His house goes dry

His house goes dry.
His house goes dry.
It is raining dogs and cats.
After gathering clouds,
it is pouring, downpour
in the city and villages,
a boon falls
in the umbrage of drought.
Brimming pots tilt to the
cemented floors, raindrops
drip through the gaps
of the tiled roofs.
canals a re channelized,
crops fail for deluge swallow
the fields green,
in the throbbing centre,
his house in the city
goes dry, for his heart
overflows with cult
of sadism .

Eglantine pillar

Eglantine pillar

I veer round eglantine pillar,
from cemented floor to
the criss-cross roof,
My hand s weave silken
Shawl of miracle, advent of
Avatar, my mentor in my life.
The structured pillar bespeaks
a harrowing tale of the past,
how often , my grandmother
would sit by ,ruminate her
life, struggle, sacrifice,
open pages read, also misread,
in my blossoming age,
it would have been a hug,
one may call so;
but now, no hug, no paramour,
no love, no seductive looks,
for life has to sail amidst
rough weather,
if you read in-between lines
it is because you have
jaundiced eyes.
I stand by as the pillar stands.

A moment on my pasture

I rightfully trod upon the green ,
Green smelling upfront grass ,
I recline , with my Muse
ready to enthrone my book of poems,

The bunch of sprawling green grass
bends ,it sparkles humility to me,
we, the humans don’t bend easily,

I look up , my muse craves for
immediate inspiration, interaction,
singing lark and veering aircrafts
embark upon a voyage of their own;

every dewdrop a pearl on the
slanting grass , a decor ,
the hopping butterfly dancing
around,feasting by itself

a feast for all. I smell the green.
Smell the grass, smear the mood.

Life is gambling for many

Life is a gambling for many.
She is a Penelope , ardently
stitching and undoing the knots ;
the slender threads testing her
Patience, eyes compete with
her toiling hands, a handful of
cuts and threads and distorted
knots beside her sewing machine:
for her it is survival, for many
it is a gambling , her life gambling,
she saw not their hearts, they sought
cash or kind would replace kindness,
a post modern irksome paradox,
this gambling goes on ;
there, the predator growls , snarls,
here, she drinks a cup of porridge
to suffice her flat tummy,
her next session in the sewing
machine beckons her. Her spirit
gathers and removes the cuts
and knots for a better morrow.

That day in Central London------

That day in Central London......
That day, that moment relives
in memory, after all memory
lasting longer than life,
life after life!
lobby is luxury,
for living is expensive,
it is a single room
accommodation, central heating
reduces my shiver, biting cold,

I peep through the window
The vortex of planes
gyrating like creation and
procreation in God’s cosmography.
What a moment, mind enthralled,
Tabula rasa I enjoyed.
I fly back my my flights,
Those light mechanisms
carry your heavy sentiments too,
Aritha van Herk cosy on your
lap top, privileged , Ellesmere smiles.

English language glows, glitters,
England’s pride, Shakespeare’s tool,
The window of the world, brightens,
the pages of Ellesmere fritter
aimlessly for the sudden gush
Of wind blowing,
yet, the book inside is
blooming, blooming like
Anna in the chiselled hands
of Aritha. The Avatar inside
me is propelling like the
planes, ‘work is worship’ ,
what does it matter for the
crow by the window,
if it is tabula rasa or
your laden heart,
your life is yours,
the crow pecks on.

You think amidst thoughtless a few

You think amidst thoughtless a few

When your spirits are too low,
as low as the choked voice,
compunction and distraught
in the boggling mind,
you walk on the shores ,
rhythm and rigmarole
gyrate with the waves,
You count the majestic ships ;
Blue, Deep, how sail amidst
turbulence, flagged off,
sequestered, you sit in a corner
slipping the sands,
you cant afford to slip
the precious Time:
You look up at the sky,
Starry night your
lone companion ,
for the exodus is visible.
also inevitable ever.
unaccountable stars twinkling
Perhaps the dead also merge there,
where are those dead?
The departed souls
are not far off.
Those are encircling
in and around your vicinity.

My dark horse runs --

My dark horse runs-----
I drew a picture of a dark horse
in a white paper of oblong size,
as white and pure as a newborn ,
The peeling skin peels further,
imagination ran out of my mind
like a warrior in the battle field
who bade his lost kiss and adieu
to his ever faithful mistress,
the braving on the dark horse,
left his warm hearth
not to return again ,yet
to leave an imprint on
the soil benign, blood oozing ,
sacrificial fire still rages
in his breath and vow ,
the dark horse runs, runs.
The paper fritters on the breeze.

A view when I close my eyes

Yesterday it was a huge elephant
lifting its Proboscis as if to bless me
when I was depressed,
the trunk was bedecked with jewels
rich silken robes , majestic in look.
Memory assumes to redeem
A bygone day.
Today it is a caged parrot
not longing for flight :
It pours the panjandrums
of the officious, official,
ordinary too is not spared.
Those free and freed, what
have they got and fraught
nothing but danger,
my changing envisioned object
before me stratifies many things.
I think, rethink, delve,
What it appears to be
Is not a dysfunctional,
Nor a crab,
It is a feeling from
a clogged one.

In the middle rung of the ladder

In the middle rung of the ladder.

I am in the middle rung of the ladder,
skyward ruminations amidst fear,
for the ladder is shaken by the battening
wind. Below, I see mounds and murk ,
Gossamer like cobweb runs from
Somewhere inside the window of
a house ageless .The bricks and lime
are falling. The unconscious nonagenarian
on the cot , equally counting its days,
“ give me a hand “ I beseech the
Sturdy branch of a banyan tree,
Banyan rehearses a past history .
I climb down only to view
the anthills on the platform.

A long wait

A long wait

It is a long wait
at the metropolitan
crowded bus stand,
you wait, but the long line
of eroded thoughts
still crop up to regain
to pest you internally,
your umbrella tilts,

the flared up dust and wind
move past to settle on the
poster on the wall,
you shudder at
the sight of the
tilting bus almost
touching the ground,
the commuters are like
push and pull buttons.

it is a long wait
for so many
for the ration card,
more for the ration rice
to be pilfered and sold
for the double rate,
to treble their income,

it is a long wait
for the honest and choked,
amidst bohemian ,blatant,
seems to be eternal wait
so many in the queue,
it is a long wait,
it is a long, long wait.

I see a God------

I see a God----

I see a God not in the labour
and the baby delivered
in the toilet
of the moving train,
not in the syringe timely,
dexterous, for the brain fever
of the ten year old ,
a God not in the gospel of the church,
the chained cross of the nun ;
no, not in the cocaine and poppy seeds,
a God in the struggling innocent,
not in the collar of the vile at the gallows,
But I see a GOD
Yonder in the dead,
a body in the coffin ,
for he breathes his last
in the sleep , a boon .

what is the walking for----

What is the walking for-----

Walking, walking, walking,
walking and thinking, by the
Sane shadow, you call it awakening,
Karma or protection, byzantine
path you walk ,in search of realization,
you seldom value the past, those by gone;
these hard gravels and broken stones
by the melting tar , you abhor for
they are impediments for a smooth
go by; do you feel for those who break
the stones, who in the process break
their hands, the overflowing sweat
and blood which merge ? the massive,
gigantic felled tree , impasse for the
Commuters, yet walking goes on,
Paper boats in the far off pond,
fish in the sieve of the maidens,
play and lagoon , life goes on.

God alone knows!

God alone knows!
The ghostly eeriness in the ICU ward
Competes with the palpitation of
the patient, longing for life,
‘No visitors allowed’ on the board
mocks and tilts on the painted walls,
God alone knows what she wants to confide
in the forbidden state, whom she wants to confide in,
'No visitors allowed ' board still mocks,
The nurse attaches ventilator
an accelerated process of detachment,
God alone knows what is her last sign
Or gesture or poly vocal utterance,
He only knows why no visitors
allowed In the ICU.

change

Change
Like the sounding pages which turn ,
the twitter of the birds on the magnolia,
just as the fast track on the moving slide,
you move for the change, or changes
bounce in heaps ; mound of leaves move
for the better, though fallen;
I hear the gurgling by the brook
Which brooks no delay ,
Sodden, holy , the saint meditates,
cormorants spy and spare not the salient,
the poet scribbles, what is life,
Love, lust and perfumed skin, petrified?
open pages change into closed episodes,
still changes crop up like ghost stories,
many Changes are drops from above.

A song from within

A song from within

In the wilderness of my aching heart,
amidst bushy thorns and pricks,
There is a rhythmic cry of parrot,
Secretly ,serenely creoles but not to the Surfaces,
those in the surface, feel and face the threat,
of the world’s animal instinct grit.
I know you are the Palladium from within
Gyrating of a motive serene,
In the wilderness of my heart,
You are stolid and flaunt .

In the margin of

In the margin of ---

In the margin of a foolscap white paper,
my pen sketches on a figure,
A marginalised woman , with larger
ambitions, misapplied ambience,
her struggle is her only reward,
a blossoming flower, now exposed
to Wuthering sounds, a mute victim,
the sketch goes beyond the boundaries,
where and why nobody knows;

In the wilderness

In the heart of wilderness-----

In the heart of wilderness,
there is a feeble voice,
Voice of thimbles and thistles
by the scented jasmine
and rose buds sprouting
here and there, sprawling
dandelions, gauzy covers
protecting them until blown
by the mighty winds ,
when they sweep, when they
subside they themselves know not,
memory grappling the fresh pages
in my mind’s eye,
fresh pages of what?
Pages of anything that is good,
the bouquet in plastic cover
slowly loosing its fresh charm,
yet the giver and the occasion
live and relive in memory
adding verdure to wilderness,
my search goes on.

Existence

Existence

At times we are like wild flowers
Craving for existence and sustenance
In the midst of aridity,
Smiling at gravel for be friending,
We walk on a threadbare rope walking,
Our existence precarious ,yet growing for
Stability, wild flowers are essential
to imbibe the aroma of lavender and jasmine,
this filmy existence craves an exist
into a gargantuan powerhouse .
wild flowers need be seen every
now and then,
in the bunch of rose and jasmine.

Post man for them---
It is in the post man’s brown
Shoulder bag , their destiny lies,
their life , the innocent children’s
hard lives, amidst canning , sparse
caring, rigorous training at times,
partial and cruel,
the school children’s lives,
their ambition, their results in
post card, one full year’s dictum
in single word-promoted or
detained, their tears and jubilation
all in the post man’s brown bag.

Worlds away

Worlds away
It is the worlds away
that memory keep s
Us going, living reads
Many meanings in the
Past and present,
Several things bind us
together, what separated
You and me like the
Maize from the bunch ,
to be frozen and fried,
is still a conundrum,
worlds away, may be
you are still in search
of a local habitation,
or entered into an abode
of sanguine body ,
worlds away, we are,
things make us philosophical
pine and pine for
the no more to be
attained, living is dying
into a different world
of the unknown, unknowing.