The Spring life

Spring is a month unto undivided by colour

to untie the skies with a fragrance of flowers

and there grows the moths sillyly nibbling at dawn

And the dusk is a flower-pot in which to arrange the hues

of the Upper house of God to array  the lines of flowers

where randomness is the cue for the cure of the decimated leg

upon which the earth stands

and the earth is a pillage of matter in space, as a pale blue dot

emerging to decorate the house of God yet undivided and

easy to meld with the fragrance of Spring,

the undisputed rector stands tall in God Himself

 

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Haloed Love

The vein drawn taut and the blood oozes

there is amorphous cloud in the making

as the angels sing the hymns of devotional love

And the squirrels burrow holes in the maiden’s house

she parks the car as by the noon there is light

to lit the garden in the aftermath of haloed sun

which has pitched obeisance under the chimney of love

She was silent when the blood flowed and she was empty

of movement and the body.

Haloed

The chained moon

With the sight of chained moon there is no hope for the day

Mark what hath happened to the silken route of Afghan People

Till trade was fine there seemed no loss of smile for the goods

Till the men burrowed deep to toil under the Afghan sun

There smitten love wound up in the alleys on the Khyber

There was a penny shift in the thoughts on the noon

I am sitting on a pile of dusk for a modern vehicle for the Gods on the moon

And there lone moon shone its husky light on what ploughed down on the ground

In the rough Afghan terrain where plenty of wounds open their mouths

And I must resign myself to the wondrous rain and fall silent forever!

 

Dreary rituals

The catcall was impressive,

The minnows threw out their fists as if dead corpse is seen in naked light

The huge show was a fluster, everybody knew the host, nobody knew the time

Or the space they were visiting was from my previous birth

On Sunday the catcall finished, my birthday in this birth

So called the deeds if the men when the showroom opened

A dressed gentleman put the garlanding as if student of life by heart

A single dove perched on the hands of Buddha, meditating yet thinking

Love is on the way, so many centuries hence the buddhas’ day

This day came frying open to the public in distress

And the maidens’ in obsessed of the sunlight

In the end the day was hopping on the clairvoyant’s shoulders

The giants appearing pygmies and the pygmies the giants

The Jupiter in its outer shell was calmed by a Pundit

Seen staring at the fire and the hoop was well advanced into the final hour.

Moon walk

I heard the faint sound

the sound of angels rushing

and see the moon transforming

into a giant hut which hangs

over the German streets

People coming across a bridge

waiting in the salon for a coffee

And I drinking the wine from

a chalice from the holy Troika

having roots on a German street

The people looking at flying shadows

projected white images on the wall

and the farmers eating potatoes

while the domestic dogs on the unleash

barking into the face of the moon

a German businessman drawing smoke

from a cigar, glares at the stairs to the moon

how far the love could go? asked the giant Solomon

The sluts emerging from the roof

and walking tip-toe to the cemetery

a few flowers strewn there

and a wine of the forgotten land

laden by the side all forgotten in the sun

My memory of you melding with snow

and appetite for love growing wild

as is the column of man who has lost

the game of cards to the ducks

the chatter of girls unfolding into

a prater of nonsense, the moon

forming the love statue for the whores

who chatter on and on like a stale German wine!

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.