates   of emotion  and empathy.

An Appeal by a Section of Antipodes.

    An  appeal  by  a  section of antipodes.

What can we term appropriately  ourselves?

We  are  creations  of antipodes

My Muse (here)  interprets this way,

In water as opposed  to  land.

Flora  and fauna, jet some  and float some,

Swim   and dive  and weather  the storm

And serenade and  snug  in the  slime.

Oh! Man and  beings on Land,

You can be proud of many global

Achievements, but when thirst

Afflicts you, or burns your throat,

You come to water, quench your

Thirst  and some even  take us

For  food.  By providential Will

 we  are destined thus: We  have no

indulgence in politics.  We are always

silent sufferers. You  fight  and  peace less,

no  cool, such is  the land life.

Claimant

      Claimant

We  live  in   an illusory

 world of  many claimants ;

eyes , looks  and  arguments  

cannot  bring out  The Truth.

Delve  deep  into  the hidden 

Matter, Only  the  visionary

Can  probe  the reality.

Truth  has  to  maintain  a

Low  profile, for  the fake

Is  vociferous  and  virile.

Tap  the  dormant  and 

Bring  the  claimant  to 

The  lore, I daresay.

A  Take  on  “vada That” by Adam Lowe

  No  Notchy  Munge to plunge him

Into  darkness. No internal  dark for  him

To  come out.He is  clear  headed  and  cool.

Somewhere  there,  brandy smell of  the  gang,

No  fear  for  the Charpering carsey: or police cell.

He  is  not  into  a  crave for  serious love or partner.

He  Worries   how  he  is going  to mend  the offending.

Pondering  for  an  answer. A royal  dignified  life of

Set pattern, he moulds  for  the  future and  wellbeing

Of  the society, he  is part of.

 He   abhors  this  world of  Patter  and pogey.

 His  troll  is  serious  and  meaningful.

In The Midst Of Thinking Herd

     In  the  midst of  thinking  herd

It was  neither a dream, nor  a passing  vision,

But   a  reality tinged with  emotion  and  sympathy.

You  prefer  to  walk to  have  a  reprieve

From  killing  chores and pressures.

These  days  you like  the company of

Serene  and secluded, minding  their own  way,

Harmless; in a  way dumb herds of  cows

And   deer, packed binds  to  that of

Sinister looking mankind who mostly

Thinks in ill  harbouring  way.

Ruminating  in their own way,

herd moves  on.

Looking  at   the slopes of mountains,

God  had created the flowers  and shrubs

For  the sake of  animal  ken. Ripples

By  which  they  rest a while

Always move on .This  is a better home.

Heather They Are.

   2)    Heather They  Are

 In  the  purpled  hour

Of  their  merry make,

After   exhaustion, and when

Awakening taps them,

In the  PURPLE Crying

Of  the Baby, those lessons

And messiah  hinge a  lot.

Heather surround  them

As well, making  them

Heather   and  great.

Could You Be All These?

     Could you  be all these ?

Could  you  be the glow worm

To emit bright  aura in pitch  dark?

Can  you become recharged torchlight

When am immersed in power cut

That  sinks  my  surroundings?

When dimmed  light  is  a  threat,

Could  you  become  my informative

Companion, via my Micromax mobile ?

Could  you  be  the remover of my

Countless  obstacles  when they  stem

around your neck  and  heart?

Could  you  be my All Time Guide ?

Above  all could  you  be  my  radiating

Boon  to shine  as Halo  for  ever  and ever.

Thank God ! I am literate.

         Thank God! I am literate.

I  thank God    and  my  Muse

For  ever. I need no scribe.

My choked  emotions  and

Pent up  feels    burst  into 

Transformed  configurations.

The  words  are no longer  choked,

They are double alive, for My

Muse  gives  shapes, serene  and

Sober expressions to them.

The  paper  or  book  is  Not

The  place of One  Language

For  it  is  a  multi Coloured,

Multicultural   Hub. I often

Delight, revel to be a  part

Of  this reflective  Hub.

Tracking The Lines.

           Tracking  the lines

The  dragon like wheels that are set,

Move  backwards  and  forwards,

Tracking  the lines along, miles

and  miles  far off, beyond your ken.

The onward  path serene   and  poetic ,

Free  from  panic, eager to  reach its goal,

Watching  through the window, each

And every station, pulse of humanity,

Move about, a mindless noise   and

Notation, mechanically devised.

Is it  noise or  Voiced Voice, you

Need  to ponder   and  prevaricate.

The  downward  journey, the  pitch  dark,

The  barking  of  the dogs on the 

Starless  night, the Dalila  like  arrival

On the platform,   awful  for you:

 You know,Dalaila  has   much  to  say.

All depends  upon how  to  foray .

The    arrival  on the platform  veers

On its reels, ready  to  take us .

It   has  to  track  miles and miles

Far  beyond  our  ken and  goods.