Yes! it is endless

                                                       Yet, it is endless....                            

                                                      

                                            It is   summer’s end,

                                            Slow  breeze  as  hesitant

                                             as  the  unwilling,

                                           Whimpering of   this life,

                                            Morning   fresh  showers

                                           as  throbbing  as

                                          the   wake up  call,

                                           in my  chilled  room

                                           and   my  cosy  corner;

                                          the   fallen    leaves 

                                          as if dissociated  from

                                         their  no cognisant   stems

                                         search  a  haven on the  land;

                                         how  many  walk upon 

                                         merciless  on those

                                         deserted ,lonely, vagabonds,

                                        another   whiff of  autumnal

                                       force, the  heaps  are

                                        driven desperate  to a  corner.

                                     

A room of one's own

 A room of  one’s own

 Something   stares    back on me

as if  a    bamboozled,wandering ,

looking  at what?           

 The  murky   smell of dust,

Like  irreconcilable

Sediments, unswept layers

Of   deep-rooted , pain inflicting  

Cogitations thronging   those  many,

The  smell of  tea , otherwise aroma,

Puffs of smoke emanated  two days  ago

Scary  flies  today  mercilessly swarm,

The  broken pieces of ‘’Fa’’                          

Edge  the   shiny ,polished  table,

exotic   fragrance is dissipated,

pile of  uncollected ,multi  magazines

crave my  touch and glance  quick,

jasmine, breathless ,dethroned

from   their  stem,

my    being    away   for  two days,

it is not room of  my own.

                

Her diary

 Her    diary.

Holding  a  diary  not  as slim

as  her,   walks,    entwined  with   her

bulk ,  tumbles  upon  a  stone,

moorings , usually  strengthening,

what ?   the Devil’s  deep seated  tent:

flamboyant   , wanton,

  questionings: they  are

the  deadwood   in front  of  her,

at the end of  the  day

  they   are  the  strangles ,

tightening ropes ,

sceptical  about  the  Universe ,                

her  diary  scribbled with 

perplexities , she  un mutes  her

hitherto silenced  voice, how 

long  to be  a  thrall  to this

gruelling  monster  within?

Scoffs   the   ruling  passion

Of  notes  in a  pond  nearby. 

de language of kids (txtspk poetry)

    De  language of  kids.

De  language of kids is   play ,

Pranks,    assemble , 2   ensemble,                                        

a   release  of  their  word play

wth  imagination.         

De  language of  Gd’s   is  also

Divine ,ply ,                    

  apply    patience  

 release    wth   penetration.

We are crude monsters

 We are  crude    monsters

 Green   blade  of  grass

As  sharp   and  cutting 

As  the    sharp  memory

Of  God  who  dwells  also

Upon the  blade  or  bunch

Sticking  on the   piercing  smell

 Earth bound  rudimentary,

Up fronting    the benefactor  sky.

Those   are  not  morning’s

Fresh   pearly     dewdrops, 

Tears  of  angst  for  we

Mercilessly  trod  upon  them,

Can you find tears from the

Uprooted grass ,the  crushed

Flies ,insignificant insects

For even when alive insignificant:

Looking  up  to  the  Heavens

I   too  trod upon the  tender

bunch  green  and   sharp   

but are they sharp to retaliate?

My Space

       My space.


My space is huge  and interminable Faith
in the realm of God  and His Fort,
indomitable  and unyielding,
you  walk on the heap of the withered grass
to be burnt  or fed as fodder,
the   land   can  be  disgruntled,
a  transient    facade,
yet,my space   is  huge and interminable Faith.

You are on my Right..

  You   are  on my  Right....

You   come  straight  as sunbeams

Unswerving   as the   Rod of  Justice,

These   warm     shades  or    silent  wake up 

Calls   for  those on the green field

With the  pail  of  curd  rice  

and   lemon   pickle ; they  still 

hugged  by  the     mother  sleep,

done  their  karma  by the  paddy,

have  been doing  for  many  decades,

richly  paid  by  dividends  by  the  crops,

I worship  you  to  knock 

at my door , my  right  is  might.

                                                                                                                  

A facade

               A   facade

You   are miserably at  the

  very  centre of the  vortex,                

Cutting    cruel situation ,

The  spooky  spokes  of 

Conundrums   rising  by

Leaps  and bounds 

as   the  spring  ball,

what   are you  now?

An ignoramus ,itinerant

A  gypsy ,multicoloured  

Attire with big  beads,

Gnarling   around   your    neck;

Each   day  is  a domineering

Question   mark, sees    yonder

A  tree  as  tall   as  a  convoy,

Behind    the   bark of the tree

Gurgling  water  sounds

Flowing, whispering  secrets

Of  the   BIG  UNIVERSE.                          

Stumble upon....

2) Stumble  upon.....

                                                

Stumble  upon  ,  blocking   rugged  black  stones,

  after  prolonged  doubts  and  debates , milestones  ,            

                               

achieved   and negated  by those of    gumptions,

a  few  tardy      or  unduly  hasty    assumptions ,

misconstrue   a   toy, painted   design ,  a  blackbird,

stagger and   climb  to     view  from  helipad,

This  life  is  a  knocking ,  a mirage,

A  discarded  car in  a   barred   garage.

 

She knits a sweater

 She  knits  a   sweater...

It   is    nine   in the   segregating    night,

When   stunning  climax  and anti climax  bright

and  brazen    bold   meet  and intersect ,

She   knits   a   sweater  of  burgundy ,cool

Her  dexterous  needle   and    hand foraying  on the  wool,

Tears  from her  eyes  up swelling  in  blood  of  pool,

Thinks   of her  unborn   child  last  year,

A   miscarriage   why? Not  known for  reasons  unclear ,

Due  to  Times’ collocations  in the  rear.                  

Nature's Way.

      Nature’s  way.

In   the   innocent  childlike  Morn,

they  are the   tender  rays,   penetrate

to    reach  the  greenery,  the    leaves,

They  are  the  active, blinking ,smiley’s               

take   turbulent  turns  on the  screen, 

foraying   up  and down  in  colourful  ambience, 

The   sticky caterpillar   safe, underneath

   the  leaves ,  Coiling   and  extending upwards,     

unshakable   the  coils   are  even

by the  whiff  of  the  winds:

with  yesterday  the  passing  of  the

summer’s  teasing  and testing  heat

Autumnal   shreds  recoil  on

The  ground   I walk  by ,

The   tree  is  the  mere  onlooker  .

 Uncertainty

                                                      

The  bud  and  pecking  bird,

Up fronting  green plants,

 uncertain  of  the

Toppling  winds  sweeping

With  a  thud ,that of   a

Infuriated, possessed   monster,        

Infamously possessing  the land,

The  growing  embryo in

The mother’s womb , cosy

and   breathing  the  comfort

of  the  tender walls ,                   

uncertain of  its stay,

for  the  abortive pill 

supposed  to  preserve the

beauty  of  its  bearer,

the  books  borrowed  but

not  returned , the  certainly                                                                                                      

uncertain  lender  erases   the

thought of it from  his   memory,

 The   strong   karmic  Thread of  God’s

Creation    hanging  loose  on

Devious  thinking  of  Man,

for  his  doings  and undoing

are  uncertain  on the 

whimpering  ball  of  falling;

Only  the  blinking  stars and

The  roaring  Blue  are

Certain  to  testify  their mission

Of  stamping   on  uncertain  papers.

                                                                              

  

What is poetry...A parody on those that give a twist to poetry

What  is  poetry ....... A  parody   on those  that give   a  twist to poetry.

   Not  for  poetry  lovers.

What   is  poetry? What  is  it    that pretends

to   be  whimsical, quizzical, inspired,

emotionally   tearing,   turgid, bland,

a  microbe  creeping  from  underneath

the  doormat, reaching  the  top  of

the cerebellum, masquerading   your

imagination,  rants  and  cants  of  

a   warrior, furtive,  deserting lover

ominous  bat  entering  home

 dead  turtle  on   the  roaring  shore,

yet,  my  Muse  tends  to be  musical ,

adds  to  the  sacramental

  notations   of  the   Shore.

On the  sands, on the land....

It  is  a   massive  breathless whale

 Cast on the  shore,  ye, ruthless 

Waves   slash    the  dead:

Years  of  dwelling   on the  sea

 To  no  end, water’s  crude  treatment,

Yet  I hear  the gyrating  rhythm,

The  Blue  itself   is    mesmerised       

The  journey’s mystery is  beyond

The comprehension of the                    

Eternal  terrifying  depthless  vast.

On the sands,  an improvised tent,

Where   urchins   sip coca, set  the               

Stage   for   carom   and   chess :

Game  is  life for them;                                                                                                                                                         

On the  Land, most  veil 

Already  their  masked  face,                    

Life  is  their  game  for  them,

Win  or  lose  it is  a  necessary  morsel.

Yet   there is   another jubilant  group

Playing  on the  abandoned    boat,

Picking up    shells,  delving into 

The  mystery of their  cast and mould.

They   prefer  to  get  drenched

Watery  splashes  ,salty  froth  all over.

Play, play  they  all play

Play  to  their full  content.

There   are the waves, tidal   knots,

Rolling  over, resounding  as  if

The cosmic  supremacy of  the Universe.

I  hear  a  murmur  of 

Strange   voice, dictum  envisioned,

It  is , it is  all notations ,          

avidly     Preset  calculations.

      Where  did you go  hiding  --you    SKIES?

Where  did you  go  hiding –you  azure skies?

I tried  to unfold  you  from  where  I    am positioned

 That  was my  custom when   I was young,

Even  now  attempted  this  childish   impossible play;

Did  you  go to  embrace  those  that

reached   you  abandoning  this   politics

of   muddy  earth? Did  you  beckon  those

myriad   stars   to  follow  to  be   a  fanfare?

Those   fluffy    clouds invade  not only  us,

But  also  heavens, I  suppose:

Where   did  you  go  hiding –you  azure  SKIES?

In the blazing Fire

In  the   blazing   Fire....

In  the  blazing  fire  there,

Sulking  many  aboriginal   habits ,

Roots  of  unshakable   faith,  rituals

With  glowing  embers, 

Much  to  the  censure   and

Berating   tags    of  many:

In   a  different  sort of  fire,

I see  a  few , reformed,  burn

Their   ugly sinister, restless thoughts,

Slowly  the  fire  recedes into  a

Cave  of  negation  and cessation,

Itself  engulfs   the  wicked ness.

There is  this mysterious  fire

In  many,  lurking  and virile,

beyond   embalm   and   redemption,

audaciously   poking:  a  hawk               

restive  in  its    pursuit ,

soon  to  be  subdued  by  a  different  Fire.