Tanka bells

   New  Tanka                                                                                                                             

 1)temple bells

                chiming all the day

                day long tolls

                warping a hope

                 ringing out the blues

  2) drums beat

much show on stage thrall

   deafening sound while

   my mobile’s ringtones

   submerge into missed calls

 3)she weaves dexterous

 on her embroidery frame

 name of her sibling

 somewhere in similar vein

 remembers her mother’s care

  

4)grandma knits

the whole day and spins

the cut threads

making baby pillow

soft and velvet like

  

5)  biting chill

engulfs her with her babe

roll of rags  and leaves

 commoner’s luxury  for 

 all times and seasons caring.

 6) arriving late

 on  rainy day to  clinic

 she  sees   agony

 stamping  in life’s entourage

 as of her shade during young

7) plucking  a rose

 with deft  fingers before due

 feel of  poignant pain

  causing  a  premature  end

  much  same  for  human alike

            

 8) a  construction site

not  brick and  mortar  alone

anguished  cry  of  the

soul  spent of  life time  of  choice

he relives his life again

 

A take after "old poem" by Guardian

  A take after “old poem” by Guardian

  After  my failure in tenth class

  The father side people tutored in

  multiplication of money  and gold,

  Weathered in   usury and   locking.

   Believed in unbelieving   everything,

  the craze for  money, drove me;

   tortured me to a   mad extreme;

  I left not for army, but not knowing

Where my feet dragged, going in their

Way. A puppet in  their  hands,  father  became

A virile monster. Landed  in fishermen        

Community, I grew up amidst nets and fins;

             After  six  decades , keen desire for

Roots of family drove back, pained to know,

Same fate had befallen my younger brother;

Somebody living not far off, pointed to the

House sold, exchanged many hands for ruthless

Villainy of  greedy inmates, ditched my father:

He pointed to the banyan tree,”look there!

I saw him last two months back in rags with

Unshaven  beards , almost sleeping on

Roadside. Money  takes many  online pathways.

Curry and masala fish   and fried fish smell

Lingering in my nostrils, I decide to go back.

 

Adieu to this winter

     Adieu to this winter

             Come like an exorcist, stand by me,

             Cast  some  magic  with your  wand,

              drive away this   corroding   winter

               move us into a  web of  fragranced spring.

             Can stand no more this monster

              In season’s order  as a matter of right,

             ever leaving behind   a phlegm 

             in my chest and soul, around me too,

            like throwing a bucket full of water

            on my being’s scroll silent  and serene.

           Come! Like sprinklers    shower your

            Benign  blessings, when I  am seedy ,

            Be the first to drive away the evil

            Thickening  of wintry’s adamant lineage.

         Come  Spring ! swell with  pride and

Spread your fragrance  to  have  a  catch,  catch for good

My improvised pillow

My improvised pillow   

In  times of my gathered leisure ,

for   a  liking  for improvisation

a  puffed up pillow or duvet or small bed,

For clothes cotton  and   silk  and

Old   ragged  and  worn out,

Some  meant for  cold winter  and

Some can be pulled out for scorching

Summer, I sit, draw meticulous     plan

For  making a   pillow;  call it  at your

Will   a   waste of time or   mad pursuit

Of greed  or  miserly deed.

Those  lean  days of  agony  and 

Penury  I don’t forget , forget  not  the

Past is  my forte  and  motto ingrained

In my blood. This  bed   or pillow,

Duvet  or linen bed for children

Or  for  your swollen feet   a

Comforting  raised  care – whatever

You term it, is  my  useful hour of

Splendid  improvisation of  my clothes.

No Hands

No   Hands

He  rides  fast, good rider,

With   Determination,  craft in hands

Two wheels  propelling  ever his

Gamut -  all for  a  training for race;

Leading for speed up in bike

To fetch water in  plastic vessels

In times of dire necessity and

drought  from hamlet to hamlet

while the inmates of  old plastered

house  wait in anxiety, and grandma

walking with  a stick   adjusting her

thick glasses and rim over her hanging

ears  and   measuring time   by the  sun

transcending to the Western horizon.

Careless of Calamity and Death

Possible     evil knocking him down,

 He drives faster and faster. Mind and

Soul  always competing with  self

Flying away, does he think of his

Wife  and children and kith

Dependent upon him.  Spirit

Runs   faster than logic. Still  his

Hands on;  no hands but will only

Competes, downward his journey.

                     

                                                                                       

Guardian’s behind the scenes : empire

Guardian’s   behind the scenes : empire

This  moment of vignette

and  blonde    not  Trite   but   colorful,

the  much  awaited  Ballet this precious

hour  on this  stage,  steady

and  inspiring  after  ceaseless

 practices  and   training  behind

the   scene,  come  to please us,

 the  audience; yet who knows

what passes  between their  hearts

and  secret  layers of rumination;

mark  an imprint in our hearts.

Beneath  the dry and glitter,

The layers of paint,  another stay

and  story -  behest not to come

to surface. Their   nimble move   are

 symbols of immortality.

 

Guardian’s behind the scenes : empire

Guardian’s   behind the scenes : empire

This  moment of vignette

and  blonde    not  Trite   but   colorful,

the  much  awaited  Ballet this precious

hour  on this  stage,  steady

and  inspiring  after  ceaseless

 practices  and   training  behind

the   scene,  come  to please us,

 the  audience; yet who knows

what passes  between their  hearts

and  secret  layers of rumination;

mark  an imprint in our hearts.

Beneath  the dry and glitter,

The layers of paint,  another stay

and  story -  behest not to come

to surface. Their   nimble move   are

 symbols of immortality.

 

TAKE AFTER GUARDIAN’S “ THE SLOE WAS LOST IN FLOWER”

TAKE  AFTER  GUARDIAN’S  “    THE SLOE WAS LOST IN FLOWER”

 They had  a walk in April’s

 Inspiring  hour making promises

 And prospects to further a 

 Safe entourage.   Snow and sloe

 Sat in their memory, how ere

Lost in flower and foliage,

Singing many   a  romance

and   leading and misleading

the pair, I know not. How only

lost in   lies and lives.

Far away, after so many

Days amidst thickening bower

Cold winds brewing, freezing

Their hour,  their  ambitions

 Encountering many thistles;

Yet, hour of Truth before and

Uniting both in wedlock betimes.

Looking back( Guardian ) class photogrph

Looking back ( Guardian ) class photograph           

The other day-cleaning my shelves,

Clearing up piles of records, chanced

 Photos Disfigured and edgeless in

Their roomy corners  assigned.

School days  unforgettable ,formative

Years and stay  deep in your calling.                              

Home work and birthdays and gardening

Only in our  remembrance tools.

Tit bits of politics only from our

Newspaper reading, we were more

Oriented towards games and bird watching.

Yes! “ One foot in childhood  and one foot                 

In adolescence.”                  

Looking back this old photograph.                    .

A nostalgia ever drumming in

Your ears. What happened to those

Uniforms and  shoes and  socks           

Which were  a bug and force  for us

In school hours, tightening our  move

And freedom. Scared of bombs  and wars

As any school child would do. Generations

Of school children thumping in records  :

Yet ours is unique in  photos.                                             

                     

                                                                                       

What if the Sun Shines

    Me born, denied  of   vision,

    my dark room  like x ray theater;          

    my living luxury with unbounded

   Forte. What if the seasons blossom

  with respective smiles, up swelling  like

  springs of water taps in corners of

  railway platforms, for me the dark

  is my ordained luxury.

   A gentle tap   going afore

  when compelled by necessity

  on the traffic ridden roads, sun beams

  glare at me impartial, jasmine and rose

  those captivating, nosedrils    piercing          

   fragrance, foray that they belong to

   their category, for I see them not.

  All  these  for   the sense of my being,

 Flip for the skin and  flesh;

 But  my four walls, for my soul  attuned 

 ever since I came into this blessed soil!

 for  it bears me still ,still and  silent.  

 What  if the sun peeps out!

Youth and Aging process

 Youth and Aging process

When Lilacs bloom and garden

Is full with  sweet  fragrance,

Youth and sprightliness go

hand in hand to march ahead.

Morgan  and   Liza   walk  up

With full throbbing hopes

to   build  a  future  in  well spun

hut,  a  bliss  and bonanza now.

Aging in the form of   couple

Stand afar, sit a while and

Stand, cursing their shrunken

Skin and layered flesh.

Many a farming, many a

Cattle, milking cows their forte;

Their yesteryears  bereft of loss

And bemuse had a smooth sail.

The escalators yonder bid a   note

As if youth and  Age are two sides

Of the same coin, bear and live

Else  be in  ruthless   strain.

somebody's struggle somebody's take

some body's struggle  somebody's take.

In  the  spiraling  heat  of
Summer’s  scorch  and pride
there is  one  construction site
Of  flourish  and  prosper,
sturdy  Quay  and  concrete slabs,
Obstacles, yet needed  for
Effecting a  furthering finish.
The workers in uniforms,
Up and  down  the cranes;
The   sturdy   winches
Forsaking  them, loyal to
Their faith move to and fro.
booking  are open, at whose
cost  do they realize?
 nearby somebody fanning
himself with  bookleaf,viewing
 above, moods   a  metaphor
of verse and figures; ads  on banner
shine  like palm branch .

   

Free as freedom of those swimming

Free as   freedom of those swimming;

Who will not like birds? from poets

to potters and hunters to painters?

In my home garden crows and sparrows

Parrots occasional, swing on branches

Of tree tops; what more consolation

Than the melody of the observant,

 Conversant tapping you from your

concerns, cap less moods

tormenting you now and then;

the birds not only are décor on

my cloth line swinging   having 

a wholesome birds’ eye view,

also even in chirping you learn

 a language of unknown Vedas .

Light winged swim on the blue

God’s  favored design, else

How man would have invented

Aircraft  and concord  to come

Around the world. I wonder often

Why the wingless is in mad pursuit?

When the winged in salient zone

Carefree and higher and  higher.

he was the guardian -angel ( after Guardian) our old lady of the Rain

She was the guardian -angel ( after Guardian) our old lady of the Rain

         She was older than all the

         Structured pillars of the ancient houses,

         well known for her oral chanting of

          some cure for scorpion bite with pepper

          in her palm; a nonagenarian with shrunken

          flesh yet strong will prevailing upon, she

           is the divine spirit for the dead;

            certainly not the other way round;

           in the afternoons, when the decrepit cement

           and limed mortar fall, she would with

           childlike simplicity replaster, speaking to

            her affectionate walls; walls that listened

             to her, shared her inner voice, stood by

             her.  Pained to see how pollution and gas

             have tarnished the image  and dwelling

            order of the day. She would sit in  corner

             asking for re image. She is the  Guardian

             Angel of the ancient house.   

 

your intuition your guide ( after Twice a river) guardian

Your intuition your guide (  after twice a river) Guardian)

 Sitting by the perennial river

In my hamlet, my abundant gratitude

For the unfailing River, when the adjoining

Village struggles of intermittent drought,

Cannot imagine how could life be without

Water, observing my son playing kites,

 Wonder how will he when he grows up

In this   world of Trying and crusades;

How can I unravel the story of our exodus?

From a remote war-torn place, when religion

and economy pushed us to extremes.    Love

and Language always shape us human beings,

hate none is the dictum, but love self is the

immediate order, for depression is the deadliest

of the canker as far as I know; he must learn the

  to assess   and observe surroundings and be

guarded by intuition. Dictates of intuition --

the    expertise tutelage. Majestic roars and mighty

  ocean are always ever since creation by us.

 Can you run to the ocean at the time of thirst?

 The Earth that bears dead and living also

Bears sinners  and seditious, My son! You need to be

 Cautious and patient ever folding your hands to HIM.

A  mark of respect for the departed,  and  silent by

Silent offerings will be  feasible. River always our

Best solace  and boon