The orange peelings

It is in the sombre winter’s dark morning,
darkened by the croaking of frogs,
day begins with the ordeal fo r me ,
I wash my bowl of oranges,
those plump peelings give a cry of wail,
yesterday we covered those plump pith,
You can’t gain entry without our permission,
Today we are demoted in the bin,
Scary flies are swamping around us ,
free permission, what an irony!

Paper plane

Paper plane.
From earth’s crevice, it takes off
to unimaginable rapturous dizzy heights,
propelled by intuitive imagination,
piercing through puffy clouds,
dragging along the zigzag manner ,
I too fly along with it, explore unknown zones
Little knowing the ground realities,
I was running along somewhere
in the middle path, lost into space perhaps,
it got crushed for it is only a paper plane,
me too, the whereabouts not known,
it is only a paper plane.

I let it go
I let go the passion of cankerous evil of jealousy
for once it starts corroding me, I find the
uprooting devastation , slowly consuming me
without a checkpoint,
I let go the fish caught in my cupped palm
for its survvival , for GOD has created life
for it in the water,
I let go my head ache , for
my work suffers with the
bug of intruding pain,
But I let not go patience
for once it goes, life drains.

A thing of Beauty.

A thing of Beauty , which we think is lost,
is never missing for ever,
if not yesterday, today gains new release
of renewed life with colour.
with redoubled grandeur.

The cold, cloudy wintry morn,
exposed to the sky’s chuckling scorn,
the weird like magnolia tree, in dark stems,
as I sit and watch the barren twigs,
impoverished , brown, not a single leaf,

To day, to my surprise, just sprouting buds ,
as if hungered and thirsty , intertwine,
yet could my eyes glance blossomed
rosy magnolias, in thick clusters,
beatitude of Bliss and beauty in flowing colours.

Motherhood

Motherhood

Divine Mother’s
evanescent smile
bespeaks of many things,
motherhood, universal
motherhood, motherhood,
Mother is mother,
whether abominably poor,
Or altruistically affluent,
she is the common
denominator, unique,
for she undoubtedly
fostered you with the
first drop of that
precious mother’s milk
and selfless ,unpolluted care,
she protected you
within the cosy walls,
her womb, though
you kicked her time
and again,mother,cares
for ever, earth like
patient, penetrating,
mother is mother,
let us not smother
our conscience
mother is mother.

I am overwhelmed to be

I am overwhelmed to be....
Oh! God , I am overwhelmed to be,
Today, in the vast, united states of
America, to be in the temple of
Sana tana dharma, wearing the
Diadem of gratitude, to the Maker,
For He who makes the Nation ,
Nature, also nurtures the Myth
Of Your survival, chance of your
Being here, le t again thanksgiving,
form the core of the beginning
and end of Each day,
for all your benign Grace,
for each hour, each breadth take up
an embalmed vow to sing
gratitude to your Maker,
for He who makes and mars,
let the privilege reach the
forbidden and denied,
let me not have the
Contracted mind to reap
it for myself, again and again
it is a wonder and mystery,
God’s boon has myriad
inexplicable connotations,
you may retire from your profession,
but no retirement for gratitude and Meditation.

Chattering monkey

Chattering monkey
Chattering monkey in the morn
Stirs me with a wakeup call,
go to your laptop with a tap,
set a tune on this keyboard,
with a song on a springboard,
cheating, cheating, cheating,
beating, beating, brow beating,
chattering monkey in the morn,
springs from within with a sound of horn,
wake up, wake up, wake up,
chattering monkey recedes ,
to have a new make up.

His passion for Undoing

Stretching in His orb,
extending , all pervading , His
impartial looks and rod,
it is His unique passion for
the chiselled creation, to
watch and hook and steady
those who run helter sklter
and welter in the quagmire of
lust and carnivorous greed,

It is His passion undoing
and doing man’s impassioned
perilous deeds , purblind thinking,
in His passion, there is explosion,
Encapsulation. endless enumeration.

On the semi naked person

On the semi naked person,
like a burst combustion engine
She fell upon his white, marble like
body, his face only a just withered flower,
kisses are like Heaven’s showers,
a thin cotton cloth covering his loins,
tattered, life’s full fulcrum
i s gone, time spent in the army,
transparency is seen in his
uncovered story of his life.
she wails and weeps on the
semi naked person.

All zeroed to nothing

I lift both my hands,
to worship the sun god,
rising with a smiling nod,
lines criss cross,
my folded hands,
age has its slow and steady
impact on the subdued body,
undaunted will prevails
yet, the bickering monkey,
the braying donkey,
the caterwauling felony
eating my flesh,
as some feel, if at all,
all zeroed before the
dwelling deity,
The Avatar smiles.

Change is inevitable

Change is inevitable
Miles and miles away,
from my home country,
here, in California, I see
the popped up rosy buds
amidst barren twigs, the wintry
winds blowing, those magnolia

limpid , crave for the warmth of sun,
with the changing seasonal shifts,
how much of change , change brings
in the distance of Time and
Wuthering, weathering days,
God alone does not change,

I live the present
With a fervent hope to
See the tactile drama
Of ordained life in the future,
While viewing the past,
How much of challenge

One sees in the negatively
Pointed, corroding ego,
Inner vision presages
like a sooth sayer,
change for the better is
inevitable, imminent.

A reply from Prometheus

A reply from Prometheus
I asked in an imaginary poetic mood,
A question to Prometheus
why can’t you quench the fire
which you thoughtlessly stole?
Hell fire is raging in Heaven,
Earth is quaking, shaking,
Out came a prosaic reply,
I can’t quench, there is NO WATER,
too much of sinning around me.

A sense of belonging

Clear us of our uncouth mess,
with the craving look of utensils,
in the dishwasher, your soft hands
deal dexterous, wash and wipe,

the spooky sponge counteract the soot,
the accumulated foam slowly
down the sink, there is a sense
of belonging, longing,

with the tactile tap on the
keyboard, with the pop ups
blocking, you avidly blog,
there is a sense of belonging,

warp and weft of the sari,
shiny on your delicate skin,
the weaver and the design,
there is a sense of belonging,

the taste of Indian culinary masala,
the subconscious recording of poem
which is a tabula rasa,
there is a sense of belonging.

A few ramblings

Folding the teguments of groundnuts
in piece of paper, once very useful,
both now crushed as waste,
I throw them into the stream,

In a stream of conscious mood,
Sit on rocky stone, a stand by,
let them go, allowing your
Vagabond ideas limited freedom.

Nearby a tent, the playful urchins
enjoy burning up all old,
on the one side paper boat,
burning up, the other side,

Bonfire engulfs all old tattered clothes,
a vow is taken new roots in my pages,
it is difficult to erase old memories,
Promising, they usher into new vistas,

a facelift for the old,
the plastic is recycled into
a new silver wrapper,
the bonfire still glows ,engulfs,

painter busy for his livelihood,
sturdy brush coats the scribbled,
the painted wall, still is wall,
Yet New year booms with messages.

Seclusion and silence

Silence after the intrigue,
What can you do philosophy followed
by the pelican monsters of king Lear,
after the battening storm, there is silence,

when you look at the canopy, the galaxy,
your neck racking, countless stars,
still the planes pierce through
puffy clouds, silence after the

unanswered mystery of the universe,
how life is instilled into the embryo,
the unborn in the cozy womb,
‘child the father of the man’

Cuddled within four walls
absolute silence till it
comes out into this uncanny ,
drum beating silences the

Resilience into silence,
after the last breadth,
silence in the congealed blood,
closed eyes, silence accompanies

to the disrupting graveyard,
but the ashes and the bones
weep for the charred, wailing
coupled with silence.

Bath tub's wailing

You make a monopoly of living
in my oval spaced white shiny
construction, you rub the tub,
time and space beyond your
jurisdiction and limit,
surfing blocks my head,
your degraded shampooed
hair lines spread their
wings to spoil my glow,
they coil round and round
to move not further,
I know not how long this
Serfdom to endure.

Their survival

Staring at the prominent four
corners of the walls of my
un frequented upstairs room,
for it is a lumber area,
but the cobwebs lumber
Not, they have to meticulously
build their web of survival,
for me it is a rejection as waste,
yet how much of purblind
plan goes into weaving and weaving,
their white layers, flimsy abode,
one stroke of firm brush to
undo their artifact,
for some it is a total rejection,
while for the weaver,
it is a survival.

She thought in a different way

When merry bells of Christmas jingling,
trees glowing in bulbs and plants,
Pave way for rejuvenation,
Singing in Carols, keep her spirits,
high and glowing,
there is the other side of her
thinking, as always the other side
of the coin, how much of
Crucifixion, struggle on the
Cross, incarceration behind
this celebration, thought of
Cross made her cross.

Holiday

Holiday

You came from a village,
Sari tucking up,
Oil oozing out into
Your forehead,
Your tightly hung pigtail

with a ribbon,
bath by the well,
a relished custom,
now a shower
is ever once you

stepped into the city,
a lavender aroma
you imbibe in the
oval shaped bath tub,
for hours together,


I made a Holyday of my Holiday
assigning the task of cleaning
and wiping the floor, to you,
which you refused, for you are
a totally changed city girl.

forgetting your roots.
I sit before the idols
closing my eyes, while
the TV is on with full
volume before you,

for you the Holiday,
for me the Holyday.

God too, the pretender.

God at the threshold of
His unique mansion, sits,
reclines , for it has to be
Eternal watch,

Spreads with His
ever vigilant eyes,
don’t you ask me if He is
short sighted, or long sighted,

He is inarguably, Omniscient,
innumerable transaction in His
market place, buyers and loosers,
amidst incessant sinning,

giving a nod or go by,
God does not grin, but saliently
Smiles hoping against hope
that man would correct one day,

He can never be Myopic,
but only extending His long rope
of forgiveness, extending many chances,
we pull it fast and soon,

He watches, waits, sees, the
Struggling humanity, of its
Self inflicted pain of
Thrombosis , applies the

Balsam of remittance,
Man ,again revokes his
addiction of sin and mischief,
God pretends not to take notice of,

As we pretend, He too pretends,
how long this charade prevails,
we know not, too high He is,
how far, beyond our ken.