The Vortex

Of the mean feet, an outpouring of oneself

as walking on the never ending tarrain

till nothing is reached but the self

into the vortex of thought that birds wing

and draw inspiration as a maiden sings

how the ideas are drawn into things?

the spirit of energy being sucked in, the ling

embracing the unknown and invisible impinge

upon the restless mind and occupy the hevanely seat there in


A Room with a view

The  dust of these ridiculous slippers

Slip past the maroon room with a view

of a bay sunken under the railway line

and oh she said what a view!

Of the men ploughing in the garden

and maids going on the bay in boats

singing the forlorn songs of separation

and death to the being.

She picked up a flower indeed on a whiskey binge

there is more to lipstick than glam slam

of unearthly yeast working on the lips

and he kept on thinking for a long time,

long time indeed about her and me!

The dead skull

The rivulet tells the tale of dead flowers

and with them the dead winter in vale

There the fame is skimmed as tame luck

for the footballer who saw the dead skull

but in vain of the days gone by the scheme of death

she sings the song of the dead and bestowed flowers

on her lover’s grave and saw

the magic and epiphany of  hate

bring the dead skulls in season’s wake.

The chance

All there was a chance driving her mad

whether to choose wine or a hemlock

was all she could consider in a moment’s

respite at the altar of Juno, the merciful Goddess

The roses sparingly left with a purpose  on the altar

and a hankerchief to wipe the brow with a heart for the summer

the sweat telling time and days at hour why love is a flower?

And the boom of lillies litter the street and She holds

the dynamic feet from tumbling over the waves as if to unfold

the love for casino and call it a meek renewal of time

to loose fortune over the dance of dice and call the God

a lame man who would induce all the fame of mime

and now on the ocean where nothing preserves but tide

she gave herself to the vastness of pouring water and chance

to finally sort out her life!




God and His dominion

God is with faith, a word spoken in memory of HIs creation

What if He is a painter, more given to vicissitudes than men

more given to visuals than the words

Painting the raindrops falling from heaven on to the violin

The warm waiting in the verandah of the lovesome procession

returning on its feet as if a half awaken woman pruning the

roses of fate, this is the V-day of world cup falling into its place

Some elegy being played on the mortuary where the hopeless sun

gives hopeful rays!

And God’s dominion is with the strange ways stars shine on the earthly ways!


The Seas

The merchant ship was billowing over the charted waters

And Isco smiling smartly to heave a sigh of scented air

as the chirpy wind of the southerly seas dampening

the milieu on the deck where lay under the sun, Nikita

The day was a bright jewel that Nikita wanted to wear on her finger

but the sun cast shadows were soon eclipsed by the clouds

and she fidegted the finger with a wire of the mobile phone

It was all dead matter and only thing that mattered was the sea

the water soon became flushed with the rainy water and

everything abated in the mad rush for a stream of love

Nonetheless love is the dose for those who lack pain

whatever is the name, the cascading curtains fill the space

as if Cinema has let loose all the goons over the swoon

of Nikita who now tangently drew the cycle of cirque

while the sun rested and rested till the silence of yes

was faced with the hop s,oked by Isco and dressed negeliently

he jumped into the sea.

A coiffure

What he said was etched into the frame of a mirror though redundantly

as I saw him utter words with a restraint of a coffee boy out serving romance

to his customers who would rather prefer to nibble at the air than to say something

He was enchanted with the hair and his passion seemed to be of an up to date cricketer

who wants to chug along the life with a pack of few sixes and fours so that his team wins

but his wits stood more than anything else, that is his mediocre frame and grave beard

will put an end to the newspaper editor who is busy competing with the political pundits of the country

A coiffure lend to me was all that hullabaloo, much of the swang-song over cuckoo’s nest