The love portrait

Her wounds were hidden behind the creases of the shirt,

as if silky arms had got no marks of inconsideration,

when she turned aside the creases of the shirt,

and showed the roses and tulips of grief,

those were the adorations of love portrait,

which she etched upon her skin like words are etched on book,

that name of yours my beloved!


On the way

On the way, we are sitting hopeful you and me,

There where is the feeling of song and voice comes,

we are lost upon the skies and the earth,

What the joy is in those words that torment us,

like a sword on the throat,

Are we made for the home that only rejoices the salt we eat?

Like the days and the nights are made a still wheel by the time
of the God,

And we are the thieves of the cosmos who while sitting keep on hoping in the self and only in self for each other.

The Noise

Before it is too late to tell

the death of silence is noise

not all noise is to yell

but the clamour for a poise


Reading crucifixion of Christ in summer

calls for obsession with the sun that is hot

And in climate only to craft noise to murmmer

but the late rain unintentionally is a memory blot


Wear upon us a design that is vital

now that is the harbinger of mood

what to tell about Fascist idea a recital

only to die within the mob centrist brood


I seek  peace with noise in the ears

crafting life without gusto year after years




Love is grief

At the centre of love is a whirlpool

cadence of which is known to the lovers

anyone who falls in it is a fool

thinking its a meteoric rise to power


but a sullen in the eyes of an albatross

who gigantic it may seem, undone is the colour

of money with lovers nailed on the cross

and in composure the sleep looses the pallor


from greyest hour till now

the whole world is but a fringe

on which is cast the gravest doubt low

and the foolish believe it with a cringe


that love is the solemn moment of importance

and does not depend upon chance



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