It was your proud Machiavellian choice then
others you chose all-out to destroy
they were  in truth good women and men
but your cruelty and malice on them you did deploy--

how you, every moment in ill-begotten victorious mood
laughed, danced, self-praised and in others' plight did enjoy
but Fate furtively noted the venom you callously did protrude
and broke you into pieces and discarded you as a useless toy!

A STRANGE DREAM

I had a strange dream last night.
A wise man said to me so:
‘ There are only two words
  In life that you need to know’.

‘What would that be, sire?’
  The sage stroke his white beard and this he did say:
   ‘ Yes and no’ with a chuckle
    Now, I have promises to keep,  you must go your way’.

Not a thousand dreams
a few will well suffice
turn not away from the sorrows of others
help wipe away teary eyes

I share the joys of happy people
but sad faces do linger long in my mind
--a few dreams of compassion suit me well--
from a tender age my loving  mother taught me to be kind

But youth argues
too loudly it has all the answers
and is adamant it shall save the world
from its ugliness, corruption and decay
nothing shall stay in its way--
further still it proclaims:
we will be around forever
as we will die never
our spirit breathes out fire
and shall send a message
through the universe:
we are the world's saviour
none should question this or doubt--

youth--but the interregnum
the innocence that borders the naive
still in the breeding ground
of life's kindergarten
pain and sorrow to suffer
in all shapes and sizes
to be marooned and left bereft
in the aftermath of bitter experiences
that know no respite,  reason nor rhyme
then follow the withering of passions
the death of dreams and hopes
the helplessness and despair
like once-lovely petals dropping away
to be forgotten by time--

rude awakening
the voice breaks
into sobs
the heart aches.

In your face I see mine
in our common humanity
embedded as we all are
in a life of both joy and misery

over which choices
are never ours to make
that which is meted to us
we should accept and take

with utmost humility
even when the wildest storms shake
the very core of our being
we aren't being chastised for any mistake

for in our incumbent frailty
our souls and hearts are put to severest test
in the ocean of human tears we share our sorrows
hoping for a future blessed by comfort, peace and rest.

What's the real state
of the human heart?
cruel or kind?
soft or hard?

WHAT AM I?

What am I?
No more than a moment of time
Suspended between the now and the future-
With the past clinging to my back
To which I could never return.

What am I?
The tiniest and frailest of leaves
On the slender bough of life
Soon to be blown away by a sudden storm-
Buried among fallen petals and flowers.

What am I?
An unknown and unheard voice
In a faraway corner of nature I have chosen
Surrounded by quiet meadows and smiling flowers
Where the incessant sound of song-birds
Hushes my small voice and consoles my heart.

What am I?
A single note on the score
Of a grand symphony-
A speck, a comma in the limitless expanse
Of time and destiny.

What am I?
Only this my heart truly knows-
It is in the dying of myself unto love
That transcends all-
To be eternal in that blissful state
Untouched neither by time nor human sorrows.

Ordinary men and women
each lives a life separate
an island and a mystery of its own
in hidden secrets and heartaches wrapped

common humanity yet the heart bleeds and weeps ---
by destiny trapped
life's lows out-strip highs by miles
too few indeed are enrapt.

Art is the music of colours which dazzle so vividly before our eyes that we take it as even more real than life itself--
being intoxicated by its beauty, we want to gladly die unto it as this dying is a gift unto us and we ,being part of it, are made immortal.

From the dim misty past
through the mind's tunnel dark
memory like a flash of lightning bursts
upon the moment unexpected-
a screen of smoke appears to shut
away the present--- a standstill of time--

pictures, smells, sounds, voices
light, shades, colours, places, faces
they resurrect
like fragments of shattered glass
where only vague images suggest
as in impressionistic paintings
with wide gaps waiting to be filled
by the imagination of the rememberer

feelings are awakened
in an avalanche
the heart beats fast
in confusion as reality
fades and sinks away
the imperious past
claims victory
and takes over
with relentless immediacy

it's as though
our human life
is a boundless sea
each wave a memory
of rapture or sorrow
of triumphs or set-backs
of  remorse, regrets, aches
of dreams that perished
of hopes that vanished
of love or its loss
of beauty which once
held majestic sway
to end at the close of day

are we sad or happy
each one of us
none does know
but oneself
what would you
and I finally say?

YOU ARE THE SONG

You are the song
I am the singer
You are the dream
I am the dreamer.

You are the rose
I am the dew that does gather
And falls and dwells
Within you the love-receiver.

You are the swan that glides
Over me the river
You are the sunlight
I am the mist you scatter.

You are the romance
I am the writer
You are the poem
I am the reciter.

You are the violin
I am the violin-player
You are the painting
I am the painter.

You are the golden bead
I am the thread that strings it together
You are the silken linen
I am the proud wearer.

You are the beautiful and chaste princess in the castle
I am your loyal knight and protector
You are the royal prize
I am the humble suitor.

You are the gentle breeze that blows
I am a leaf you carry in cool weather
You are the beautiful tree
Under which I seek shelter.

You are the heaven
I am a tiny star and faint light-bearer
You are the voice that behests
I am the faithful messenger.

You are the song
That fades never
I am the singer
Who loves you forever.

O Honey
what's the matter?
has John been bad
should I tell his mother?

O Honey
mum knows what growing up is
there are many, many upsets
after the first kiss.

O Honey
your grades are telling
Miss Proud spoke to me
you are failing.

O Honey
you are only fifteen
don't rush into things
John is the first boy you've seen.

O Honey
don't you be dumb
don't buy the pill from the pharmacy
your time has not come.

O Honey
you are our delight and pride
dad and I would want you
some day to be the happiest bride.

O Honey
be a good girl, smile
I've prepared the pasta you love
we'll dine in a little while.

O Honey
handsome boys there are many
too many around in fact
few girls are like you-you are -so pretty.

Now wipe away your tears
my dearest, dearest Honey
no boy must make you cry
you are so lucky to have the world's best mummy!

Let's go
but where?
do you know
what's over there?

Let's think
but of what?
what thing
would make us smart?

Let's sing
but what song?
of cabbage or king
or right or wrong?

Let's dream
but  what's the theme?
of the rainbow's golden beam
or the taste of ice-cream?

Being lazy
is the best activity

A GIFT OF OLD AGE

If old age does a gift on me bestow
it would be just: silence
in my youngish and manhood years
I had exhausted every single sentence

erroneously borrowed from writers,
from professors, friends, the clergy,
leaders, politicians, loud-mouths,
fanatics and extremists ( I didn't know then)--an endless litany

and I discover much too late
truth is only a word thrown about
for the convenience of the speakers
the stronger their conviction, the louder they shout

as they have all the answers
' you don't know-- you out
there---it's about time you followed us
we'll rid you of every doubt'

how I detest slogans now
pontifications are the death of me
I am lost for words--silence I choose--
myself I blame for my past stupidity

soon,  too soon I'll be walking
to life's terminus--near, so near-
with a tiny signboard ' finis'
I'll be quiet and calm --without a single doubt or fear.

Every moment in time
is a page in the book
of life---what's in the next page
and how would it look?

none does really know
this then is the perennial angst of human existence
questions are unanswered-until the next page
appears and in its every sentence

makes its statement
over which you have no say
you are challenged--do you accept
or reject the proposition that has come your way?

this then is the supreme test
that stares you right in the face
if you are the man enough as your claim
you would hold you ground and not run away in disgrace.

Judging others
out of lack of reason
hurts the self more
the judge becomes his own prison.

Leaving
but for where?
I hardly know
from what?

'tis not a point of departure
but that something
too heavy
a burden to bear

the weight of self
life's obtrusion
and oppression
its wear and tear

time is the sentinel
here, there, everywhere
the busybody that intrudes
it has no conscience neither does it care

whether the moment
is the exit or entry
never in agreeable juxtaposition
with the brittle human condition

leaving then should I again say
for no destination, for nowhere
but sure to be homeward-bound some obscure day
a hiatus-- what next of life is there to share?

Last night I dreamt
I was a butterfly
but mysteriously
I couldn't fly--

A voice came
from a butterfly nearby:
you are too heavy
that's the reason why.

I then removed my shirt
(I just longed to fly)
all items in my pocket
I emptied and lo! I rose to the sky!

WRITING (Reflections from My Diary)

A writer becomes a writer not because he wants to write-
he becomes one because he WRITES and never stops writing.
It's only through the sloughs of disappointment and despair
that he finally sees the light which might take years, decades or a life-time.

Skills alone are not enough, nor grit or tenacity.
The other qualities, (indeed I regard these as being more important) he must acquire are patience and humility.

How could I ever call myself a writer? When I read the works of the masters and even those of my peers, I realise that I don't qualify to be among them. Best to regard myself as a student, an apprentice, a beginner and admirer (of all forms of art) and in this realisation I would have no choice but to write, write and write--day and night, if I wish to make any headway.

Yet, I always enjoy what I do--when I write, it's as though I live in another trajectory--I'm lost in time, beauty and wonder, and the external world, with all its drabness and tedium, seems to fade away and no longer vexes me. I become a new being, I have wings, I fly to a realm I've not known before, I am free and exultant, I sing, I dance, I marvel, I LIVE!

22nd July 2017, Melbourne copyright

Collage of colours

rainbow in kaleidoscope

mind in images

Life:  don't regret
wiser to reset.

And I know
for sure another winter
will appear as before
would I be there?

if I were
wouldn't I
be another person
not quite my own?

the moment
makes the man
an encounter
like none other
not just my mind-scape
but the whole world
seems coalesced
into an immediate stage
from which I couldn't escape
but must play my role
and my part be captured
by the camera of time
there's no looking back--

that moment when
I would have become
not an observer
but a player
a story-teller
a recipient
and absorber
of reality
in flesh and blood
to feel alive
and break every fetter
that in the past
had held me back
to be what
I am and not a replica
of another

I'd have acquired
a new self
in realised transformation
risen from the ruins
of past doubt and pain
I would have resurrected
to be an authentic man!

IMPERFECTION

Love me with all my blemishes
love me,  for I can't be none else--so
if you are ready to say yes
just let me know

If I were perfect
you wouldn't want me
I would be hard to live with
it would cause you misery

Because I am imperfect
I am the clay, love and mould me
as you would be the lover-potter
hands-on we would be truly happy

Even our life would not be perfect
but I am sure we would do well together--verily-
so, love me when my hands are *****
in the garden or when the dinner I serve is less than satisfactory.

But youth argues
too loudly it has all the answers
and is adamant it shall save the world
from its ugliness, corruption and decay
nothing shall stand in its way--
further still it proclaims:
we will be around forever
as we will die never
our spirit breathes out fire
and shall send a message
through the universe:
we are the world's saviour
none should question this or doubt--

youth--but the interregnum
the innocence that borders the naive
still in the breeding ground
of life's kindergarten
wisdom it has hardly found-

how harsh are the winds
of experience---how
they sweep away
the dreams and hopes
that were one's youth's treasure-house--

despair cripples
love withers
the heart suffers
strange and hostile
is the universe--

what has gone wrong?
is it the aftermath
of life's betrayal
or the callousness of people?

tears never shed before
how they now fall
is this but a litany of mistakes?
eerie silence broods in every corner
the youthful heart laments
and in agony aches.

POETRY*

It's never easy
to write poetry
as assumed by many
often a poem is a mystery

where's the poetic- river source?
how many miles must its waters cross?
the poet finds himself only
at the river-end where springs his best poetry.

This poem is dedicated to all poets in HP of whom I am a happy participant--a very new one--like someone just entering a kindergarten

We don't carry swords
we don't fight in battle-fields
we don't seek power or fame
we are just poets--word-warriors
who put the sword to sleep
to spread that which is noble and worthy
we see the worm festering and eating
into the heart of civilisation
and shall not turn a blind eye
we will keep vigil
as silent sentinels
never mind if we are set aside
by assailants whether open or covert
we know
the world is weeping
and in the abysm of darkness
there is not a single spark of light
quo vadis  **** sapiens?
who or what will give hope
in the face of despair and disillusionment ?
because the world is weeping
we also share its tears
because hearts are broken
part of us dies
because there is loneliness and desolation
we become part of that loss and ruin
because there is poverty and deprivation
we loathe all that wealth and opulence
that seek but their own gratification
but is man born for sorrow and defeat?
where should we turn next?
is salvation and redemption in sight?

Though we are only vox clamantis in deserto
we will despair not
nor should we walk away in cowardice
we must have faith
patience
endurance
words are our bullets
compassion is our shield
will is our fortress
it might take a millenium
to bring about a brave new world
but we are the word-bearers and word-warriors
until the invisible battle is fought
and won
we will never yield

An allegory --man is the worst animal …
he begins to know what it is to be human only at his last moment but,  sadly, it's late, too late
               APOCALYPSE

It's too late
the volcano is swallowing up
what's in its way
the storms are raging maniacally through the night
tearing down the mightiest trees and bringing ubiquitous destruction
to homes and buildings
the sea rises to destructive heights
eager to grasp the clouds on high
even the rulers of the jungle
the lions, tigers, leopards and elephants
are in fear, trembling
it's the end of the world
it's the apocalypse
the signs are unmistakable
you can't run
there's no place to hide
even fear has come too late

kings and princes are calling out
to their subjects
shut the gate
protect us
but all have fled from the palaces
to save their families
and loyalty crumbles

and the powerful
are rushing to their hidden vaults underground
to salvage their treasures
before the meltdown

but the red-hot lava is flowing
towards them-closer and closer
all that they are holding in their hands
they throw away
such wealth that had once been amassed
in greed and without compunction
is worth less than sand or mud
item by item the articles drop on the ground

and for once
the human race
starts to wake up
and now it utters--
what's the worth
of diamonds or gold
power, influence and position
here is hell
there is no food nor shelter
we have not eaten for days
soon we shall all be swallowed up
by nature in her relentless revenge

suddenly the rich and arrogant
are trying to become friends of those whom
once they despised and trampled upon
all because this is the hour
of reckoning -side by side-
so humble, so suppliant , so gentle
they suddenly become
'let's help one another'
they speak--first time in their life-
they never knew any language in their heydays
but only that which served their selfish ends
never mind the body odour of the nearest person
what if he were only a labourer or janitor
body touching body
as there's safety in numbers-
like a horde of animals crouching
like children in helplessness crying
like beggars in obsequious beseeching
how easy now to embrace humility
to feel just for a moment the meaning of humanity
man thought once
(before the spectre of now)
he could overcome nature
and rule the earth--
forever

all is quiet now
darkness is descending
the winds are mocking
the clouds are in somber gathering
no human voice is heard--no one is speaking
amidst the debris all around
why is there not a single bird
among the trees or in the air?
in this hell-on-earth?
no bird shall sing
and man shall never walk
this way
again

I regard myself as redundant
truly I don't mind
everything has been said and done before
by others---I am and will always be left behind

but all I hope for in my ordinary life
is that I would not fail to be kind
my redundancy would then never be over-done
as ultimate peace and joy I would at last find

RESURRECTION

No more
no more of the past
that is sleeping in the dust
now, now
is the moment that changes all
doubts dissolve into oblivion
all is crystal-clear
the heart is at perfect rest
remembering is a dumb act
forgetting is wisdom
he who has conquered memory
is the  ultimate victor
vincit qui se vincit

this is a new day
a new world
no more regret
no more pain

this is my resurrection
I have found
my true voice at last

What you think
what you do
what you say-
that's prayer

Allow me to speak--I would rather
that me you should remember
for my glaring faults (in such large number)
than my few merits--whatever

Picking Flowers

inspired by words of Mallow who is a fellow-writer in HP

........picking flowers
in fields remote and strange
what is that which is calling me
is my heart trying to stage
a new act, set a new direction
as all alone I wander here this late-autumn day
or have I come here to seek love's consolation?

* used with permission of Mallow whose phrase inspires this poem

TO HOLD AND TO OWN

   Life in frantic motion
   the daily round takes its toll    
   the mind ***** in the dirt
   that but pollutes the heart –the same story retold
   of man’s restlessness and craving
    to hold and own
    but grasps only the wind and dust
    he steps back and weeps alone
    
     this malaise—this sickening of the soul
     is the summary of  his diminishment
      he chooses to hold and own
      that which leads to his destruction and punishment

      for
      what’s the worth of a person
      a life
       that falls into the quagmire of self-dissolution?

       but
        there is redemption
        there always is if the sufferer
         is willing to let go the old—choose a new direction

         end
         the motion that threatens his claim
         to exist and take over his will
          then he will still retain a name

           desire,  the darkness within-
           the shameless desire---the hemlock
            that man drinks daily to oblivion
          in larger and larger does around the clock


          the day is insipid, the same humdrum
          life is a field barren and forlorn
          resurrection belongs only
          to those who choose to be reborn

         by surrendering the murky past
         that has clouded him for so long
          released from the pain and burden
          that has plagued him—he is the new man then-brave and strong.

Above or below
high or low
left or right
tall or short
sunshine or rain
front or back
forward or backward
here or there
stay or leave
remember or forget
hot or cold
black or white
love or hate
success or failure
friend or foe
hide or appear
beauty or ugliness
loyalty or disloyalty
faith or doubt
doing or not-doing
act or hesitate
waking or dreaming
abroad or home
going out or coming in
opening or shutting
laughing or weeping
buying or selling
speaking or not speaking
walking or running
advancing or retreating
yes or no
hold back or show
a thousand more of such things
but everything ends
with the heart
love your heart
follow your heart
cherish your heart
share your heart
in the beginning was the heart
at the end is the heart
the Alpha and Omega
this is all
and all you need to know

FIVE HAIKU (9th COLLECTION)*

1

Mother on wheel-chair
young daughter pushes and chats
they seem so cheerful

2

A hidden old lane
graffiti spread on the wall
who and when painted?

3

Among the antiques
stained photos of long ago
of married couples

4

Hamburger outlet
mothers wait in a long queue
' mum, I am hungry!'

5

Pots of red roses
so prominently displayed
the florist wears pink

I will tread gently
and slowly
poetry dislikes poets
in too much hurry

DON’T TRUST MY WORDS

Don’t trust my words as even I, myself
of all people, have begun,
quite often,
to doubt my own utterance,
the urgency, this (self-professed ) poignancy
behind these skilful,  self-deluding words,

For,
how could I speak against myself,
be my own accuser,
and become the laughing stock
of all those around me?

You see,
I have become a prisoner
of my own words, the seeds
sown since my childhood
have taken hold
surreptitiously
of my whole being:
I have become what my words
want me to be.

So, my love, if you still love me
or think you still love me or know
still what love is
you should not ask,
but be quiet… look into my eyes,
feel my pain, share my sorrow-
we would both find truth
beyond words
in this borderless silence.

That hidden* silent something
the heart hankers after
for dear life--would set aside
never, never ever

like the final note, unforgettable
of the symphony in its splendour
the fullest radiance and pride
of the pristine blowing flower-

like the sun clearing its way
from the grey clouds in cluster
to smile for and warmth the waiting earth
to fill it with wonder and laughter-

like you and me still in incompleteness
the last piece to crown our life we are yet after
the patience, the faith, the endurance
to the ripening of hope, beauty and love we surrender.

That which
has gone before
days that are
no more

but memory
never sleeps
even fragmentally
some remnants it keeps

how blessed
are those
who have no tears
know not life's throes

of anguish and pain
and what have I
to say?  my sorrows
I hide.  You asked: 'Why?'

But I can't refer you
to the file of my life--where it's kept
I know not---therein, forgotten
in dust and oblivion wrapped

for none could ever escape
from the all-pervading force of fate
free-will, courage, defiance
all drops in failure at its wrathful gate

yet, somehow, I don't know how
these my long-suffering tears
have given me more strength than I deserve
I prevail despite the onslaught of tumultuous years.

ENEMIES

Should I say I have enemies
but rather
that others single me out
as such?
I don’t even know them
how could I?
they never said to me:
‘   You are my enemy’

and why me?
I am of no significance
not in the market-place
not the cynosure of others’ eyes
so few people
know that I exist

do I have the time
or bother
someone has targeted me
as an enemy?
Doesn’t that person
have better things to do?

but I don’t choose
to be the enemy of anyone
I have enough problem
of my own

only one enemy
I dread
lest it destroys me
that someone
is with me
every moment
all the time
day and night
it won’t let go of me
it clings worse than a leech
to my skin
it exhorts
challenges
teases
displeases
chides
blames
even pontificates
wanting to over-power me
in everything I do
trying to undo
what I count
to be dear to my heart
even threatens me
in anger
indignity
without a single straw of mercy

even in my sleep
it doesn’t leave me
it wants to haunt me
so that I would know no rest

I turn the corner to look
at that creature
my worst enemy
oh no
it CAN'T be true
that monster
is none other than
myself!

vincit qui se vincit

FIVE HAIKU

1

At the last bus stop
a woman alights with child
a man waves to them

2

Two boys on the beach
quarrel over some pebbles
their mothers watch on

3  

Red late-autumn leaves
fall on old wooden benches
the park is empty

4

The crow on the roof
surveys its usual domain
It has not eaten

5  

Under the lamplight
a boy is kissing a girl
watched only by stars

My heart desires
neither silver nor gold
only that me true love
would eternally hold

Night. Stars. After-rain
the trees have had their share
of tears. Music dies. The sea moans
muted are voices with nothing to declare-

passionate past kisses I remember
now I could find her nowhere
long ago one summer night she whispered
in my ears-- I still can smell the fragrance of her radiant hair.

Some will like you

others, perhaps not

if you like yourself- you can keep

everyone else from your thought

The student rushed
to the Zen Master
and exclaimed
' I'm enlightened!'
  remarked the latter
   with an acuncular smile
  ' Sixty years I've laboured
    that sentence I still can't utter!'

WHEN THE MORNING DEW DOES FALL

When the morning dew does fall
Falling from the open air
Where does it fall?
Tell me, tell me --where?

When the morning dew does fall
On my fair maiden’s golden hair
I shall write her a love poem
‘  You are the fairest of the fair’.

The dew will glow in lustre
Truly jealous am I of its pride
Shining like a pure diamond
Revelling in her hair---setting me aside.

I must kiss her dew-starred hair
To out-rival the covetous and unfair dew
Her love is all I live for
I shall whisper ‘ Forever I will love you’.

NEW YEAR’S EVE


It’s the twelve o’clock symbolic chime
Striking, mocking the resisting, unyielding heart:
‘Hold her hand , this is the hour’-
1999 is now: is this the end or the start?

‘ In vino veritas’- I shall speak now
The language of wine while you dance
To the last song of the weary singer-
Perhaps, perhaps, love still has a chance.

I must dissolve, melt away with the last echo
Of this midnight chime, hoping to resurrect somehow
In the untouched desert of your heart-
Could you, would you but this allow?

But you gaze so far away, with a smile tired and cold-
I know it all, it’s the same midnight tale, once again retold.

Love is not a subject
for any audit
it belongs more
to the heart than wit-

it follows no formula
no peg but its own does it fit
analysis would its very beauty mar
and shatter it bit by bit

Zen
is
when
I lose myself