August of 2018 to be

The wind howled all day long, unusual for August

When the child from the neighbourhood was blowing whistles

to calm the horsemen falling from the horses one by one

the day had come for reckoning of the king of the woods

Who shall be? The child had two friends who desired

to rule the woods but for this howling the sun had eloped

to the west under the thick shroud of the clouds,

It began to rain, and one by one the horsemen entered

the village’s guest house to smoke tobacco they had brought

from the faraway lands, the child too sniffed the tobacco

and rolled under the spell of the Gods, now rain had turned into sleet

and as the capping woods were becoming resplendent with water

she rolled the sleeves to let the day pass wholly, madly into the east

and into her folded skirt fell the diamond of the blue nest

and she became the queen of the woods, it was the tobacco

that plunged into the nostrils of the dove that let off the diamond

fall into the skirt of the dandy girl- a male malevolent annoyance

to the woods, she was crowned by the fire and the wine to taste

the last days of August – the queen of the woods an endearing cuckoo!

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From nowhere to infirmary

When the days were done clad in winter clothes

There was infirm, the soul

That the body would wind up besides the church wall

The paint on the walls would splutter with dregs going haywire

Now on the floor where I ended up as an old jalopy

Beaten by the system that would crypt science as art

And art as fallow had been left undone for decades

There were shadows of the ghosts who worked up the system

Cops were silent marauders of the socialist agenda

And infirm I ended in one such hospital in Montreal

Forbidden love was in the realms of sex

Some silent hullo would mean

A cry for the hollow in the head

Where the end would mean the music of the souls

I had entered infirmary from nowhere

 

Half flowers

I besought a pot of flowers

a medley of colour, tones and shapes

I pick a flower from the bottle

it is a half flower, root stemmed like

a Lily without a water, the petals moist

like a rose in shrubbery of desire

I flinch to call her a name, Rose-Lily,

she darts back to the open window

there’s the garden in panorama

long lasting stretch empty of horses

while the mud on the path stigmatised

the corpses of the weed, I am growing older

older and older till the dawn comes with

a  blessing of the youth, I open my whiskey bottle

there’s a scream of Rose-Lily, the magic flower pot

has produced a flower, a half of rose and lily

with a face of desiring love, there’s a flower

that has come on to the stem and I call the half-flower

A cross between the weed and the rosary

She is silent as listening to the noise of colour

smudged she puts on the half-flower on her hair

Rose-Lily has got a voice-over- the love pot.

A hike near Manali

What the day that pitches darkness in farther gloom

I rest on the floor of the singlet tent, three of us huddled

over a mountain range where wine is in plenty and grass

the more greener green, we get a selfie on the foot bridge

And about the chicken we have to wait in the corners

where in one corner is a cook who lives the decent life

on the mountain top opposite to our pasture is the slope

where the snow has its descent even in the summers

we collect the liquor and move to the rivulet which in fact

flows to the destiny in the western winds where it elopes

and rests fine. We pick up the gloom on our car and move

on to the hotel bunk where there is nothing not even a crow

To crackle the wind into half and set a voice so high as if

the dead end of the thunder make a howl and fall shy

We drink the wine and roam under the starry night

lest the river of wine that flows within us will be high and dry

there’s seldom a goat that is called a spy who visits the Scotland Yard and cry

for the diamonds lost on the terrain and back to thoughts

out of our reverie of diamonds coming to an end

and that spy is a figment of memory which wine often arouse

and lay the rocks in mounds where the fowl often spies.

 

The moonlight

Tease, tease tease the moonlight

upon the heavens is bestowed the music

of the light slanting another night

out of the closet of nature’s clock

and the sun is ticking fast in the west

you chase the moonlight in the streets

wearing black clothes as growing is the din

of the day in your mighty arms that light lingers on

there’s cut-off face of a lemon on the edge of the glass

its 10pm and the moon in the southern shores

dances upon the haywire wind that is fast

clipped and nipped in the bud, the sonata you recall

and your sky is empty with only a moon

to pace the distance and sweet moan of life

hardly creasing ,very pleasing bunks the love

on this starry night somewhere in the paradise.

 

 

The Oracle

He had borne fruit with the sleepless nights

fidgeting about the idle ream of papers

he had drawn the shape of a seer would like to take

an oracle with ships sailing in offing to which he claims

all his powers- the ships clear on the night coming to the shore

something is soothing to say that she has got a lover

who has a crush on nicotine and more of chutzpah

to woo women with music into raptures that seize

the end of humanity- the seer with a pothole of vows

he wanna see the rushing power of the skies above

breaking column after column into powdery snow

and his sunken face coming out of hood- the apocalypse now!

A broken vase

She sits on the red carpet amid the salon, surrounded by lamps

of varied shades and hues,

All lighting the room and among the records you pick the blue vase

You drop dead the vase, lost in the music of the vase

the sound of  a breaking vase is a rhetoric on the eardrum

only you wonder what will happen for the Klien vase of 1957

has  a characteristic sound, you leave the salon

the music repeats itself on the tv screen as the broken vase

is a shattered dream of a wayward silence and she turns on the other side

of the bed and pretend to sleep, I overhear the love drive and eerie romance

not coming soon, is the broken vase, you cannot collect it to be

a vase again, but you might lose the night sleeping, deeply!