Struggle to Serendipity

                         Struggle to  Serendipity.  ( Free  Verse)

  Inter twined wedge  of  locks  on  Shiva’s

  Head  and  Sacred  ashes on  His Forehead.

  Assuage  my  tormented  Soul, for   all prevail

 From  ancient  Time Honoured  Tradition.

 Rule   our  cosmic  Universe. Water flows,

Sanctified  water  it is, call  it  Ganges.

Why? It originates   from there?

 you  call  Sacred,  purgatorial,

it  cleanses  all our  pitfalls, sins.

A drop, a pinch is  enough .

My cloud  is vanishing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

The Four Lettered Word 'Love'

    The  Four  Lettered  Word  ‘Love’

We   all cry/crave  for  Love,

The  word  has  myriad  moorings:

Conjugal,benign, human,humanitarian,

All   stem  from  a genuine  care  and affection.

The  whole  universe   believes

In  propagation/  obstreperous   mankind

 in Multiplication. Luminous  stars

 and galaxy  shine   as  if   pouring 

a  Benediction. Love  brings  both

pain   and  pleasure in its own

inimitable  way. Whether  it is

a  matter of  integration  or  disintegration,

Love  has  its  charm, sacrifice  and serendipity.

It  has  its  own  Space  and spirit.

This Space

        This   Space.

This   Space, this   phenomenal   grid,

Ageless  aeon, impartial  container

Sets  sail  and   time its  anchorage.

Love  and   lure  in  abundance,

Yet, man  pecks   at  the hard,

 Savourless    Fruit  of   hatred

To  his  vantage  and destruction.

Read   the   prima face   of  the 

Heart  within  its  chambers,

Can  you?  Luptub,  subtle  and  steady,

the   rhymed    beat goes on, but,

the  beating  of  emotions  lurking

beneath   don’t  come  to  the

surface  until  culled   and  wrought out.

You  and  I loll  into  this  unique space,

Seeing   how   many  different faces

Out vying  the  spatial  nudge.

The scars, skirmishes, scabs -all  these

Are there. But   the  deep  wound  cuts

Stay  and  distil  a  vehement  mark

On  you until   we merge  with  the  soil.

                   I want   to change  my life.

Galvanising Agent, my Will power, sturdy   as ever,

Propels me.  I come out to meet  up  with  people,

Without   crossing the boundary line.

This cursed Age, or Blessed, Age factor

Restrains  my move. Now  I can  break out  all

Strong boxes and wheeling   obstacles

Only  with   Seer’s   Grace. It is  He  who 

Serenades  the  time  honored  custom  of

Patience embedded  in  Value.  Observe

The shared  feelings of   Share  autos  and

Mini buses.Water,drought, stars   and celestial

Are always there. But people want listeners.

Before  we vanish,  so  much  to learn,know.

No Mourning,they are still alive-(Broad theme-War and Death).

)  No  mourning, they are still  alive. –(  Broad  theme- War  and death.)

Those  historic  skulls, bones,

Deadening, as they  appear,

Yet, evoke  a sense of delving into

That warring  past, alive in

Our  thinking  mode,

Blood and baton warn

Us of our  cursed  doom.

and  meaningless  living. 

They admonish those inhuman,

What  did  they  achieve?

Left us ,remnants  to beguile

Ourselves,  to  preach you,

Warn you, we  are not dead

We are  alive here. To perpetuate

Some sanity in you.

Drawing Waters( Broad Theme) --Human Values.

Drawing  waters--  ( Broad  theme--  Human values.)

We  have  been  drawing  waters,

From munificent wells  that  don’t  fail  us.

Drawing   and drawing till our

muscles   and  hands  decry  for  a while:

At  intermittent   breaks, only when

We   got  exhausted . It  is just to   

 nourish  our kitchen  garden,

Watering is  pleasant and productive.

Gain  for  the roots   and nourishing  plants.

I came for a  while  to  rest  on the mound,

How  they  have been  drawing, drawing

On  the  sources, those  hard-earned,

Coffers slowly  wail  a bitter  cry

Of  emptiness. Bundled  received  are

Toil  of sweat  and blood,

insatiate   those  that  draw  still

and steady   and seeping 

into  madness. Drawing  goes  on.

Take on Breezeway.

     Take  on Breezeway.

I  feel the cool, salutary  breeze

That  blows  from the trees  and  afar,

As  free  as Freedom  itself,

Breeze  piercing even  the  conch

Of   Devas   and  Seers.

Breeze  passes   and    pacifies

My  dull spirited  self,

Seamlessly  going  through

The  deadwood  of  my  body,

Serenades   Only  soul

Which   is  alive.

We live  to  execute  our

Carved out  experimentation

And  expectations  too.

Until  then no  dying.

Breeze blows  out .

A Take On All Day It Has Rained.

      A Take  on  All Day It Has Rained.           

Rain! Rain!  Splashes of  Rain

We  construe, as unbounded  Mercy

On Humans, on Earth. The energizing

Touches  on quay, construction  sites,

parched  fields, staving  farmers,

dry wells, hospitals   and   charities,

pray  with  Mantras worshiping 

God of  Rains, propitiating  all  the Times.

Oh!  Firmament, when you  too  become

Hard hearted, like  the stony man’s undulating

With  pride   and   greed, where  can  we

The  needy  go?  Pour  like   Cleopatra’s Love,

Let   the cups of seeping  earth  flow,

Overflow, with   your   gain   and  go.

Assuage   summer’s  heat  and 

Abate  our  sweat.  Rain   and  rains pour.

Auriferous days

      Auriferous  days.

The field is turning into gold,

When man’s mind is becoming

More   and   more  drawn  towards

The  land of  gold   and cow,

Green   and  fertility  boom   and born

In the wombs of pastoral  roots

Nourished by riches  and ancient customs .

Yet, the  desire  for  gold is unabated,

Seldom  do  the  select  few  realize

The  toil behind the  fruits  and fecundity.

Gold  land  mocked  the lazy, and decried,

Dry  roots  don’t  fetch bonanza,

Unless  you  sweat, there wont  be  treat.

Grandma  sits  on the   mound,

Laughs, the  lads  and  ladies   don’t

Begin  and belong  to  this  soil.

The  field  is  turning  into  Gold.

In The Wheels Of Climate Change.

         In the wheels of climate change...

  It was isolated, rummaged car,

 Shed as well, shedding its ownership.

 Abandoned years ago,

 Though corrugated, stands steady and still.

Huffy  winds  don’t scar  the immobile,

Slightly  tilted  and  stable;

Winter  and  thunder  all the same.

Birds   and  barks of leaves

throng the inside  space

with   a  touch of  comradeship.

I too with  a  rug  on my shoulder,

Feel  the warmth inside the  shed

To protect me from the frosty wind.

Puranic  mediation  goes  on   here too.

The Bear

        The  Bear.

The  stone  and  the growl,

 The  bear   and   black  fur,

Rock   and  trees   silent and  demure:

They  dare  not  counteract  the  anger

And    look : The  edge  of  the city,

The  statue  of  town  God and   worship

Of  the  mass, still   not  moved by

The   Bear for  it is only  a   statue,

A warp  of   craftsman for  the 

Market  Fair. The  Nullah  and  the

Distant  echo  of  evening  prayer,

Ring out  your  sorrow  and  fear.

The   Bear   is  there.  Seasons  change

And change,  it  remains  the same.

On Soul's Pact

                On  Soul’s  Pact.

We  are   not   Faustus, nor  are  we craving

To  Sell  our  souls  or   Save  our  souls.

Our   souls  are  compacted, predestined

into   another day care  of  mission.

These  days  are abominably  dry.

 Also  more  care  for  bodies,  health  care,

Beauty  care   and bounteous  care.

Time   may cease: trees may  get  burnt out.

Mounds multiply, pooling  may  go  dry,

Yet  Time is  set by  Eternal, Eternity is set

By Time. Soul  flies on the wings of  Eternity.

It is  a   mystique travelogue. 

poet's Soul.

    Poet’s Soul.

Poet’s  Soul  does not  fritter   or  fumble,

Nor  does  it  romp  in  idle  gamble,

Unless  meant to be in writing  with  a

Specific purpose. It does meditate  with

Yogic   splendour. In search  of  an  oyster

With  rosy  sea  pearl embedded in

Words of  wisdom, take it or abrogate it,

It  doesn’t  care.  I   view   her  Soul in

That piece of  paper, crumbled  though,

It isn’t a  tomato  or  rotten  egg

Jettisoned  in disgust or  waste.

It is  moving  ahead, into  realms

Of   semantic  Searches.

  

In Cries and Interventions.

                      ... “In   cries   and  interventions”

                 It  is  a  log  book   of   logged out  episodes,

               A record of    ongoing process, where you

               Feel  sky is not  the limit .He is  a  sea bird, midst,

               Gushing of waves, surfing, swimming, a passion

                And his birthright. Like me  looking  up

               to  Heavens  and  crying  for  Help,

               in times of  tornadoes, though sea   whales

              a  child’s play . Superior’s Intervention

              is the only  Intervention. Relief  in  pain,

               “In  Cries  and  Interventions” a   great   Solace

              For  those  who  are  in duress.

Belittle Not Thyself.

                Belittle  not  thyself.                   

                                                            

Belittle  not  thyself,  your esteemed  Birth,

The Spirit  that  dwells  in you,

For  a  thing called stomach is there :

Prince  or  Beggar, starving  is  a  Sin,

Fill  in  that  irking  space, through

The  soft palate. At  that  moment

Of  hunger, it  may not be soft,

But  a gulping  portal,  a  passage            

To  nourish pancreas. There is  a

Thing  called  Stomach. Belittle

Not thyself. Be on  the   Move.

A Domesticated Bull

      A  Domesticated Bull.                      

They  trained  the  bull  for  years,

In  good   earnest  and  novel  forte,

In   hard  rigour   and  vigour,

To be  supple  and  brisk,

Domesticated, to  obey  their  will,

In the  hot  sun, it was  trained

To   follow   donkey’s

Practice of   carrying load

Of  clothes  to  be  washed 

By  the  accepting  river, seasoned

To  wash  and  dry  by  the  bed

Of  the  sands. All  along  the  bull

Stands  afar, ruminates ,waits

To  be fed  with   plantain   leaves

And  fruits. No longer  a  Spanish

Bull but dutiful, domesticated.

All in   the  training.

This Celestial Morn

        This  Celestial  Morn

This Celestial Morn,  this breeze ,

 Not The  plenipotentiary  Agent from 

Above  but gentle  and  sweet, touches

My personal  computers.  I view  the  city

Of  Guardian, the  quill  doth  glide 

At  its  own   will,  the Muse  staring 

Gently  by. Golden   Sun  out  of  its  orb

Visits   Earth’s  busy   nook  and  corners,

“Earth  has  not  anything  to show  more  fair”.

These visitors, my pet pals, birds ,

Chirp  their   usual  rhythms like  a  choir.

Broken  rice  balls   are   their  manna.

Dear  God, never  have  I felt  a  Calm

As  this  morn, for   my  Soul   experienced

 Unique   serenity of  its  Being, here.

Those  still  asleep, I  know not if  ever

Will  wake  up  to this  Realization. 

It Fell

          It  Fell

It  Fell  with  the  Biblical  warning like:

Pellets,   also  like   the   young, New Born  Calf,

With  the  thud  touching  the ground,

The  red blood  fell  on the  red oxide

Merge  with  the  heedless  base.

No  blood  counts,  now strangely.

It fell ! the  pain  fell !

Most   thought  not  of  gruesome  sacrifice,

But  of  lands  and  villages   lost .

Erewhile   ago the   soldiers  spoke

Through  their  ergonomics,

Not  of   ethics  of  life.

The   squadrons  on  the  air 

Too    voliate.

I am in the harteless maze.

       I am  in  the  hartleess    maze.

Your Face, bounteous  Grace, knit

With  patience ,so  faire  and so sweete,

So  Sharpe,  miraculously Timely

as   The  Supreme’s Intervention.

His  bounteous Boon,  a forethought

For  this  YUGA, or  ERA, however

 you  Call it, a predestined  mode,

myne   perception  always recall.

You came  to  share the pain

Of  devil’s doings, harte  cannot  sustain

 growing  misdemeanour,

your  meek affirmed  prediction,

a disdainful  taste  and    acceptance

for  many   a revolting  nutmeg :

for   them  a prick of  play,

For  Him,  a  pavilion  for  the next Birth.

Mine thoughts  and  precarious  journey,

Set right  by  your  wit  of  excellence

Kind understanding   nod:   your  face

And  will  doth feed  and solve my  angst.

In the Spring OF His Life

     In  the  Spring  of  Life.

It was mid April, the fresh  air

Like  rejuvenating   Mantra  touch

His  Soul  and  permeating  Body,

 Quite  far    he  sees  a   den.   

Nationalistic   vigour  tremor like

Upon His   heels   aims  and  arrows,

He becomes   Achilles  like,

The   young soldier  with  the

Ombudsman  like   walks  upon 

The   heath   of   breathless, flooding

Bleeding   and     vultures  marauding,

“With  the  blood and flesh of  Death in the spring  air”

He   takes   a  vow, if  this  is going  to

Get  us   Honour, pride  wealth

And peace, Geographic expansion,

Fie  upon  arms   and  armaments

Artillery   and weapons. Next 

Clean   burial  awaits .