TANKA
1) Casket opens slow
treasury of ancient coins
thrill of entire house
glitter and share of inmates
till nightfall their bonanza
*******
2) A cellar full of
winery succulent flows
today’s drive and thrill
pushing you to market place
dreams and definitions there.
**
1) towel in bathroom
hanging right above my head
gets drenched by shower
morning’s first beatitude
me and towel stay short while
2)Haiku
red embers ever
fodder for my busy hearth
unabated still
**
3) corner to corner
a bat counting inmates stay
its stay for a while
Tanka
a super cute doll
swinging smart centering hall
my hall’s daily rhythm
many a devilish craft
shudders to creep instant now
***
2) between wall’s crevice
dead lizard’s tail protrude bland
fear cornering child
****
After
Guardian’s “Get Down Ye Angels by John Agard
***
Come, come to this earth :
Oh!
Divine angels, don’t get stuck up
with the aroma of blooming flowers
in my garden ,where select hands pick
choicest and bounteous of sacred petals
sanctify the sanctum sanctorum;
with your angelic nod ruling in every stem,
leaf, root
and grass where dew drops
shine like shining of divine blessings
from above, showering only those
whom you like and converse with every hour
and moment with a magic wand of
prophecy;
every note passing from flute
and viola
by the stones move with a special rhyme.
The tiny speck of plants just born to this
Wet soil, nod with approval of their stay
pleasant again with a will of heavenly aura,
nothing can stay, stay without Heaven’s
Descent with assured Gain and Grace
ye! Heavens! Don’t delay, come, come
to this mundane insecure, veering in
unsteady coils.
After
Guardian - The Improver
Each day begins with zeal
of my desk and work with zeal,
chin and cheeks
glow with age
but
steadfast look and commitment
always aim
like the soaring bird
of spring
and twitter in dawn.
Distractions
always there, like
the stopped
pendulum stopping
your
attention and mood, why
and when you need to know
and how
to configure and conquer
your motif
of strength and serenity.
Sun and
solar system ,
Sky and stars
with cool moon
Circle and
govern us all,
Only we
fail to know the purpose.
This cessation
of negative,
Pessimistic
aim be the
Order of
the day and night and dream
Tree’s
pride and plight
Interspersed with my
Thick green foliage,
a swarm of bees and berries,
day’s call and copious buzz.
At noon, a surreptitious caterpillar
pair with the pained bloom,
not shedding but sharing with the
clustered clan ever accommodating.
At dawn, crows black princed,
covey of parrots with green livery
Pride with the parentage,
their wings a see saw fritter ever,
until a thud of wind sweep and
dogs bark gathering all shiver
my kith and kin of neighborhood
silenced into shrunken chamber.
I wait for Spring’s advent
to reshape my defunct call
can I see again my broad spectrum?
Under which many umbrellas figure in.
New Year Eve,
End of December, New Year’s Eve,
Crackers blow, majestic in front and back
of houses and multi storied apartments,
Convivial mirth ringing aloud.
Joining hands with church peal.
Augury of undoing all that
is abominably mad, painfully sad,
into a lawn of greenery and opulent.
All faces hiding how much of sorrow
Yet, tapping the stick of optimism
bold on the streets of angst and tension
writ large for years not obliterated;
bright in the morn early and near
all faces wishing with cakes and drinks
joy and smile welcoming all passersby
crackers sound and bound beyond walls.
Hope beckons every household
Like babe’s smile when lullaby on air
betokens with an aura of positive move.
December goes but with a nod
Weep no more, for in the rustle
Of wind and sweep, there is pot of luck.
Crow and
me the same plight:
In crow’s
beak not a bone
Not
a sea smelling fish or
dead crumb,
Nor a
piece of grass green, in the field
Walkers’
bed of aura soon be fed,
In cow’s
graze maze amazing,
In due
course of time, dry and dead
bunch of
straw bundled in a corner;
shift and shift in the cow’s tent,
master’s
delightful duty.
Am I
digressing, certainly not.
My poem,
composed some
Twenty
years ago, retrieved
from my
ancient trunk idle,
now to the
write a facelift ,
this
poem, wind’s sway, now
away from
the gentle touch of crow,
my
efforts to trace it now elsewhere;
my
growing apprehension ,
some
spicy pudding neatly
stuffed,
flying, flying far off,
in a far
off trolley, idle stay.
I am
running after it,
Crow’s
flight to unknown
In its
steered path , still a wonder.
My long
forgotten poem
My
recently retrieved poem
Seeks an
asylum
Elsewhere,
its own cove.
Ticking off the calendar
With the advent of New year
a new born elm, a smile always
welcoming all in the household,
looking at the corners of every page
a calendar in each room, a visage
of Messiah,holding numbers in wand;
some dates crossed for bringing tears
some dates marked highlighting events
happening and harkening, soft touch
is
the heal. A new face, new laminated bulk
new
beckoning, yet effacing old memories
impossible; a straight horse jumping into field
crossing all barriers, thistled hoofs, high jumps
over
bush, speeding fast to an unknown
destination; fog clogging nose and pathway;
wind across window pane, calendars
fritter and face ordeal of hands and push.
They
have a special place on the wall.
In between the take off
and landing
All the formalities completed,
like the
gentle cops’ interrogation, a
duty which
cannot be abrogated,
reaching the gate, with saddened memories
and farewell, for you are
going to be away
from home, from near and dear ones;
your home, which is not only a living space,
entity infusing life and breath every minute
every corner, every
object of your catch,
every utensil and every
scar on the wall,
floor, hands reaching to
redress, broom
and brass lamp, a regular cleaning;
after all these , reach
aircraft, your seat belt,
feel of flying high; the azure and the accompanying
wings , wondering
inventors’ other side of God;
At times, with a jerk,
landing in a land either new
or familiar, entwined
with new objects, new faces,
entirely clogged in new climate; sipping cup of coffee,
back home, your kin and growing curious to know
about every plank
and panel ; inescapable.
Poem of the week: The rain in the night by Heidi Williamson
Rains of pellets why
From her window, blinds are drawn
Looking through an eyesore and tragedy
for twenty years ago, new to the same soil,
new to the surroundings, nearer to the market
town ever busy traffic trading all over.
Dawn begins with calm, but falling to dusk
where tension and loss carry the involved;
Agriculture and culture no longer the same
Where artificiality runs like mad rush
after currency where serenity is devoid;
Only calculation prevails in all walks.
Shaking grills of school gates, lure
With chocolates and sweets, all
Kidnap and trade, pure innocence
pays like premature abortive scissors
rolling in blood and buckets ;
God ordained life is at stake,
Counting hours waiting for bonus
His dictum waits for some more time
Counteracts the untiring vying
With over confidence .
After Guardian’s Poem of the week: The Human Voice from a Distance by Judith Willson
It is a human voice, unforgettable human voice,
Reaching far beyond, reaching far into the sea
Unforgettable recordation of history and story
Ply into memory and myth and life and loss.
Stepping out into city burnt out, total loss
Absolute erasure, devastation by corruption
annihilation, man plunging into desire total
uncontrollable and increase every minute;
no trees, no branches, no streets busy
all lulled into eerie calm and nothingness
prevails, into a mood capturing guilt and vex.
His voice is through waves and boats tilting rudderless.
My pen and paper only final medium
through human voice a dictum
voicing through pent feelings
here and everywhere, rock and rock
we rock rock, we humans rock,
until we reach a shore of void and nothingness.
A philosophy, life is nothing and nothing
But empty vessel making noise,
After grey mists what….
In the startling beauty of seas wonders,
Pebbles and white surf seeping inn and out
No longer the dead sea but sea shaping
Your poetic throb tapping inner rhythm,
Grey drizzling mists, not mood spoiling,
But taking you to sea’s dizzy heights.
Grafting overnight and day’s shifts,
Many a rolling over lobsters and dories
‘Grey mists unmindful, grey lurking,
Rolling over surface over and over again,
Sea joints, sharks and whales in their mirth,
A world of their own!
Wondering at the wonderful will of man
wandering over sea’s turmoil and sounds,
business in “grey drizzling mists”,
fishing and trade going to dizzy heights
what if grey or white surf or mist
it is happening, happening, in its own way.
After Guardian’s Poem of the week: Sleeping Out by Jane Routh
I did not believe in my instinct
nor the TV channel’s forecast,
came out for my own camping
to view stars and firmament;
Nature and instinct fail us
We follow these not knowing
They are empowering us more;
A duvet only cover on me
Me dreaming of poems
flow out of my imagination
running like a river, river dream
on the open ground, though chill.
Stepping on my body my improvised
Kitten mewing, perhaps escapism;
From the nearby home
Day and night are the same
for inmates, me dreaming
and composing my own way
what if it snows, when your
pen and mood are invitatory
for a different world;
Silent hide amidst plastics
and food
particles, your bits and bites
and parcels of valuables,
you are reigning king for the
day;
until a repulsive smell or
chance look,
sound of utensils, tumbling
from corner to
corner,
catch the note of wary eyes
of the
mistress of the house
chasing, holding her breath,
rat equally agile in slipping
and climbing atop the cupboard,
by the time you search
for a stick long or small
a mystery shrouds in and
around
whereabouts of the nuisance;
preventive rat nets or barbed
wire
your immediate search
for the
avoidance of
these pets, your comfort
or necessity for your home.
Rat
and parcels of valuables,
you are reigning king for the day;
until a repulsive smell or chance look,
sound of utensils, tumbling
from corner to corner,
catch the note of wary eyes
of the mistress of the house
chasing, holding her breath,
rat equally agile in slipping
and climbing atop the cupboard,
by the time you search
for a stick long or small
a mystery shrouds in and around
whereabouts of the nuisance;
preventive rat nets or barbed wire
your immediate search for the
avoidance of these pets, your comfort
or necessity for your home.
After
Guardian’s Brumby's Run by Banjo
Paterson
They are a special lot,
reared by their kind special master,
run
high, jumping far beyond rules,
straight and high reaching mounds
and fields, races of course no need
to mention, hoofs resounding
a rhythm unique to the listener
all times, irrespective of his
tension.
The green and lawn
Soft and lushful ,
Unmindful of sickle and sieve,
accommodative and supple
never mind the pain
of hoofs and plods
for that is the nature
of Nature’ s vast and wide.
Ride is pleasure and fun,
Run is pain and ruin,
The stock love to return
Owner
proud to retain.
After Guardian’s owl
After all gunshot and bloodshed
bitter and sway, struck by hunger
and agony of separation from home
cold creeping for days yet body
withstood the bitter chill pouring
from outside; only undaunted will
stands like a steady rock in your
sway;
restive in war field, curled like paper
rolls swaying and swept by powerful force,
lack of sleep driving his spirits,
a cry from wilderness, ominous
yet with some redeeming positive
faith nullifying his apprehension;
owl or resounding echo from above,
he
is yet to know; a voice or vision
appears in cheering mood, he is safe
amidst turmoil and many a dying
into cankerous death and doom;
stench
and stink cutting their energy
while he smells of rose and bloom
when buds
into romance and redemption.
