Patience and Green earth

Deforestation goes on ,
as if it is man’s prerogative,
Man’s thoughtless sickle
Fells the branches of the
ageless tree, the roots
spread on the brown earth,
yonder, on the neighbouring
hills, the cicadas on tall trees,
make a mockery of those
smart , busy hands,
blackbirds pour in as if
in elegiac mood,
oh! Man, why do you
turn the green earth
into a brown , colourless
wading pool of dry and wry,
Mother earth, which is embodied
Patience, bemoans and decries
Setting sun shadows the
Stubborn deforestation .

From Dream to Reality.

I saw a super built castle in my dream,
In the corner of high-vaulted roof,
A spider’s optimism persists,
Weaving and weaving,
Many layers of the gossamer like web,
Spider is too good to visualize a broom
Behind the glassy window panes,
I see Diaphanous and Diligence
weave and weave together,
plums and cakes in a rich bowl of dish,
Victuals and viands and drinks in plenty,
Dystopian vision runs away, erased,
I hear something suddenly disturbing,
repeated knocks at my door,
usual septuagenarian, takes for granted
my good will, alms and chat,
I wake up to see my already
popped up bristles of broom,
my glen calls me with a counterfeited glee,
I sink my mood with the gloves
in the kitchen sink, to see the
Reality of piled up stuffs.

I want to come to your bed

They have drawn the blinds mercilessly,
for I cannot see through the glassy window,
transparency of the white coloured
curtain is dimmer to my half sunken eyes ,
feel of icing cold around me,

the frost hit window is pleading
to be opened the next morn,
I am like a frozen meat
lying on my iron cot,
feel of icing cold all around me,

Three months of chicken pox
Incarcerated me, body and soul,
within the precincts of this narrowed
ward , where medicated smell ,
tincture and cotton permeate,

like the tegument of tender groundnuts
the marks of chicken pox pop up on me,
the polished mirror refracts my sulking beauty,
I ignored him in the past, now it is his turn,
The visitors’ bell approves, augments the silence,

I harken the wail of my chic, my blood,
in the next room, for meningitis caught you,
My babe! the wall is the veil between us,
I want to come to your bed,
feel of icing cold around me.

Come! Spring, Again in my Life.

Come! Spring , Again in my life,
Come Spring, to undo the strife,
I tread to walk upon the glassy grass,
that upfront the sun’s azure frame.

Come! Spring, Again in my life
to rejuvenate my withered leaf,
when thrush and cuckoo rebuild their nest,
nestle chicks in Love’s stronghold of Net.

I see, yonder committed poet
In his wonted secluded corner,
Weave numbers of spring tones
Chattered sprightly jubilation.

My heart echoes the resonance of
The warbling notes of Chiff chaffs
and merry blackcaps,
my gloves shiver under the

tender beams of the gubernatorial Sun,
I see swallows and swifts,
move from branches in swift turn,
Welcoming Spring in joyous tune.

Come! Spring ! Sprinkle joyous
Showers in my life,
Come spring! stay in life
of seasonal shifts of strain.

The soul peegrinates

I flew from the perfumed ,caring flesh,
Caring for its beauty and living,
some ten months ago,
burnt log of wood, embers
did not touch me,
farther away, I am wandering ,
waiting to search for in habitat,
with hungered looks I wander
from tree to river, brook to bridge,
I look at this, that, that, this,
Some fitting shapes for myself,
till now cannot find any,
I am wandering and wandering ,
in search of somebody ,yes, some Body,
more of human, less of sinning,
I move , slithering along,
It might be some more time.

Walking, walking on the road

It is not like sitting on a chair,
wheeling around majestic,
you being ensconced,
commanding and building castles
in the air, the chair revolving
around your thoughts,
nor like spitting on the
road, as the uncouth, unseasoned,
the chewed betel leaves,
it is very much walking ,
walking on the pavement
by the dawn, by the peeping
tender sun , the rays of which
feathering you, descend slowly,
along with your walk, your mind
talks, talks aloud those untutored,
fragmented chips of others,
not Iridescent, but intersecting ,
where you are unable to react to.
You walk further down , touching
upon the white flowers, the cuff like,
Some red wild flowers creep around
the railings on the road,
you walk on, endlessly on .

Thoughts flow

I sit in the corner of the big hall,
the gala birthday of a five year old
goes on, cakes ,songs and dances,
balloons fly as if angels swim in the air,
colourful decorations, candelabrum,
showering bright and bliss,
Birthdays and wedding come and go,
Does anyone think for a moment ,
who is responsible for this jubilation?
The creator, responsible for your BEING,
Who knows there may be many
and may not, I close my eyes , for
one moment : new revelations spring
like the burst of crackers,
Congregations and happiness go, merge;
Suffering alone stands like
a stupid donkey amidst giggles
and swindlers ,deception continues
to wear a motley gown,
they easily advise to forget the past,
when the past has got
its own murky implication,
groping in wilderness
stumbling all the time,
the unanswered question bounces
like a ping-pong ball:
But for the Divine Interventions what
Would be my predicament? What
Would be the fate of many?
They would Not spare
even the God-sent , Avatar,
Injustice and calumny done to AVATAR
Is injustice done to GOD,
I gulp the juice served,
As I gulp the conspiracy
In multiple bouts,
Thoughts flow with the
Question, “ where are we going?”
“ where are they going?”

But for you sombre winter...

But for you, sombre winter
when, excepting my quill ,
everything is slow moving,
fallen leaves like our fallen
moods lie as they are,
awaiting the fast blow
of the season’s strength
of the cold wind,

but for you sombre winter,
my soothing lulled voice,
will it expand into the hum of
much awaited Sprightly Spring?
will my heart crave for those
humming birds visiting my lawn?
But for you sombre winter,
would my saddened heart

weave an aubade of spring?
will my curious hand weave
an aubade lingerie for
my grandchild of Spring?
Can I fill those empty
Papers of my writing pad
with flow of thoughts on Spring?
Oh! winter! You are great in your own way.

A Day By the Frogs a limerick

A Snake was keen following a frog,
Frog was staring at another frog,
I was near a big mound,
there was anywhere no sound,
no one seemed to be pitying the frog.

The wail of a wardrobe

Some innovative sinister has revamped
my broad fragranced arena,
boxes and bundles of scholarly books
have replaced the passive ,hanging clothes,
the only hangers on the rod are helpless
mute witness, soon to be deployed elsewhere,
moths are ready to play hide and corrode ,
already settled in the dark corners,
I am breathless, those torn papers
have mocked at my stuffy box.

A Strange woman's point of view

‘ can you answer the question “who am I ?” ‘
Carelessly putting back her dishevelled hair,
she giggles and replies, “pretty cool as easygoing
as this grazing cow, sex is my appetite, flesh is food,
no bond, no wedlock, no husband, children are nuisance,
visit to the pub and bar, my addiction,
no contradiction, bath tub is my luxury,
as long as hold this bottle of drink
whether country wine or French wine
I am supine, my eyelids drooping,
off to bed ,“ she falls on her bed
with a thud, she is transparent
transparent, no doubt.

Carefree of discomfort

The nonagenarian, pale and lean
shrunk like a lettuce on the iron cot,
She monopolises it for three years,
Coma enters into her thin frail
for twenty days nearly,
her grandson’s ping pong ball,

not sound enough to reach
her almost deaf ears,
the white bed pan
that has served many
before looks askance
at the surroundings.

She has greened three
Generations , nourished
to their growth and prosperity,
all surrounding with eyes
wide open to view her
slowly closing eyes,

can she feel those fluttering
flowery curtains? the metaphor
of breeze wavy through her
grilled windows? those
chattering birds or loud
acoustics of politicians?

In the dead of her life,
Life is still for her.

in the wet of the forest.

It is my green desire
to go dreaming about
in the wet of the forest,
to merge with the green,
to play by the nutmeg
and the brown timber,
I see some marks of
Carpenter’s axe, sharp
like wound cuts
the tender sun hides ,
like a coy bride behind
the clouds, it rains , rains,
the green earth absorbs all
water into the fissures,
woody green shade is
like a jade of protection
for the needy and helpless,
I play in the wet of times.

Evolution

E ternity, comprise eternal laws such as
V iolation of dharmic rules ,rape, and greed
O ffence in public and officiousness
L ust and languor that lead to lugubriousness;
U ubiquitous lord of the Supreme
T ears and turns down all that is disastrous
In vengeful ire and wrath engulfing
One and all that is sinister and sinful
Negating man’s cruel wickedness.

I am born again

I am born again in a cyclic pattern,
an agent of catharsis,
to dive, to delve into the deep,
to solve and dissolve the evil.
I am born again to save the
Unborn from dying,
to weave a magic of dithyramb
into the minds of disillusioned,
to unknot the perilous to
Construct a more peaceful
dome of bliss and beatitude.
I am born again to be incarcerated
to redeem the purloined , purblind
humanity from the pawn,
I am born again to distil the
Waters of sanity in the mundane
and insane,
I am born again and again
to relieve those in torpor .

Fearless Fear

Fearless fear.
I turn the dreamy psychoanalytical pages
Of Sigmund Freud to join hands with the
Miles and miles travestying Frost, pick up
the apples and pass on to the old styled
Auden, gather some philosophical tenets,
look around people; some praying
and PREYING upon inwardly the innocent;
yet, many are fear ridden,
I have an awesome fear for the
Lord, God the ever vigilant Supreme;
any act of deliberate amiss
will go for His chastisement,
Quite a few fall in my line,
Fear grips some for the awful
demeanour of the past , the
diabolic devil shaking those
to the roots, even now,
in the nearby cottage, the dying,
almost dead, is fear stricken,
for the stake of his final journey;
the playful schoolboy fears
the frequent indulgence of
the cane of the schoolmaster,
there are many ramblers
fearless of fears ,
Fear stares at all, fearless.

Heaven is the place for HIM

The sweet swan broods,
A silent, melody
Winking at the blue sky,
The brook is liturgical,
Ornithologist , sitting by
my side, marvels at the
covey of birds swoop down,
“with His two legs, ever watchful
eyes, a halo and whirling club,
why doesn’t God descend
to this earth?” maverick he is
he queries, with eyes wide open,
MY Miltonic mood of muse
Responds, this murky muddy
Sinful place is too much for Him,
for Him to wield all at one go,
for HIM to step on and stay,
Heaven is the place for HIM.

Solitary ones

It is the solitary Him with his
Ubiquitous vision of predictive
Protective logo that we worship,
It is the solitary singer on the road,
Cares least for the alms,
It is the bird watcher, solitary
In the forest flies with the poetic
wings ,in search of serenity,
it is the solitary who rewrites
the history of the past
fused in a poetic tune,
the solitary thinker in you
brings out the stupefying
hidden facts to the blind,
it is the unique solitariness
that procreates my creative
bent of mind.

Morning coffee

It is the boiling kettle of water,
Stream s puffing out for hot coffee
decoction inviting many of the kids,
and the adults in the ever warm kitchen
in my mother’s household,
It is the first sip cup of coffee,
that peps us up, for the rest of
the day, it is first sip from the
hot cup with the fine flavour,
that is the propelling factor
for the poet for the inspiration,
it is the morning coffee,
which is a bed coffee for many,
without which a bad morning,
it is the aroma that invites
many a good neighbour
to my house for a chat,
it is the coffee for which
she gave a modelling pose,
it is the coffee which runs
the race everywhere.

Longing

Longing
It is the creepy longing for something
Indefinable, this makes some, hum a song,
In the hub of humanity, it is this longing
which needs seclusion for some to seek,
It is this longing for human kindness which
most of us crave in duress and all times,

It is the longing for its clan
that a crow caws ands shares,
it is the longing for that lonely
rhythm which seeks salvation,
it is this unspoken unique voice
that clings to the Alone,

It is this longing for Thanksgiving
which makes me adore my Avatar,
My mentor, the universal Supreme.