There is a Black Pal

There  is a  Black  pal         

There is a  Black  pal, my

 Visitor regular, cool   and calm.

In my balcony, its  abode of

 Grain or  rain, it  visits my

Perambulations   profoundly   strain,   

If  Black  were to be  a curse,

Woe  to the Creator’s  paradigm  of

 Release  and    hearse.

If colour were  to be

A conscious matter of  grouse,

Hollering  would annoyingly increase.

Deliverance is too far,

Even now, for   it is intricate,

 it is manmade

  aggrandisement .

Your Advent.

     Your  Advent

Your  are  A  Blazing Star,

Troubadour like,

Identifying thugs, also,

 them, saddling strong,

You are  icon  of assured    protection .

For   those  in the  tricky maze

Of  vile  troubles, believe

In  some   bric a brac.

You   came like an ordinary,

In an extraordinary  situation,

Forms   and   visions, astounding.

A  dire  situation  of  intricate   maze

I was immersed in a total

devastating, savage ,

abysmal  gloom of  darkness.

living  amidst   the  din and  clatter,

your form silenced their cacophony,

Silencing process  goes on.

In the   Time’s web,

Many formless  continue ,

Yet to be  silenced.

Rebirth for a NEW SAGA

     Rebirth  for a  NEW  SAGA.       

      It is a precious rebirth 

     For   A new  Saga,

     Mere  Thanksgiving  is just

     an  ordinary  label, or

     disbelieved ritual for some,

     your Advent,  for  the moments

      of  extraordinary  weaving, unravelling.

     I  was  a loner with those moments

    Of  sedition of others,   now your Advent.

     Encumbered lumber is ours.

     Know not how you ply

    with these flamboyant ,fanatics,

     you  take me  insurgent

     To  The Alone, to the  fly zone,  

  

   Angels  took  pity  on this   Soul

   Sent   southerly  winds,

  Salient  showers  of  bounteous Mercy.

  The  wind  blew well  on time,

Rich harvest was  augured

ere, seditious weeds are  undone.

Thanksgiving  goes beyond the ambit .

'Charred photo'

           ‘ Charred photo’  

After the last tap

 The  key board, demure.

The   blinds  are drawn.

I am half sunk

 Pillows embrace.

A sudden quaver/trigger,

My body tossed up and down,

Some unknown feel or fear

runs down me. Check out if

rats  rattle  amidst the vessels,

retire again to the recent emit,

 fear lurking  matted  bolster.

 It   enervates  my  pulse.

The   charred   photo by the

Subtle  Fire, time  ago, looms  large,

beckons /  to   reason out.

 my face, encounters splashes of water,

Now, no more sleep, sit back, think.

What is this slither/fear?

         What is this slither/ fear?

       A fear gripped me,

      Chill  as  frightful  as

      The  haunt  of a  coffin,

       a  sudden loss of vital  Memory,

     I drew my blanket   cap- a-pie,

     Felt as if  it is  the  slither

     Of   a cockroach, it moves

     On  my toes ,some  gentle

    jiffy tick alerts me,

     it is  the   slowly dismantled

    watch  from its  strap loose.

    

There is newness in every stale thing.

            There  is  newness in  every stale thing.

‘’The old order changeth  yielding place to new’’.

  There is newness in every stale thing

  as  there is  a  fresh lease of new life ,

  from the old, embittered ,past lives,

  old garments  slotted  for  wholehearted

  charity, enhance the  new looks of the

   impoverished, starved, now protected,

 protected are  the  old   garments  too

for  they  came in dire poverty ,abject

 necessity.  School  and  slate  are 

a luxury for those ,country urchins

in   soiled  kaki knickers, kite playing.

Fixing  cow dung  cakes on the walls

Is  their  daily wage earning  plenty.

They question not  why  they

Are  born, look  for  some

Hope  and  revival in

 Merry Bells,  Santa Claus

and  New  Year.

Holy Dip,Dip

    In  the  sheets of water,

  many  gloriously   calmed

  and merged now

in the white sheets,

tossing up and down

like deadwood,

the  gurgling  water

 as if an affiliate

Member welcomes its

Supreme partner, Sun,

both on the same

Horizontal  line.

In  the sheets  of water,

Realize/A life giving boon,

Potential /orgy of

Origin  less source.

Whirls, whirling

Me  to ageless   icon.

In the surfing, I became

Breathless, near the shore

on   the land castaway 

seashells  abound.

A Take On Free Fall

 A  Take on Free Fall.

It  is  not  Biblical  Fall

Of  Seduction  after  a

Plump, forbidden   fruit,

Nor is it a  headlong  fall

Of  skyjacker’s tricks of vile.

Spooky  embers  of clutters,

Of  smoke  and burnt woods

Spiralling  from the  ground

hover   the blue  sky: A cloudy cap.

Smell of choke  and charcoal

I suddenly get up from

My  sleep, my nightmare.

Ground, mosaic  more soothing.

Love In The Clippings.

       Love in the clippings

A   whiff of  seditious wind

Clipped the tender, wings of Love.

Autumn’s   crude   chill already

Stayed ,residue, in my heart, for some time,

 ‘Rue not’ ! My, yet to be softened

  dictates pacify.

                                                                                         

 Kiwi! Kiwi! Kiwi! Sparrow, young chick

Concomitant   visitor in my  balcony;

A   whiff of seditious  wind

Clipped  the  tender wings of   

 This  Lonely, this lugubrious,

Swoops   on my shoulders,

   Peck of look, affection,

 ‘’ learn to love thyself,’’

   I   tend  my  flexible   cuticles,   

   Fingertips, taps, on the key board.

      Unlock the key board,

     ‘Work is thy Love,’ is the key .

  

     Keep it unlocked, for ever.

     Kiwi! Tap!   Tap!  on the board.

S.Radhamani.

    

  

Man's Mastery, again it is God's Gift.

               Man’s Mastery, Again   it Is God’s Gift.

   Painter’s ebullient  brush  strikes.

   When aridity  knocks , drought with pride set in

   The  fallen  flowers    crave for  the lost seats,

   their  stems, The  Sun  now lurks beneath its orb,

    A kind  of  Chill  chuckles   at  man’s  inhibition.

    The lovelorn lies in the last stage, in the cottage,

    His  lady bird  appears ,soothes ,consoles

    Infusing  a fuel of  animated   Love,

   The  cottage is  no longer, seeming   Dotage .

   He  revels,  flies  with

    the wings of plumage.

  

The Canal In My Village.

The  canal in my  village

The  gurgling water flows.

The  North is  The Direction.

 Tradition  speaks .The folks speak.

In them is ingrained  the

established   belief, North

is luck, North is fertility Myth.

 The river  carries  no  emotions

As of  now. But  when it is in

full   spate, fury  bursts.

The  farmers ,ritual believing,

Cook  sweet  pudding to offer,

to   propitiate   Sun God,

it  flows to feed many hungry,

Erases  the face of  Drought.

Your Heart.

          Your heart

Heart   is a miniature theatre,

Coagulations,just as you

Compress,  emotions.

Blood circulations, arteries,

Veins, palpitations,

Unchecked fume   emit

of  words, wordy deals.

As  gyrating within,

You are  director, operator,

Spectator, watching    from outside,

Applause for ebullient squeaks

waiting  for the  final curtain

to be  drawn, cathartic  agent

perhaps is in the offing.

Lullaby For The Forlorn

  Lullaby  for  the forlorn

As  the  cute  tabby   cat  stole

Out of the lobby, surreptiously,

The other inmates  fast asleep,

Its moving  paws  silenced   and

feared  by  the  loud  snore of some.

Outside  the  dogs  bark,

Close  to midnight, sequel

The  innocent  wail   of  the month old

baby, abandoned  by the  heartless.

Night glared   by the Moonlight

for the delay in tending  the  forlorn

looks  askance  at  the child.

I peep through  the window,

The  temple  priest 

Closing  the gates of

the temple, willingly

opened the rugged ,  locked door

of the Future of the  Innocent,

sings  a  soothing   lullaby.

Calmness Endures

                   Calmness Endures.

          The   puff of  steam

          hurriedly go ,stay and settle

         on the green coloured   

         hard ,thick,  window  panes,

        till  I go deft to wipe them off.

         Also  a  kettle with soot

        chuckles  as if terribly  

        weaned   off  an evil.  

        It is  the hot  puff of  steams

       Piercing  my nostrils   clogged

       by   cold  and subsequent  sneeze.  

       The pictures afar, on the wall

        don’t  blow, or fritter,

        stay  double calm.

      

Seasonal Shifts In Your mind

In the  winter of  your life,

wrinkles  criss-cross , the skin

loose, like  haberdasher’s

 garments  hanging.

Altered  by swift  currents and

Cross-currents,   fetish with

The free, uninterrupted  flow

Of writing, you  are in  for

a  deliberate   pause.

You   brood of  those

Summer  days, how

best summer could have

been  spent, summer  showers

have delighted you, the  sacred

pots in your garden,

little  realize  that dark,

Dull, Emissary , one day

will knock at your door,

Collage  with  your  aging

and  desire  for  unaging   process.

Helen! Don't Come Near Us.

Helen! Don’t come  near us.

Helen!  Don’t  think we will be

dancing  with you. Decked by the

frills  of  wavy, white,

 gauzy garment, your pride,

 prerogative.  We are content,

safe ,drinking  the minerals ,from

where  we are.  Not at all eager,

share your  full energized   orgy.

A core of  us ,crave to lead

Our lives, ordained  by The Supreme.

Our boundary  line is land.

Dare  not  trespass .

( Helen is the name of the Cyclone,formed in India)

A humble take on '' I am nobody! Who are you?''

A  humble  take on   ‘’ I am  nobody! Who are you?

 I am nobody!   who  are you?

I am  insignificant  speck,

A void, rudderless ship,

not knowing what for my birth,

My existence, a straw,

thawed   by  twists, shifts,  turns

of  plotted   villainy  and

vituperation. Quirky

circumstances  changed

life’s turn and   it sustains

on  a shaky  keel.

You  are a   Sage, Seer

with  extraordinary

 visionary  Powers,

an exorcist  to   drive away

 the   mad passions

gripping  the vile

and   seditious ,

though a  slow  process.

A Take on winter Storm's Mad Organ Playing.

Those  vile, crazy  in the

grip of  battle guns,  exchange

their  prowess.

The city is in the grip of

Fear  and vendetta  striking:

Sombre November splashes

its rains  and vultures

in  blood bath,

Hellish  darkness spiralling,

For  Moon  hides  her  Face

Beneath the interface

Where  thundering winter’s

mad  organs  roving,

dying  soldiers'  lips mutter

these last words to their

women in  anguish,

 ‘’Be bold, take care

Of our children, for

We come for a cause ‘’.

                                                              

Melting Grass

       Melting  Grass.

We  are   a   good, not at all

 seditious  bunch  of  grass.

Silly, stuff, cordoned off,

getting  unduly drenched,

in the flooding waters,

overpowering rains that

mercilessly  sweep us all,

immersed, we get decayed.

Yet, in golden summer days,

We are segregated ,divided

to   accommodate  fresh,

 green leaves ,in between,

 how mercenary they are!

She goes off

          She  goes off

By the cool, passing rivulet,

A  corner to cordon off my anguish.      

I get on the   promenade, pain  lingering .

The path  brews  acceptance.

Innocently, the plant shimmering

With violet flowers, waves,

inadvertently, I plucked one violet:

 thoughts  submerged, threw it off.

Tomorrow’s   straight, resplendent

beams  miss. Bees  are for  dismay.

Placid  violet, not turning, merges

with  the  mainstream. I look on.