Garbage speaks

Garbage says---

From the sprawling mound of garbage,
for it is called so, papers soiled fly,
onion layers stinking, rotton tomatoes,
ooze as if bemoaning their last degraded stage,
looking at the bright Sun, flutter
“you are bright, shining,
we are decayed and decomposed,
man has crushed us and thrown away”,
cock and hen with their
cleft, star like feet, scramble upon,
as if searching something,
the chuckle mock their being
Uncared for, flies feed upon them,
some cleaner gives them protection
gathers to dump in a black cover,
promotion from the corner to van
to the dump yard,
Sun shines there too!

JUNGLE

Jungle

Life is a sapless tree, when man loses faith
in his spouse, poison stays back as a
sediment, dregs vile corroding him,
home becomes a jungle, man
shouts like a wild animal,
Obstreperous, thunder,
dregs of poisonous vasps
stinging all the time,
even trees shed tears in the forest ,
but man is hardened thick stemmed,
ignited by the lion in him,
roaring, roaring he dies from within,
in the unrefined jungle of his heart.

note books

Note books

I preserve the note books of my youngest kid,
Not a record of strenuous schooldays
twenty years back, a childlike and childish
curiosity and transformation of hardwork,

listings of alphabets ABCD, capitals and small,
cat ,mat and rat in rows and lines,
in cute hand carved in pencil
again innocence speaks, speaks,

Mathematical tables written and re written
Sums multiplied and subtracted,
Additions and omissions right and wrong,
Tiny hand and cute workings,

I browse my note books of recent days,
Where day today account is maintained,
Provisions bought, home loan paid,
Paper and milk due and phone bill doubled,

Note books are the same, what matters
Is that the inside difference it makes..

Responsibility

Responsibility

As is the responsibility
of the seasons to spring and flower,
to summer and glimmer the warmth,
to dry, shed and fly, helpless,
to shower and cool in winter,


As is the responsibility of the Gods
To create, care and protect,
In a cyclic process of creation,
Procreation, protection,
Destruction and devastation,



A cosmic process time-bound,
Predetermined and God ordained,
No need to talk about deluge
Tsunami and typhoons,
It is also the responsibility,

of the Gods and Goddesses,
A Cavalcade of continued responsibility.

Creation and killings

Creation and killings

Why should you scan and ban?
The soft fetus within the globe
of carefully designed pouch,
grows with life infused stage by stage
kicks to your pleasure and rotates,

After ten long months of struggle,
Hard labor, squalling, the baby comes
out, peeling its skin,
playing, seeing, around,
smiling, sitting down to fall, to grow,

your only rights are to grow it,
not to throw it, not to abandon it,
if umbilical cord is to give a
new lease or release of life,
new beginning, fresh showers,

why should go ,search another
cord or rope to hang round
to take away your life?
Your precious life, Life
Infused by the Creator,

Oh! Man it is not your job,
It is not your job, job.

Morning Meditations

Morning meditations

In my home garden,
Cock and hen chuckle,
The askance looking crow
Sits on the fence, pecking
With its beak the tiny dead bone,

The Vedic chantic
in the nearby school,
the members of the house
cawing for the first decoction
coffee in the hot boiling milk,

the so-called learned pundit
of the house calling by name
the daughter-in-law of the house,
Medication for the grandmother
Bundled in the corner,


Repeated calls for second round
of coffee , the children flying
on their heels for learning,
the utensils rolling sound
in the sink and kitchen noisy,


This was some ten years ago,
When no time for morning
Meditation, only altercation,
But now I close my eyes,
Thanking God for all strength
and support to surmount
all wickedness surrounding me.

Little things

Little things may become fiasco,
or great mishap, if we ignore,
as little, as very little.

A careless throw of a plantain peel
though on the corner,
is a matter of risk , slip and fall,
the pedestrian faces fracture
and unexpected expenditure.

A match stick still half burning,
Cast on the straw on the
thatched shed, like evil eye
burns leading to cataclysm,
flames engulfing whole.

Belief and pity the wrong woman,
bring woe to the man.
give her shelter and money in need,
poison becomes your food,
a thing of little only to sting you ever.

In a temple precincts, where monkeys
Stay, play and prank,
A bag of valuables, passport
Currency and jewels, by your side,
You turn head to the other side,
Gone with the monkey,
Your trip is gone,

Neglect of little things may lead to
great failures and costly miss.
ruin life's happiness.

I hear you.

I hear you

I AM THE UNIVERSE
I hear the voice of the unseen
When the resounding waves recycle,
White surf in booming tides submerge
destined, I hear you in their destiny.

when the dogs bark, redeem the newborn,
from the buried layers of the heaped mound,
the baby wails the unlucky mother for the
fate which is to befall for the sin,
I hear you in the innocent cry of the babe.

In the wake of the sunrise, when
the birds chirp and surf on the blue,
the mellifluous flute mingles the air,
what a wonder! the bluebells dance,
I hear you in the song and dance.



Meaning and melody through a
metal of compact disc, rotating,
eclectic power and enchanting rhythm,
human voice in a voiceless mode,
I hear you in the rendering of music.

Oh! God! I hear you! for I have
A will and wish to Hear You.

Get Ready

Get Ready

We are racing in a quick start
get ready world,
When I get debunked and demystified,
My experiences, pepping me up,
Wake me from my slumbering mood,
We are racing in a quick start,
get ready world,

get ready to face the mounting
challenges, each day is an unexpected
experience, stagnant knots and twists and
turns, but I am ready to untie, relax
the adverse situations,
to my convenience,
meet up the get ready world,

like stuffing the broken pot
with soil to grow colorful flowers,
I get ready to take away those flowers,
I am not getting ready to say
Pluck the flowers, sounding harsh,
Those flowers are getting ready
doubly smiling and ready,

With their sacred aroma to deck the
Gods and Goddesses,
These Gods and Goddesses
Are getting ready to stand by me
For ever for ever, never never forsake me.
We are racing in a quick start,
Get ready world.

Free-for-all

Free-for –all

The half closed metro water allows water
Free-for all on time,
I am awake suddenly from a dream,
Dream free-for all, does it measure
Rich or poor lower or middle?
My five year old, smart and sweet,
Free-for-all imaginary daughter,
Profusely sweating comes in,
Throwing her skipping rod
In a carefree manner, goes to the
Balcony in a free- for- all air to
Refresh her,

I invite her for a home exhibition,
The big caption in the newspaper
advertisement catches my attention,
a free-for-all, A to Z individual stalls,
I wonder what is free? Entry fee or the
Commodity to be picked free –for-all,
Or the venue free-for –all?


In the free-for-all hall, a thunderous
Announcement over the mike,
Five year old girl is missing in the crowd;
Is the suffering free- for- all?
Or the sharing free-for-all?

Hunger

Hunger

It is the hunger for literary pursuit and knowledge of
Scripts that make me write for hours together,
unmindful of culinary smell from my kitchen
Pervading my reading room,

It was the same hunger which made me addicted
to my writing desk, when one evening got a phone
call that my close kin was involved in an accident,
that rushed me to the spot.

Real hunger was substituted by instant anger,
Anger for the rash tipsy drivers,
But can you argue with those hardcore
Hungry villains who buy law into their hands,

Now on the way back home, I was really hungry,
for I skipped lunch and dinner,
I was equally angry to see a van overtaking
auto, really hungry for lucre,

my searching eyes chanced upon the
nocturnal birds hungry for flesh,
roaming and preying upon the flesh,
Powdered and perfumed to be fumed.

Dont ask

Don’t ask

When her three year old son plays
In the water when it rains,
Paper boat is the child’s excitement,
the caring mother chides not to
go near the water,
“ why mummy?”
don’t ask questions, the mother replies,
you will get ill.


when he is in ten,
when she takes him to a party,
she cautions him not to go
near the ice-cream side,
he pleads mummy, mummy, he pleads,
“Why? Mummy?”
Don’t ask questions, she pats him
With a firm admonition,
You will not be able to sit for
the half-early examination
if you have cough and sneeze.

When he is fifteen, the curious
asks the mother, who is that
aunt? is she dad’s girl friend,
who gets a a lift back home?
She nods her face, yes she
Is your dad’s office friend,
Don’t ask silly questions
any more, she replies.


When he is twenty, the mother asks
the son, my child, who is the girl
who chats with you for hours
together my I know?

Don’t ask me questions, mom,
I am grown up and can take
Care of myself and my future.

Directions

Directions

What more and better directions you have
than the Directions from Above to the
right if you have copious faith in Him,
in this land of meddling and muddled,
posing to be genius, landing themselves,
in pointless directions,

from my garden I see a covey of birds,
going in one direction, wisdom, man should
draw from that Direction, to lead a life of
sanity coupled with sanctity, but pity,
a sudden volley of shots from a sadist,
distorts the group in different directions,

I close my eyes, serenity strikes as the
flowering of aroma embedded Rose,
two many poetic metaphors, crop up,
as the sacred waterfalls and riverbeds,
sages have done penance to give by,
one proper Direction to the world,

The long poem gives the Message,
The Law of Virtue is the Direction of God!

'Always' speaks

‘Always’ speaks


I don’t know why more often than not,
People abuse me,
I am always in their tongue,
most of the people take me for granted,
I wish I were gifted with the power of speech,
to negate their falsehood,
it is always a matter of peanut matter
for some to abrogate the meaning,
I am always open-minded,
Yet some doors are always shut,
My perception is not ‘ Apposite’ to them,
It is always a matter of pride for me,
It is also a matter of pride for some
Use and abuse me ‘Always’ always.

Victim of old geneation suffers

Victim of old generation suffers.

What is that curled up bundle in that corner,
in that dark corner, darkness enlarging into
human shape, telling humanity,
it has imbibed the limpid darkness ,
from narrowed ruling orb of
man’s heart,
the afflicted spirit of a woman, no wrinkles
on her bright visage, in her yester years,
yet wan with untold misery ,
the shadow of injustice haunting
the house, her pent up feelings echo:
concubine cool as a cucumber,
vile suspicision,concocted lies
strangled her life, a fair flower
was smothered into a dusty heap,
the shadow haunts the house.

Inside my wallet

Inside my wallet

The peacock green colored wallet,
which I got for fifteen pounds in U.K,
hangs on my left palm , folded to my chest,
my right hand carries a bag of vegetables,
vanity hangs on,

two handkerchiefs slightly torn in the corner,
yet perfumed, peep out, mocking
my vanity, overlap my five rupee notes,
only two, my vanity hangs on,

inside my wallet, a small postcard,
which I forgot to post on time,
reminds my negligence, everytime,
the wallet is opened and closed.

My hair clips and a folded coil
of ribbon lies in a corner,
waiting to spin round the zip,
vanity hangs on, vanity hang on.

wicked's justification

Wicked’s justification.

Wicked stood on my T.V with a rod of scepter,
giving a big lecture, to justify its stand,
wicked, wicked, they brand us wicked,
are you all good to call us wicked?

the cute transparent liquor bottle,
the pride and possession of my previous
tenant angrily bursts,
why they do they buy and
and drink us, getting a kick of us?
we are called wicked, yet,

the nude show and the sexy movies
Triumphantly chuckle,
We are liked more than the
Domestic themes, which do
You call wicked?

Wicked winks at the ugly doll,
Why do they stare at the dross?
Why your wicked eyes are
on the forbidden objects?

wicked, wicked, wicked.

Dead bones' plight

Dead bones’ plight

They asked me to pay homage to the dead,
I stood by the stone epitaph to add one,
while my hands bent to pickup the paper,
envisaged the dead bones’ dilemma,
“when we were alive we were powdered,
Perfumed, periwigged, on the flesh,
when we fell we were cared upon,
lest you should flounder to walk,
we were, dressed up, meticulously
Massaged, some of us were powdered,
Now, you are walking upon us,
Beware of our plight, our
Shadow might fallow upon you.”

Pay day

Pay day

Ten years ago, my pay day was a hay day,
when I could afford my children a shopping,
a promised treat for the bygone birth day
of my kid, a pizza hunt, a jolly day,

today my pay day is no longer paid day,
today my pay day is a painful day,
rickshaw man who seats the kids
in three to four steps in his two
Seater luxury to school,
Pleads for advance which cannot be gainsaid,
For his bread and pittance is our pleasure.

The luxury of car and home is ngated
when the loan reminder is sent with interest,
the telephone bills are up abominably,
Children hour-long discuss the questions
wonderfully,

the telephones and the mobiles are busy,
children say that we are fussy,

by twentieth I go to the bank not for
deposit, nor for withdrawal,
to pledge my jewel for a smooth sail..

In my purse

Inside my purse


Don’t expect to see perfume
or moisture cream which my
five year old niece imitates
just as the media person
to apply on her soft skin,

Inside my purse the zip
of which is always striking,
bus tickets of six months old,
half torn, the other half folded,
many papers of local addresses,

my identity card almost soiled
by the ink, the purpose of my
black and white photo
is defeated, jingling coins
for five rupees, almost hidden

Underneath the layers,
A mint pocket half popped out,
Sticky and smelling,
my purse needs a wash,
my purse needs a wash.