Guaradian's take on Squawks and speech

   Guardian’s take on  Squawks   and  speech     

I am   by myself  in  my  study room,

Researching   bird  calls  and  speech  syndrome,

But  often   hear calling  bird’s  sweet  localisation

Could be  yesterday’s  Peter or  Bob.

The  clock  is  sweeping  through,

Time  is running  out,

For  most  like  me,

 TIME is not enough,

Yet, enough with Time’s collocations.

Battling  with  the  troubles

Beyond  troubleshooting.

I  live  with a  staunch  belief

That  my Mentor  takes in

Everything on my behalf.

 Comatose  with  sufferings of

Worldly  nuggets   beyond  edges,

I hear  a  parrot,singing,

It is  the repetitive parrot cry

Of   war! War! Sirens  and   humiliating

thunders  across silent miles
then joins the endless cycle of decay and growth.

Decay of  bodies  and   wailing  cry,

It is  unconquerable  cry.

Time  yet ,goes on.

Guardian's rocking horse

Guardian’s  rocking horse.

That was the  sturdy, painted Rocking Horse,

The  centre of attraction for the  number of

Children  and grandchildren  cared  by grandfather

and  grandmother, each tending and placing their

grand   kids on the colour ful  horse,

rocking  from  sideways, hiding their age,

 playing along with them. Three  generations

preserved  the  emblem of   joy  and  play  and

recreation  and  retrace their lineage . One

of the forefathers,  chipped  the old, mango tree

thick  with  the  dexterous axe   of  the ebullient

carpenter   singing  a song  always chipping

and polishing.  Then yellow  and red painting 

went into  the  structure ready to fly for  the                             

sake of children.

The  Dream Horse  always

entered  into  their  life of  living,  lore,  a rocking  horse

rocking  the  entire  clan. I have heard of  war horses,

Cavalry, horses  trained into  tents  of my  ancestral village,

The  grass  and   green    smell of  those   tents   

Still  pierce  my  nostrils  into furthering 

into  the  inmate’s  shape  and purpose, the saddle to

My childish curiosity drove me to  study

The horse.The Rocking  horse 

and the habituated horse In tent in war field.            

They are silent ruminators. Fast fliers. Rock! Rock!

                         

                              

The River Of Life

                                            The  River  Of  Life.

                                      It is   the steady River  of Life,

                                      Flows   across    Eternity,

                                      Cutting   huge  space   and  celerity;

                                     While  encompassing, the  whole,

                                      Laconic  of  superiority.

                                      Never  wry or  dry,

                                     Edging  on  the  logo

                                     Of   Universality

                                    

                                      River and  Creator  sharing  a

                                     Similar   vintage like   His  Move

                                     On  His  own  scheme of  Karma

                                     and   Consciousness.  Ever   going 

                                     on  a  path of  its own  Destiny,

                                     impeccable, irretrievable .

                                    River  carrying  on

                                    its  own zig zag   portals.

                                    Be it  a scorpion, or crab,

                                    A paper  boat  or  blown lotus,

                                    Bearing  much, human  and thrown,

                                    To  Gaya  or  Kasi ( Banaras)

                                    A dip holy in its  Merge.

                                   River  of  life  goes  on and on.

                              

                                                                                                          

Go slow,lower the speed.

Go   slow, lower   the speed.

Go   slow, lower  the speed,

The   droplets  come  down

On the windscreen,glossy                      

It  is  also  speeding  along

With  its  master,

The   mists   and  wind

Endanger  your  path,

Dictates  always  tell

Go slow, lower  your  path.

Yonder  there  is  a speed breaker,

Speeding  vehicles, drunken passersby

Come  your  way, cattle  either   tackle

Or   slumber  ruminating  on  their own.

Children with  cartload of  books

Cross  and  walk , run scared  and

 Dismayed  by  the  spooky  horns

Dictates  always   tell us

Go slow, lower the  speed.

There  is a river like,

Glossy, fascinating ,

Wind   salutary                       

Blowing  towards    you,

You  are  drawn towards the  sand,

 It  is  a mirage, mirage,

How   taxing, how convincing,

How  evincing, elusive,

Go slow, lower  the speed.

Guardian’s A Birth mother’s catechism Take on “who do you think you are?"

Guardian’s  A  Birth mother’s catechism   Take on “who do you think  you are?”                                                                                                                                             

     A  General  application

 Who do you think you are?

A  child  cosy in  hugged  warmth             

Kicking the  walls of  embryo .

Who do  you  think you are?

A new  arrival  soon  heard 

Cacophony  around  me .

Who do you think you are?

Fearing  the  warring  world.

Who do you think you are?

  One  Shuddering to know

 The   numismatic  value

 Of  the world ,  only value.

Who do you think you are?

A small  speck, a  pebble,

In this inordinately  cruel world.

Who do you think you are?

Withal  a Gifted, to know

The  boon of  His   Mercy.

             

Something to wake up the Muse

Something to wake up the Muse.

My energy drink, my   noble  spirit,

Please   don’t  get   yourself,

 locked  up  in a  corner,

for,  your  the little  slumber  is 

my   sign  of  retrograde,

to  move   into progression,

wake up   and  give me  a 

clarion  call, tap me,gentle

on  my   key board, you  are

my  ultimate  Muse.

Micro -poem -This is Life

Micro poem-- This is  Life.

Half  the life  is  Gone.

Hard earned  wealth  is   Gone.                                                          

Remnant  is  regret and  pain,

What  you   gain   in  redoubles                                                                    

Is  renewed  Faith  and  piety.                                                                                                                                                  

Solace   and  study of  humans

In  hidden colours.

Take on Guardian’s To bend the grass for light and space by Lotte Cramer.

Take on  Guardian’s   To bend the grass   for light  and space by Lotte  Cramer.

Bend  the  grass   for  light  and space

Cut   the  weed  and  clear  the  uncouth  race,

Bend the  grass  for  more   creative space,

Let  the   Light   glow    and   shimmer   apace.

Bend   the  grass  for  more   supple    brocade

For   the  shade   to   come  and  fall  to  prevent 

Any   unpleasant ,despoiled    umbrage.

Bend  the grass , let   butterflies    fly

From   nearby plant  to plant ,navigate,

to    spread  wings  on  pollen   to

sprinkle  on  grass  for  more  creative  race.

Listeners

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  3) Listeners.

My soft  pillows,

Patient  listeners,                 

The  covers  attest my 

Silent  whisperings.                                                                                                                                   

Digest my tales of sorrow,

Manage my moods,

Delve into   unregimented  

Areas of happenings,

Mysterious  and  monologues,

Tomorrow they will be

Gyrating in the  washing machine.             

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

The Balloon

2)  The   balloon

 Soft, yet inflated, roaming ,

Like  a wandering minstrel 

Blows  nuggets  of  ethereal

Philosophy, on air, piercing

The  Blue, frittered 

by  the pull of  

The  tether from  ground,                            

You  are   a  medley        

Of  look  up  and down.

The Weeds

The   weeds

Like   fibroid   they grow,

I count   one, two, three,

They  are   the weeds, by

the  green grass,upfronting

the blue  sky ,merging 

with  the    bunch of  grass,

taking care of  selves

by the soil, the mound,

rather   sharing, rightfully

all the  benefits, bonus,

that   Nature’s bounty  bestows.

Very  difficult to identify

The nature of  weeds, for

Their  colour  is  such,

Similar  we cannot distinguish

The good from  the  bad

Of  humans that easily,

Yet  the wind  blows

The  same,  salient   on  all.

From  afar, my pages  fritter,

Book mark flies  near the bunch,

Why  it  cares?

Lullaby

Lullaby

She  sings  a  lullaby for  the newborn,

Her  own sweetest  compositions in the Morn,

foraying into the world’s path of  thorn,

Rocking  the cradle ever and anon.

She  sings  a lullaby in the noon,

Wiping  the  sweat  of  Summer’s  croon,

The   child is laid  to  sleep with the fan’s boon,

She  comes   back to   her  place  for a siesta of noon.

This  was   some   thirty years  ago,

The  same moon  shines  in the  brisk of  eventide,

Yet,  no lullaby, no  cradle  and  no  soothing  words,

For  now   foster mothers  and  crèches  multiply. 

The Glass

3)      The  glass

She   is   young  and  cute ,

Tactile  lass  in  her charming twenties,

conventional  aura   alcoves

a  special  rhythm  on  her forehead,

She    holds   the Belgium  glass,

Her   Transparency  in the

Double   transparent water,

Face  reflected in the still,   static liquid,

Not  a post modern girl , sees

Her grand mother’s visage  now

In the pure white  water,

Tradition  speaks  silent.

Her Willed Bed

          2)   Her willed Bed.
   It   is not   a cot  of  iron criss cross  rills 

   Unfolded , a seat    by influx of  visitors        
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

to inquire  the health of  septuagenarian.

It is  a  knitted  mat of  coir, her WILLED  BED

Holding  her  in  stress   and duress,  the  stared up

Layers  oftener, prick her skin, she turns aside

To  escape  the tantrums.The  high  vaulted  roof

Consoling  her  cap a pie. Can she go  back  to  those

Days   of hop skip  and play  around  the   pillared structure?

Generations  have  passed  and stayed, all  have  gone.

This  curled  up  sponge, may be breathing  her  last

Tomorrow  in the same coiled   mat.

The Dollar Chain

1) The  dollar  chain

Puffed in hot air, Sunday  glides in

With  a note of  search engine ,urging us

to  heed to revered grandmother’s  call

of   reminder,picture  ticking  often.

 It is a polished grandfather  teak  wood

Cupboard, stacked up with grand mother’s Curios,

On a Sunday  Morning, a  deliberate  pry,

salvaging  from  moth and dust.

Corrosion in corners.

 A Heavy square  brass   box,

Her storage of private accessories,

Age   and   Time  tightened   its lid,

Blissfully  passing, age  has

 also released her secrecy,

Her affection, that  the dollar chain

be gifted to her grand daughter ,

Her legacy , her Blessings on  me.                                                       

                                                                 

         

Summer (theme ) Micro poem

# Summer (theme ) Micro poem

Summer’s  mild  morn,

A gentle tap for your parched skin,

Rays  are   cheering  spell,

Fears  thwarted,

Enter into a   realm  of  Hope 

and  a  new Rhythm.

A Take on Eccc Puer By James Joyce.

A take on  Ecce  Puer  by James Joyce.( An old man is gone)

An   Old Man Is Gone

Triple  Pillar of the house is gone.

An Octogenarian, stentorian in voice,

Is  gone. Gone in  sleep.

Nothing to grieve, for  when he breathed his last,

It  was all peaceful  and calm.

Yet, a matter of neglect  and repent is that

paddy from his  field,

Hitherto not supplied  came in bulks

and   gunny  bags. A delayed matter,

he was  deprived  of this rightful claim,

sad   irony, some people  don’t enjoy,

don’t  get, during their lifetime

what they deserve. But  now  the

matter of recompense  is that

A calf  is  born, where the man is gone.

  

A Take on Ecce Puer by James Joyce.

        A Take  on Ecce  puer    by James  Joyce.

A Rosy flower,tender  petals surrounding,

The  spongy,soft layers of skin, peeling,

It is just  the new born, new  arrival

Cosy from the womb, to this uncomfortable

 Cruel Earth, just  born,  inadvertantly  moving

 Its  tender nails, scratches over the nose, eyes,

Forehead, Child’s play, God’s play, yawns  and

Sleeps . The  dangling  cradle echoes  a  lullaby

“you  have to  perpetuate the memory,

 the  dawn of  Wisdom,and sacrifice,

The  Grandma’s Glory, life.”

A Significant page in the Calender

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

 4)    A  Significant   Page In    The  Calendar.

 Don’t   turn  this  page off,

for  it  takes  you to  a prime

 era of  nudge  and negation.

You are  taken to  the corner,

 The Bull  stares, perhaps

Reminds   one   to the Great  Saga

In the annals  of  History.

The precedings  of  the past ,

Live in the realm of  mortified  Glory.

3)     Water

It  stays, sacredly  originates,  traditionally

On  the  braided , twisted   hair of  Shiva,

God  Shiva  is  not  possessive, How  can He?

Gods  are not possessive, Shiva lets the water

flow  to the Earth, Ground,Mountains, falls,

it  riggles,wiggles adapting   the path it is

destined  to  go by.                              

 Be it  normal gland,

membrane gland, you  watery regime,        

you protect  impartial,bounteous,as the

Merciful  falls  on the  ground, saving  our  lives.

You are in the basin in the hospital ,onlooker.

Glory to you! You are in the  Tulsi  leaves, the

Last  drop  on the   bidding  adieu to the  earth,

The  fluid  that  consecrates  the   ones  seeking 

Holy bath in the  Ganges, Gaya.  You are  Maya,

Mystery, manifold directions to go and  flow.