(78) The carpenter's axe

(78 ) The carpenter’s axe

The carpenter’s axe deftly dances,
in a see-saw makes modulations,
moves up and down in measured beats
of an expert violinist’s nuances:

The sounds tut, tut, tut, tut,
pierce my eyes and ears straight,
which by my ignorance ,I construe a rubble,
rosy infant in the opposite cradle,
Squeals. Squeals to come out to dwaddle,

I strictly pass orders,
by passing the toils of rigours,

“ Look here, let not your axe in bold hand
touch and tarnish the ground
and spoil the design on the mosaic mound,"
little realizing the hazard to his flesh and thigh,
if the axe slips to pierce the loin close by!

(77) Not borrowed but plundered feather.

(77) Not borrowed but plundered feather.

You reap the harvest of my labour in the field,
in leaps and bounds, beyond the boundary line,
The grains in clusters cover the sickle and the hand,
the storage is in full, full, yet my efforts are null,
you plundered my land by force, in my absence,
you have even stifled your conscience,
You had a tent in my land to unseat me,
to disposes me and my ward,
who else knows but only the Omnipotent God!
Reasons and rectifications ,my Lord!.

( 76) Cockroaches

(76) Cockroaches
Walls too have ears, they say,
who would this gainsay?
The wooden plank with a welcome board,
nailed to the demented wall,
gives shelter to the mushroom growth of cockroaches,
I could hear the ring of cockroaches,
I could recall the echo of the insects
on the ears or the holes,
The tiny lizard gives uncouth company to them,
unwelcome guest or enemy,
Plays hide and seek to swallow,
may be to unseat the strongly seated,
do they breed in darkness or cavities?
just as sins and stigmas in uncivilised minds
unsparing of God’s and Godhead!
the cockroaches run, run to their walled abodes,
or wooden wardrobes to woo perhaps their woebegone.

(75) You are far, yet, near.

(75) You are far, yet near.

My missing poem in a full-fledged floppy,
in the printed Performa with fecundity,

It is for my friend, philosopher, fellow-poet,(Mr. Peeran,)
Your very name sounds like a positive siren,

whatever poetry achieved with a feather touch,
Your skilled pen embellished with a humanitarian touch,

Your writing has inculcated a wide and saner vision,
with a more humane approach and radiance,

You are a saint and seer in your day-to day living,
the concept of which you have propagated in your writing,

May God’s benign blessings pour upon you
with uninterrupted successive galore!

May you write more and more more
to a point of unreachable height of soar!

The news of your transfer from here
brings you forever near and near!

(74) The skeleton

(74) The skeleton.
The skeleton in the graveyard stands erect
like the schoolboy whose answers are correct,
it, with its uncouth figure seems to mock at the flesh,
“ with aroma and acrobatic skill,
with hide and seek and extra fittings,
you plunder and deceive your fellow beings
I stand alone and need to fear none,
you follow the concept that skin to skin,
there is no sin,
hurl the conscience to wind,
the man at the dark corner with a darker idea,
to steal the silk garment on the dead,
Slips and runs and runs too far!”

(73) What is that ! it"?

(73) What is that IT?

The scorching heat does not affect them,
they dare not hide their faces,
do you wonder who are they?
wait, let your conjecture be wandering,
when I walk through the busy streets,
the colourful pots seemingly decorate the corners
like the majestic corner-stands in the walls of the houses,
can I construe that they block the streets?
The amorphous crowd waits,
wailing if it would be an eternal waiting,
some peep in between the pyal and pipeline,
the infuriated housemaid deftly adjusting her thick hair,
pronounces a precautious cry,
has IT come? Hurry up?
“ no ! it isn’t it,” the school boy’s curt lips burst out,
What is that “IT”?
It baffles me, could it be similar to that of Hamlet’s IT,
at last it comes with a bang at half past four,
the water tankers, the boon of many waiters
who throng it like the ants of jiggery.

Whisper of solace.

Whisper of solace

It is not a day of tourism ,
nor a commercial encounter where
deadly deals and no dealings
appear and disappear like clouds,
clouds weaving myriad gathering
pictures of woes and romping romances.
The populous city wears Summer’s
unbeatable heat ,melting tar
on the road glitters ,sticky, hot ;
you reach home in the wrong time
of all conniving power failure;
you are not querulous, only
buckets of water come to your rescue,
not a soup water is a mere solution.
Soul goes to the background when
Pulsating body already sweating
Needs double washing.
wind rustles through unruffled grills ,
Balcony and open terrace , garden of terracotta ,
Stones , not whispering of Love’s lure,
Directions from all sides , to this
directionless hankering after,
whisper of solace to this
whimpering ,whining, self.

(72) The motley.

(72) The motley
It was a huge hall of prayer and mediation
like the Indus-valley status and civilisation,
The ancient and obvious occult and not prone to corrosion,
with a cosmopolitan gathering and equally of cosmopolitan
attitudes and moods,
just as the violinist tunes his fingers and his bow to various nuances,
the motley crowd to many situations and secret stigmas too:
for some to cover these a fake smile,
a loud outcry and a gaudy silk-sari
a bold and beautiful a garguntine step,
occasionally many a form of Satan and sarcastic statements too,
only a few like the select ground nut seeds
amidst the false rotten nuts
in a bottle of savoury and preserved condiments
bothering only to bother themselves
their selves, their seats:

I observe with eagle’s eyes,
I decry the malady of motley,
outside air infested with vociferous cries
of the fear ridden accident victims,
The two wheeler under the tyres of water tanker,
Should I shed my fear for the victim?
Should I share to attribute to fate?
Should I flee the horrendous spot?
Should I feel sorry for the uncouth mass?

( 71) Dont you know me?

(71) Don’t you know me?

I suddenly wake up from my deep sleep
with a shudder as if struck by a wasp,
the sudden sweeping touch of which is more painful,
than the real sting,
Fear grips me, I look around in vain,
“ do you consider, I rule the roost,
I decide, I test and terminate,
like the terminal of the rail passengers”.
I cannot decipher the eerie sound!
“ from painful birth till undesired death,
militants , monarchs and Majestic mountains,
dutiful rivers and ponds, rivulets and deep Blue,
everything is bounded and confided by me!
“ Don’t you know me?”
I wide open my eyes,
I see nothing but pervasive darkness,
the trees in the painted pictures on the wall,
toss up and down, propelled by the
gushing wind from the window,
The loving paramour in the adjacent banner,
in a dancing mode, diverts me,
still the mysterious voice pervades,
“ I am unbounded ,unconfined,
even God functions within the precincts of my jurisdiction”.
I am bewildered like a sympathetic hangman,
The clock ticks one, two, three,
“ IT IS ME, IT IS TIME”.

(70) A threat to so many.

(70) A threat to so many.

The closed double doors of the local temple,
with its rusted bells steadfast in the hinges,
sediments of dust sing tales of woe,
invite sweepers from the road side
who shudder for want of feeling secure!
Oily lamps and dust-laden idols weep
for priests hidden from the precincts,
termites brood over the dusty doors,
my brushes combat the corners of the
cockroach eggs loyal to their seats,
I think a while, why the local petty politics
Should creep the temple premises?
Sainthood is abrogated,
God and God head are crucified,
by ugly and ambivalent ways,
why this deadly prejudice,
and discrimination of race?

(69) Towards my hut.

(69) Towards my hut.


The gull takes off from the surface of the deep Blue,
not at all gullible, neither to gulp any deceit,
free to roam on the horizon, free to flutter;

What for the Blue mourns, roars, I know not,
or can I call it an excitement ,invincible might,
as that of the mighty superpowers,

by the shore I watch drawing lines on the sand,
my fingers inadvertently give shapes to wet lumps of sand,
the white surfaced waves roll on,

perhaps to move towards to undo the casual shapes,
a challenging spectacle, a warfare of black and white and blue waves,
I feel insignificant and pale into nothing with my petty craft;

The land not far inside throbs,
with haberdashers and vegetable vendors,
hawkers and meticulous merchants,

Far inside the feeble bell off the church
well informed cops counteracting goondas,
Merciless lathies on innocent and innocuous alike,

The small choultaries jubilant with cakes,
with silk and sandal paste,
a fleeing prisoner is handcuffed to the cell,

wearied and wonderstruck,
I walk along, sentiments touches me
touches me towards my hut, my palace and asylum.

Treasure amidst rubbish

Treasure amidst rubbish
“whether it is an awful daring of a moment’s surrender”,
or cool connivance of sexually aberrated , narcotic
who made inroads into the pristine sanctity of
a teenager , a house keeper, the mute victim
due to violation, speechless and aghast,
kindly bears the birth pangs, the symbol
premature , but most cruel and unkindly
shuns the ‘she, tomorrow’s burden, a bride’
into a bin, pitiably viewed by the blue cross ,
handed over to the Red cross,
to right the wrong of amiss and cross.

(68) What a slip!

68) What a slip! (

When she sipped the cup of coffee,
She slipped the metal tumbler,
She took it casually,
She had another sip of coffee.

When she slipped and fell,
The stair case connived,
The slippers slipped her feet,
She had another pair of slippers.

When the ball point pen slipped from her bag,
She had another ink pen and pencil to her rescue!
When the coin slipped from her palm she let it go,
She had some other coins to replace the slip.

When she slipped and fell a prey
To her vile passions, to hook a man away,
She fell a prey, a prey
Unable to take herself away.

She slipped when her matrimony survived and slipped,
She slipped into another man, a slap for matrimony,
It was just as a sip of coffee, yet a casual cool slip for her!
Yet the man slipped her it was a cool slip for her.

(67) If the Right is Wrongly done.

(67) If the Right is Wrongly done.......
When the devout prayer becomes priggish
as the opportunists would play the dice,
when the reason is toppled by treason,
as an ambitious girl crippled by polio,
and treason multiplies to numerous arrows of poison,
when man becomes persistent womaniser,
if woman is a woe to man,
when woman tends to overstep like a man,
the tremor devours , disturbs,
serenity loses to bemused senility,
fertility closes, aridity augments,
mendacity continues, stupidity rules!

A message to grasp

A Message to grasp.

My mobile innocently quirks
with ringtones sounding like
Messiah’s predictions, messages
from offers of Vodophone, astrologers’
predictions down to agnostic questions :
your precious time is plundered,
other incoming calls obstructed,

the gourmet swallows consciously,
the picture is getting detached
form the wall,
I rivet a picture of Krishna
on the wall ,Lord Krishna in the battle field:
War ever since Sun and Moon designed
to shine, also Shun,
Since the Forbidden fruit lurked
and lured in the Garden of Eden,
a deliberate conscious attack
on ethical philosophy, tirade on
Life, living and abjures thinking ,

You introspect, who cares? Who pines?
for what, for whom ?
A call of Consciousness appears,
may be Krishna ‘s stiff, steady
unbending arrows of Karma
shoot up message:
don’t indulge in uncanny, unwanted
caring for others, marring your prospects,
take care, He will ,take care of You.

(66) The wind and grass

The wind and grass

Oh! Sweeping wind, are you over-confident?
don’t you think before you sweep?
You can sway the trees and stems and plants,
but not the grass roots!
you scale, shake and scare,
but cannot rout the strong grass root.
my flute creates flutter on the green grass,
the grass as tender as new-born babies’ fingers,
I walk on the grass, upon the carved lawn.
the crowd treads upon grass,
does grass savanna cry?
It bends and holds as forgiving
as a martyr, as smooth as a cushion,
oh! Wind you too have a bend!

(65) Hail! Mobile.

(65) Hail! Mobile.
Smile,smile,I go simply mobile,
with varieties of cells-global and mobile,
to come out of my shell, I creep into my cell,
too many connections , too much of roaming,
I fly on the wings, winged wings,
to propel me about Air tell,
Reliance too indeed is reliable,
ripping, skipping,
Hutch does not clutch,
I go about roaming, romping,
I go about mobile, mobile, mobile,
for contingency go mobile,
for emergency go mobile,
for many necromancy is mobile,
A tiny toy with many keys,
missed calls, messages, reports and registers,
I go mobile, mobile, and mobile.

(64) A view from my balcony.

(65) A View from my balcony.

I curl like a cute kitten on the mosaic floor,
no smooth bed, no bed spread,
a terrible knock at the oak door
at the odd hour, relieves me from my summer siesta,
a pervasive peep through the balcony
with a cup of hot tea,
involuntary attraction for my eyes
on the dancing birds on the dancing boughs of trees,
the sight of pecking birds dancing,
pecking and dancing,
along with the dancing boughs,
in a see-saw way dancing,
a merry jollification!
yes! They swing and dance,
for the twittering merge on the leaves,
make colourful gestures!
The southerly wind sweeps through,
like aerial waves unseen,
yet, the force felt with gyrations,
an icon of splendid prosperity!
The hung up dried clothes , hurled
at the opposite poles,
a mini wardrobe washed away,
I cannot compete the race,
Yet the fast track of my eyes,
trace the upcoming hidden rays.

(63) The rustic smell of my ancestry is piercing.

(63) The rustic smell of ancestry is piercing.

Look at me grass-green and evenly cut,
the rudimentary and rustic smell of my
ancestry is piercing and profound,
they pass me for prosperity and plenty,
I don’t shape beyond a particular size,
People tread upon me, yet I don’t grudge,
I am pitiable and beautiful,
Bold and brave,
for tiny tots and twaddlers
teenagers and paramours,
My being is the bed of roses,
the rustic smell of ancestry is piercing
Piercing and prolonging.

(62) The mystery of Birth is eluding.

(62) The Mystery of BIRTH is eluding.

The hospital wards resound with sound of groaning,
Consequence of hard labour and grumbling,
The smell of blood-soaked cotton and medicine pervading,
the sponge-like child is born wriggling shrieking,
every step from the womb is measuring,
The mystery of birth is eluding,
the anxiety of the visitor is annoying,
arrival of the new-born is cheering,
with the new visitor to this land is quite interesting,
Mother’s blessed smiles kissed are lasting, lasting,
the proven emblem of bonded conjugal love is lasting,
but not for parting, parting, parting.