It is not as you think easy

It is not just as you think easy,

as pretty cool as to taste an ice cream

Or fruit salad, the cut fruits bit bit,

sip coke by a straw, and throw away

the folded and crushed straw in a bin

or leave the cute cups on the table unwashed,

I pick up a thin crushed paper,

To wipe my hands,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think, and thank Heavens;

as existence has birth and death,

followed by the traumatic path of its journey,

living and dying ordained by Him who has chosen

It to be, if it be two legged or one eyed,

giant or dwarf, pauper or affluent,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think and thank Heaven;

the rustling thin paper wails,

the kite from the ground by a

slender thread by a pulling hand,

before we became crumpled papers,

all sides tagged , whispers

we were live on trees,

We hang on to the empty balloons,

Whimper any time,

It is not as easy as you think,

I think think and thank Heaven.

,

Those,blead dark days---

Those bleak, dark, days--

Those dark days were dangerous,
like eruptions of molten lava,
as bad as to be in the rut of those raging panthers,
more dangerous to be in the midst of those
charlatans, silent spectators, watching me submit,
a caged bird like me, cannot but pour songs of
Innocence, shifting my abode of stay, much to the
chagrin of my spirit already in mortification,
Propelled by an inner voice, that ushers
me to forge ahead.

His voice

Inner voice



Why must I hold a phone with words?
When phones are active, in my heart’s
Secret chamber set by Him in Birth itself,
While you are all loquacious, clamorous,
to defy and to counter argue,
His Domain of Silence dominates,
His voice is the universal voice,
To counteract and quell the
Caterwauling, mounte banks,
His is , and would be symphony,
Conquering cacophony.

This biting cold here--

This biting cold here..

I draw my thick blanket, from my
Shivering feet to cover my parched face ,
I wriggle, shrink, beneath the cover,
Outside it is snowy and cold as a cod
My understanding little kid gives me
Cocooned pillow, me to coddle with,
Slowly I close my eyes, to visit my
land of shores, the dried palm leaves,
the tall coconut trees, in which beehives
Weave their dormitories, the sandy beaches
By which I weave a web of creativity,
Sleep creeps in as surreptitious
as a cat’s paw.

Gift of christmas.

Gift of Christmas

As Christmas is not far off,
Let us shake hands of warmth, exchanging chocolates,
Don the new vow of goodwill and mutual sympathy,
For what more comfort do you derive than
In shaking and sharing bounteous hands
Of extended wealth and mirth to the poor
And needy, He that was crucified sought
Pardon for the cruel, at least shall we not
Follow his path of forgiveness, for what more
Treasure you can treasure than the heart
Unsullied of spleen and vendetta.

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows,
the blunt meadows, the fields popped-up
with weeds, the growth of which is unaccountable,
the hungry farmer with the sickle, to unweed
the parched lands for there is no grain,
the livestock thin framed grazing on the
frail leaves got stuck up by the stake of
stones, not on the leaves or grass for
everything is parched, even the birds
and parrots dare not come, for there
is nothing to peck and beam about,
there is no bard to pour any song,
like anybody else I look up the sky,
the clouds, the beauty of the winged birds,
Journeying across, in mirthful glee,
Mocking at the land, I could hear an aircraft
zoom in the air, the innocent, convention bound,
Propitiate the rain gods, the chanting
is divine and uniform, sooner, steadier,
what are those gathering, dark clouds,
to brighten the land, to wet the dry?
my desk, my pad and quill go fertile.

It is the rains dropping

It is the rains dropping

It is the miles and miles of rains dropping,
Heaven’s Cheers dropping, dropping partial,
Sometimes here and there, It is all
the soil’s doing good and otherwise,
the learned scholars avidly opine,
may be the whims and fancies of the
Clouds, rains falling on the roof and rut,
rains dropping on the beggar and niggardly,
rains dropping on the timber and ok,
why,even on the felled wood thick, lying on
the ground beneath which the dead bird lies,
the bones jetting out, could be it is
given the watery burial, rains drop
even the anchored ship and add to the shore,
Yonder the flat , the boy floats a paper boat,
Though I want to I cannot, since a shiver
runs through me for I am feverish.

A painful pondering--

A painful pondering
It is not a trivial one day’s matter,
It is not a short term’s manoeuvre
it is not a year’s painful trauma
it is a solid five decades of parasites’
rapacious plundering into a vale,
It is a piteous wonder why should God
send such hounds into the smooth flowing
haven of placid helpless, creatures, one such was
Pushed fifty years ago to grow with the
Overflowing venom awfully inherited
From the womb where it came from,
Every minute’s progress was from the
Lust personified Mother
itself a putrefied commodity,
every penny by the itch of flesh, scratching,
every day’s food it swallowed by cunning, craft,
dubious knock of the house, every lie, every
Blasphemy, strong in its strangulation.
A victim of its own venom to be.

His Tennis court Experience

, His tennis court experience

It was in the Tennis court where he lost
and where a Revelation struck him,
where the meaning of Life was instilled,
he was cocksure of his previous experience,
confident of terrific, ripping success,
a sudden muscle pull , he knew he was losing,
Indigestible as hard as to find a mosquito
In plate of curd rice, he wriggled and wrestled
dashed his tennis racket against the wall,
emotion and empathy and undeniable
defeatism pushed him into a flat position,
resilience and despair drove him into a dream,
what did the cross that appear message him?
The cross signified the criss-cross of life’s
Meandering, mysterious miasma,
The warp and weft of the looming
as slender and as flexible
and as brittle as the dew drops of our life.

Another funeral averted

Another funeral averted.

Praise be to my Mentor, Kudos to my guru,
had it not been to my Guru’s timely,
benign intervention ,sequel to the almighty’s
boon to me, there would have been yet another
ghastly funeral, a Machiavellian plot,
those days when the beguiled, short-tempered
was no more, when his obsequies were being held,
when I was pushed to the noisy kitchen,
with my silence and ignorant of the
Surreptiously boiling, envenomed situation,
The truly guilty yet like a proud peacock,
Covering her sin was sauntering about,
Conniving ly convincing the gathered ones,
The poisoned arrow was turned against me,
My Mentor was strong by me
Praise be to Him who stands by me and my close-nit.

The Time is yet to come for them

The Time is yet to come for them—
The Time is for them yet to come
to run away, those plotting parasites,
for their perfumed bodies cannot do away
with their surreptitious nocturnal navigations,
these blithe night birds are known for their
Public daylight dances too.
They feel their flesh is itching,
day by day to abed more and more
men and in bath rooms and bathtubs ,
they dwell and delight their most
Expandable luxuries. Rippling! Killing!
Are their experiences but it is painful
for us for they see through their
sexy eyes , we the innocent ones.
The time is yet to come for them to run away,
for their coffers are to be filled.
No time limit, no clock would chime,
for they would rather pawn the clock
as they do their dignity,
the Time is yet to come for the
run away jingling bells.

what is this business of running away

What is this business of running away?

What is this business of running away from?
And why? Those in whose blood the runaway
Passion is ingrained, those seasoned sinners
in whom the rumour of others running away
is settled as a sediment in a river bed,
or a poisonous gas far beneath the well
in which we die of asphyxiation:
can we think of at the moment,
running away to the far off English countryside
to breathe into the forest aviation,
to wish to have a sickle to cut the
stem of the tree overflowing with sweet
water to quench our thirst,
or to sit by the lake to view these
birds with coloured beaks to
peck at peaches and plums,
to run away to a nearby cave
in which an antique idol
sits as if in a penance, shall we
run back to our homes to have a
Shower to run away to the tubes,
to run to the realms of classics,
to bask into the fields of poetry
and modern fiction.Yes!we are
far away from this mundane world.

Mu quill smacks at me

My quill smacks at me

Those white, splashy, frothy, surging waters
like battalions with iron-willed prowess,
dash against the seemingly timeless
Craggy rocks undiluted, firm and unshaken,
Rocky stones not yet corroded,
as if in a mood of defiance,
like a sage in penance.
I see the receding waters,
Now the roaring is gone
As in an aged lion, the valour is dead,

By the beach, my mood wanes,
My fingers criss-cross on the sands,
the pen which I throw in a fit of fury,
mocks at , the tiny bold bird
flaps its wings, back to me.

Praise be to the woman!

Praise be to that woman!

Praise be to that woman who bore the brutal brunt
of that man’s wrath and fury,
Praise be to that woman who was enslaved in her own roof,
that was plundered by preying wolves and confident
Intruders and tricksters who secured a base.
Praise be to that woman who fell a prey to hunger
and Starvation and menial task ,
while ease and luxury was extended
to the cheap and motivated,
woe and plague be to the woman
who wived the man who was to be her father.
Woe to the woman who husbanded the man
In stealth and fathered the man in public,
Curse be to the woman who cast aspersions
to the unseen and godly,
fortunate that she was who died premature,
for another killing was avoided.

One word is not enough or is theres any last word?

One word is not enough or is there any last word?

One word is not enough to describe
the mighty, vast ocean , the ultimate
excellence of the Creator’ crafty
design, the earth’s ruling monarchical monster,
the huge unfolable umbrella beneath which
microbes and engulfed lands and deluged cities,
in cyclical pattern roll on and roll down,
the beauty of the Blue is submerged by the
roaring, fearful ,thunderous, resurgent
looming waters gushing the shore and back
to the unseen throne,oh!the watery sublime,
Ceaseless and unaging, just as the creator,
You are the ultimate eternity,
eternity’s rummaging, Beauteous bounty.

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed ,
As the creator of all things under His perview,
Protects it from being trampled upon,
the seed driven by the wind that sweeps it
to a safer place as the chic is nestled
upon by the caring mother ,its feathers
a complete coverage for the newborn,
He who has protected the seed, waters
the seed to germinate into a plant
which bears flowers ,flowers red, rose
those deck His altar Him Who has
infused life into living upon it.

The sweeper

The sweeper
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.

How he was beguiled

How he was beguiled


It was not the saliva dripping, tail wagging dog,
the faithful guardian who would snarl and growl
upon strange visitors, that he nourished and fondof,
for him the very name dog
Sounded anathema, he did not rear a dog,
to give biscuits and crumbs and a bowl of milk
To be fed, he was kind with vultures and prowling,
Wolfish in the form of humans, pillaging upon
every pie and poking and pricking upon the inmates,
the backdoor wolves chased away the inmates,
he who has nurtured the vile was snapped away
being poisoned to death.

On thd dead grass

On the dead grass


On the recently unplugged bunch of grass,
Grass, green and still fresh smelling, retaining
Its aura, no, the grass is not dried or dead,
I could feel the kerb of the bunch,
for the gardener uprooted the stretch,
has unevened , the ground,
that ghostlike stories swell
one could weave and write lounging
Upon the topsy-turvy mound,

how often paramours would have
rested in even times to share their
ruffled up, anxiety ridden reflections,
how many inspirational writings
would have emanated from the
Constructive, creative minds of the
thinkers who think alike,
No,the people throng still,
The grass is not dead, it smells
Still Green and good.

war poem-what is to be negated

That which is to be negated

It is not the blood –oozing bodies,
in the battlefield, some of the slain
asundered parts of which are shaking
like a quiver, a struggle not for survival,
but to breathe their last,
Those are vowed to redeem their Nation’s
Honour pledged and some sold,
may be some to deepen their feud and fury,
to foreground their buried venom
In sharpened knifes and sounding bullets,
For the widowed wives and orphaned children,
to aggrieve the loss, it is the seed of malice ,
a maligned, negative approach to be negated.