My pity is fake … by Miriam Neiger-Fleischman

My pity is fake … by Miriam Neiger-Fleischman

whom to pity and how ( after guardian)

 what is self pity? Whom to pity  and why?

 Question always arises looking at all

falling peanuts , strewn feathers and  

happenings around deaths and merciless

Killings, bombshells and  profuse bleeding;

 Me in the cell, suppressing all pangs

of torture  and still seeing many a victim

 In the gas chambers and handcuffed

  Awaiting judgement or final call from

  Heaven; counting dead in war field,

 identifying the innocent, selfless  torn

 amid by blood thirsty cauldrons,

 dead falling like pittance, I know not

whom to pity, kith and kin and still

fighting cells ;cant I abolish war,

cant I negate calumny: my instinct replies

it is not one man’s show, gathering

and conspiracy need be quelled;

who cares for the dead? I pity  myself

 same thing in store for me.

In search of Rope not wanted- Hope ----------------------------------------- Is skipping I need, when stressed, Is rope in race, I wheel around, Hope and hop skip -hope, Need of hour, Hope does not forsake, while cocooned in isolation away from your kith and kin, bemused by inward pangs, a rope, skip away from your rope, should I catch your lace, I know not, for Time’s stringent Scale does slant, I will not Catch your rope, nor crave it For my will and force a room Of my own, my cells and boredom To avoid, books to munch within Four walls, for sacrifice and cause In my blood, shall not sleep, Enter into your rope, for my individuality my forte, enriched by chirping birds, only melody of my remaining life only hope for your rope I shall not enter; my prison guards ever watching and my sole monitor now .

In search of  Rope not wanted-  Hope

-----------------------------------------

Is skipping I need, when stressed,

Is rope in race, I wheel around,

 Hope  and hop skip  -hope,

Need of hour, Hope does not

forsake, while cocooned in isolation

away from your kith and kin,

bemused by inward pangs,

a rope, skip  away from your rope,

should I catch your lace,

I know not, for Time’s stringent

Scale  does slant,  I will not

Catch your rope, nor crave it

For my will and force a room

Of my own, my  cells and boredom

To avoid, books to munch within

Four walls, for sacrifice  and cause

In my blood, shall not sleep,

Enter into your rope,

for my individuality my forte,

enriched  by chirping birds,

 only melody of my remaining life

only hope for your rope  I

shall not enter; my prison  guards

ever watching and my sole

monitor now .

Last days knocking at my gate

Poem of the week: Poem by Paul Bailey (after guardian)

           Last days knocking at my gate

         There  the birthday cake

          Not the time to talk of endings;

          Some more days to go,

         Some more time to be spent

         Too premature to  think about Death.

        Busy running about in schools

        carrying piles of books and drawings,

        skipping lunch and lending  hand

        to hunch and handicapped, visually impaired,

        That was not a time to think of death.

       As a ward boy, hearing wails, cries of babies,

       still born cast aside, back yards being mounded,

       eyesore to see countless come and go

       treated and turned down, dogs sniff  and go,

       that was not the time to think of death; 

       serendipity and surgery, surplus,

      and paucity, quagmire and   wanting

       quietude, all throughout like pits

      and pitfalls struck, still knocking,

      but when age  and debility strikes,

        fear of death captures my

        every moment of living ;

         This is the moment of time

        to think of death and rebirth,

         also of rejuvenation.        

        

      

     

A home I never forget (after Poem of the week: Godhuli Time by Srinivas Rayaprol)

                  

    

        Past five in the evening, when dark sets in,

          Sun rays evasive, back in its orb, bird  calls

          gathering clan to their hard-built coves,

           Cottages, high vaulted roofs, reflect smells

           Incense in sanctum sanctorum, when  coal

           and fire wood about to be doused, burn their parts;

            those going back home, for fresh shower,

            young and newly wed after their stay in park,

             homemade coffee and grandma’s rosery bead

            in sanctum sanctorum, home work in slate

            and pencil practice –by children well -tutored

            by rigorous teachers trained by disciplined scales.

              Away from home, away from temple chime,

              far away from my motherland, my heart beats

             with the rhyme of ancestral soil and lineage

              ringing time and again, singing glory and kudos

              to Victorious  land of labor  and sacrifice.    

                              

                               

Corsage

CORSAGE

   Not  a  flower of amaranthine  nature,

 but  a  buddy Rose of fragrance,

lasting on my buttonhole,

 with a smile of endurance

and grandeur, sits steady and firm

as  woman of   firm household

 minding and binding in the hearth.

A precious GIFT from her good self,

The  gentle serenading of Rose,

A move  0f lullaby  and sleep,

 Tapping around  white  garment

 Travelling all over as a  faithful

  Servant  clinging on ; a breeze afar

  Welcomes you with a  bliss

  Of boon passing on to the  Giver.

 A  morrow for all of us with a

Waking Dawn and buttonhole

 Smiling steady and stay ever.

What for this friend ship ( after(Poem of the week: Ambala by Shanta Acharya

 What for this friend ship   ( after(Poem of the week: Ambala by Shanta Acharya

A friendship  blossomed in  college;

Beauty and attraction  began tempting

 tampering our hitherto unspoiled mood

and upbringing strengthened by our parental

 advice  and counsel . But there is always

other side,  lure  of  beauty, attraction

all for this skin and flesh eating mankind

alive from time immemorial. She enters

with a  mask and  thick thighs stretching,

advancement of her scented hands 

beckoning a  call ;  My instinct guided

by ethics  enters  into a pact of denial,

preaches a philosophy of sanctity,

restriction, a principle governing  all

words if admonition and check

driving away slowly her mood and matter

of indulgence. Think of future, body

affected  by nurture of this negative

friendship, I  tell her adjusting her hair,

prevailing upon life’s responsibility,

a change comes slow    and sudden

Reformation,  look up to Heavens

And Thank for all HIS  Succor.

A take after ( Guardian’s Bronze and blaze”

A take after ( Guardian’s  Bronze and blaze”

Whether I was a grass or grasshopper,

Inadvertently trampled or strewn

by  crudity or agricultural norms

green slowly turned to yellow

to be effaced by the  hasty hands;

I cannot predict my past;

colors and radiance I did not know

 for my little life or lifeless, when man

takes upper hand or nature’s calamity

striking one and all; still hanging on roots

in soil tuned by vagaries of weather.

How to be sustained or how long?

North   has an appendage of luck

And  flow, shine and glow,

 air of salient aura

Passing through my window

 Enabling  growth and  glitter,

Somewhere   gunfire blows.

Warring deadly prevails in man

In all ages in all instincts,

Beyond redemption.

Imagining me in the Other World

Imagining me in the Other  World            

I am in the strange word, know not

 If the time is ripe or Dictum of  His Will

Propitious, strange experience;

My home, my private chamber, replete

with books and leaves falling, powdered

 ancient preserves of my clinging to them; 

what is happening to the cow shed, young calf

just born coming round, mother’s  affectionate  

touch, in between chewing  the grass ;

century old home , pillared structure,inmates

 moving round each in his or her choosy aura,

 now after pursuit of different modes ; why?

 Sin and sinning, infighting and thirst after

 gold and coin, swallowing one another,

reduction of  beings into nothing, nothingness

prevails all around, making many wonder

at the nothingness of   existence,

only nothing  remains , nothing only;

Only Hope prevails, rebuilding

Our shattered ruins , gathering like

Sparrows  twittering.

THEMES :PEACE AND HUMAN VALUES

Peace

You cannot run like an avid sportsman   kicking   ball

from foot to pillar wiping your flowing sweat fondly

touching your shirt-wet with your skin hot hot.

Running after Peace, in marketplace of wear and tear,

amidst jostling crowd, do you see or  grab it?

Is it a sari decked on the super model

or  is it   spicy  birthday cake to be displayed

on  a Tanjore   plate of ancient carve of exquisite              

tradition criss cross overwhelming all our eyes of taste?

At the end of the day, go home searching

In the eyes of cute kids welcoming with smile

Cherubic and serene, sipping juice in tasty buds ooze;

Peace!  Can it be bought like a peanut  butter

for a momentary gulping with a coke or sprite:

spreading like a  banana jam on  whole wheat bread;

or brushing aside hundred lies for  one momentary survival

in fast moving like concord taking our breaths away.

Wheeling and wheeling leading us nowhere.

Peace! Peace! Under the bodhi tree in the past,

Now in closed corner, away from din and bustle.

Love towards have-nots - (human values)

Walking on the footpath

Walking on footpath, goggles on your eyes,

 your   decorated   eyeliner and sophistication

with foreign umbrella tilting   and exotic perfume

all around you, colorful handbag gentle 

on hand tucking away your silk  sari away lest

it should reach the beggar   with a touch

 of itch , you careful on the path, but least

caring for his dented vessel  for alms, to suffice

his hunger and day and night with his kids

in tattered rags dependent on him ;

you throw away  a  coin-   not out

of your urge for   fellow feeling or

concern for his precarious situation,

but your eight-year-old should not

chide you for ignoring and callousness.

The sensible bends down to remove the

half hearted coin; instead gently puts

below ten rupees note in his hands.

A  mockery for his  father and like-minded.

A life bereft of gentle and understanding no use.

 POEMS SUBMITTED FOR POETRY FESTIVAL

Why this desertion ? ( After Guardian’s chess player)

                                                                                                                

Why  this desertion ?  ( After Guardian’s  chess player)

Why this abominable  desertion? Why this lonely despair?

why this migratory birds move along to their native soil,

 some in search of a better place , prospects of feeding their

starved stomachs, why children and toddlers still sleep,

unaware of  chaos going on around them, why courier services

and postman  on a holiday pack much against their will;

school  and colleges on a move of negation and exam postponed;

but children enjoy their own time with the restricted move

of indoor game, for moms and rules have a watchful eye;

sky moving in its own direction, moon behind clouds playing

hide  and seek, grass  shoot out at the mercy of soil, why this

restrictions, know not, even  at the game of chess players

have to think where and whom to check , always a spectator

watching all unseen and un noticed.

The New Song ( after Guardian)

 The New Song  ( after Guardian)

It is not Sufi song, but a song

of different kind, kindling our

little pleasures amenable at

our will and times; can you find

this song of pleasure, from groves,

rivers, pastures, know not; not

a burning smoke of hearts,

destroying cities, but  dying song

wholly ours.

Flowers, tales  and stories

dances, jumping from place

to place, dreaming and delving

into a dizzy morrow, for  a sweet

better morrow. Where are we now:

Angels calculations do they go wrong;

Do they preach on  Souls,  rebirth

Reincarnations; not now, still we

Care for our selves, our beings.

A dying song of no redemption

No liberation, only surrender

Towards  the end.

Importance of having spare keys

Importance of having spare  keys

Don’t ask me what is a poem

Without meter or rhyme;

What is a poem  bereft of metaphor

Similarly what is a house

Bereft of keys?  stretching further,

What is a house without spare keys?

As eyes  are to face, so are keys to doors

opening and locking the efficient bunch

or singlehanded conducting, rotating,

getting stuck up, if rusted or  number lost:

what ever be the tensed owner or inmate

ends  up with sweating and in search of

a way out passing burden to his watchful wife.

Don’t ask me what was my predicament

when the door was locked from outside,

 the keys were lost or misplaced all  the same;

panic or puzzle weltering you inside:

to be locked inside the room,

whatever be reason, imbecile or mad,

handicapped or challenged, under

strict surveillance of nurse, situation

is grueling and  testing beyond words.

Main key or bunch  the master who is held

By the persona, is the real master trying;

Question arises, who is lord  door or key

Me standing outside.  Spare giggling on.

Power !where go into hiding?

Power !where  go into hiding?

Power, power, power,

  Looking around every where

Power dominates, power overrules

like the inundated water destroying;

power   against law, upper hand ruling

have-nots, hunger eating belly,

farmers denied of their rights,

best part of situation, power shutdown

total where machines overrule, now

rendered helpless and dark prevails;

dark prevailing as power, psychological

warfare, as  night engulfs  till dawn;

power empowered by money, slavery;

does  blood know you are superior?

Does flesh yield only to lords?

Do holidays come to terms with

Powerful ruling lords;

Only when the needle strikes

We know what we are.

Remnants of Rice

Remnants of Rice

------------------------------------

At the end of the day

Your  bitter ordeal of dish washing

Consumes much of  your time

scrapping  the corners

of your vessels  here comes

 the collecting of remnants

just as the covey of crows

caw and peck each particle;

particles thrown as excess

or  sticky corners as bunch

gathering thirst for hungry

stomachs craving for every time;

gone are  those days when

inmates of the ancient house

well tutored in household duties

knew the economy of saving edibles;

like minded and myself opine

remnants  of rice or grain or coin

 have greater  value yield the need

and necessity of your  testing  time.