Sunday
that is for the third time
to tie the shame
in hideouts
and some one claims
how great an event
for pacific eclipse
not so far from the time framed zone
someone told about
big humans
but for God
they were not really big
and the really really big ones
play not mean
and God knew about them
in detail

What is it about?
Through the window holes
You want to act like one great Samaritan
That is pretence
But those masks failed
do you remember?
I don’t believe in acts
like in pages they do
and how that page dares
to encroach earthen boundaries
don’t assume any rights liberal
with earth on your time
where pages dance
in promotional portfolios
on payments made
in purchasable modes
drop your charity in that blind school
other wise too.. you blind
in two wide opened eyes
in power crazed blood.
In elements of my earth
no place for such craze
and drop always charity
but not in earthen pitchers..

You see in my garden
I planted Thulasi in earthen pots
Fragranced on incense and chandan
Never waited for charity drops
There was rain like my dreams
from monsoon
And in pages I send not first
banter in ink black platter
You were a mask
And if you think I believed
in masks
ask my friends genuine
They never trusted masks
And me too….

It is when I found hidden arrows
on my banyan tree branch
I realized time still rolls behind
in its needled shadows
to cast an eye on this earth
where the blue clouds climbed
deccan plateaus to empty
their blues in rain drops
so pure like a  pure soul…

When I had a feather in my hand
they arrived in my sea shore
to wage a war
When I had only kindness in my heart
they arrived in masks of blue to chase
my soul so pure
When I had only flowers in my basket
they came near me to haunt
in coal black ink
Now when I have emptied my baskets
I find an ocean cascading
away from the back waters
and silent tepid lakes
In that sea shore of mine
they got lost and forgot
what next to do..

Yes, there you find the difference
Of a butterfly and a page
People all over the universe
love butterflies
but numbers in pages
that remain same- blank
in smoke, in alcohol stench.…
and that can only form
camels and cats on ink
beyond that you see nothing
worth
and that is fate, destiny of a kind
bear for good or for bad
and the levels are squared
in sixty four columns
beyond that, I must tell
this sea can not flow low
like a page in black ink

In a way that is distinct
from the draped up blend of colours
the one which stands apart
from the whole union of colours
Black the real, real black
to hold upon a thin frame of lens
to showcase how low the essence
of coal-black
from roads to the valley
in a mask of Kashmir
worth not to write further
and in page numbers
water runs impure
bottled again.
Pure forms you find
in origins of Himalaya
where aroma of herbs natural
earth carry forward
to heal wounds many
In Manasarovar
not very far from the city of snow hills
water flows pure
Water of city for long you hold
cascaded in one bottled page
sealed and that water has forgotten
the alphabets of pure distinct forms….

I have gone to one sea shore to collect sand soaked
sea shells and my alienated self meditated
in one rocky cave where in my feet
I felt a  sea of unpredicatable waves
and their countless aquatic monologues
from stormy borders to main land of valleys
I walked past the most troubled days of fire blocks
and thunderous clouds
Where in that smoke filled summer
I walked backed to one sea shore near my tiny concert hall
there no musical note spoke about a world so wild
While on my return I captured the first glimpse
of rain and summer’s farewell

APTITUDE

I know I can not shrink a sea in my palm
And if any one claims so I believe not
I know I can listen to one flute from the valley
of my heart and I feel not astonished
if others feel so not
I know I can see seasons change unpredictable
In continents,  sub continents
And for the seven seas and several horizons
if any one says they can shrink
the whole sea in me I write not for them
I feel the sea has formed a resolute seashore
for me to stand upon and no way I renounce
my words to a silence which speaks a language
not known to my sea….

Nameless
Is that the song in me sea repeats
and in one one sea shell
I see a river ending namelss
like a lost soul


Pathways
Somewhere in between
I lost my road map
and I found it later hidden
beneath a tumbled hill
away from the valley of green forests
and  I heard the most beautiful flute
of the season from the down hill




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