Wild rose, aggressive usurper,
relentless conqueror of attention, quarrels
wants to make me jelous,
pretends  she is nothing but poetry distilled,
stops at every table and whispers:
"He is hard prose, the syntax, I can't grasp"
Unmindful of sly looks from various corners,
that in fact suggest, I had good riddance,
I am concerned about the clutter on my desk,
that escaped my notice during the days I was in that chasm

I was deeply in to Dostoevsky,
my cleansing ritual on such occasions: the Russian masters
when she passed my cubicle she spies Chekhov
lying on my table, waiting his turn
"The lady with the lapdog"* she reads aloud, with suspicion
would she ever understand, what Dostoevsky to me,
would have told?

Your lovely eyes,
two dark bamboo beetles
bristle with fervor
ready to battle
with mine, seeking truce;
your belligerence,
has a stirring effect.
I am aroused
beyond limits.
    Now is the time to act,
make wild love,
    ending the lovers' tiff.
    I sign the treaty of withdrawal
    with a passion filled kiss,
   summoning all the force
   in your command, you seal it,
   with an incomparable another.

Draw a clear line,
definite demarcation of reality and illusion,
he was given the brief straight and simple,
by the impatient project chief, no ambiguity to it,
just a matter of sorting it out, what is real, what isn't
when far enough in to it, he found it humbling,
everything real begins from  nebulous, returns to it,
real and illusive, are in a dance of interchange, exhilarating,
the cheer spreads as cosmic glow beyond destruction and creation
universe, a kaleidoscopic percept seemed a conjure of cosmic imagination.

A leggy lass, showing off,
in a short, red dress
in no mood to hold back,
her excessive sass,
rubbed him in a way wrong,
as if by chance.

Everything for sometime
went haywire,
his long held views on girls,
on what should they wear,
the oomph factor
and its upper  limits
the matter of taste in make up,
all those he thought
no focus of men folk
were shaken to the root.

How strange he feels,
when he now looks back
every single piece,
fell right in place,
in his jig saw puzzle,
that reminded jumbled
    all that long.

Strutting popinjay,
wears many hats,
to be precise:
                     she displays
                     a new hat
                      each day,
                      as her trophy before the world.
                      Each with a new color,
                      and a scent different.
                      Her crude wide smirk
                      conceals
                            ­         a secret
                     each one is pinched
                                                     from her lover of the day.

the cigarette smell her breath emits
disturbs the delicate orchid,
it refuses her fragrance
using inhibitors,
as a retaliatory
measure.

Getting up from the crumpled bed,
resurrected from the dead, once more,
he looks the world in the face, panicked,
he is back in to being from the land of  nothingness,
he was hardly aware of the non existence,
in the land of sleep, mysterious camouflage,
for war time secrets to be kept safe.

He doesn't have to pretend, to be a child again,
morning sows hopes, in vivid colours, he grows up
evening dissolves in loss, bleak darkness, finis.

What he gets in between becomes meaningless,
unless at least a smile gives wings
to the sad heart, to rejoice defying angst,
that swings between, life after life, day after day.

Her love, for long a thorn
now an ornament of pain
on her numb heart, pierced,
that has suffered in vein.

lovelorn and desolate,
she collects words in hope,
even from still night air,
but that work against often;
a vocabulary
of intense desire
she discerns at once,
from the scent
of jasmine
blooming at midnight
disturbing her peace
wave after wave.

Mate call of
a night bird
late for its date,
hurriedly searching
the rendezvous
and its sweetheart,
makes her sad.

Sky full of stars'winks
stringed together
as a song,
suggest daring things
she wouldn't think
attempting even much later.

She would send sighs
dry her tears rolling down,
and just suffer in silence,
till the sky open its eye,
when tired she will close her eyes.

We'd return tired from the green patches we toil,
or  in deep blue, we sail our crafts days on end,
ordinary folk, we are, we worship work
morning sun wakes us up as soon as he shows up,
we set about quick and stand our ground till the sun leaves,
we are worried about nothing, no quills for us nor frills,
one thought leads us forward, we seek light, till it lasts
we fought, relentlessly we did,to make both ends meet,
we fought, we fought, to stop the rot, day in and day out

We ate cooked cassava root, drank spring water,
when winter came, we shivered in palm leaf thatched huts,
all those who were known smart had their proclivities and fads,
on the streets,we buy and sell, we haggle all through our lives,
nobody seeks us for anything, we are invisible, in the dark
we have no special place in anything, anywhere.

Silently we fought, kept  our aching  souls clean,
never we were in ballads, tales or honor lists,
in every roll call, our names went missing,
when nemesis struck, it came for us first
in times of calamities, our bodies lay strewn
all over the country and all around the  towns,
every one was rescued and kept in shelters
authorities loudly claimed but it was not about us
we waited and waited yet relief didn't come.

Distant night built a home at the heart of the forest, sun had long forgotten,
lovelorn moon set up its nest for memories-
in that lake where 1000 migrant flamingos live for months,
When the hands of dark night creep towards them on the sly
flamingos tightly shut their eyes and dive deep in to the waters of sleep,
when the evergreen memories of ****** moon each one desires haunt.
As the moon wanes, the night lay in wait, in its forest home dreaming white flamingos
                              that swim in the pool of milk the moon has created for her sweethearts.

A fine feathered partridge she is,
he listened to her moving tale.
A game bird, pathetic, but
her story has holes, he  easily detects,
yet he  sat through, willing to believe.
In the middle of contradictory attitudes
now he wonders, how strange is this
willing suspension of disbelief!
This is how tragedy creeps in,
right in front of one's  opened eyes,
yet he is with her, ready to buy  trouble.
A fine feathered partridge she is.

Making her senses keen to discern it better , she realizes:
"This giant of a tree, is no less than a wonder"
on it age plays a game different, no one is able to gauge,
ancient times nurtured, wind and rains embraced it tight,
scorching sun, in all his tropical fervor, couldn't daunt it,
eventually sun and the tree must have fallen in love with each other,

From morning till night, this banyan listens to many voices,
long days didn't make any difference, every day is new to it,
the roots searching under the earth, the hanging ones above,
create their own world, the ones below earth search for water.
when they come up in certain places, they look like creatures
prowling crocodiles, reptiles, or even  imaginary creatures, without names

Hang roots defy all rules, prefer the shapes of snakes it seems
anacondas, vipers, pythons or cobras in search of prey.
This banyan is a catalyst,  from bird to humans here,
find a shelter,take rest for varying times. It's Grandma attitude
makes each seeker of  solace and rest go back with happy smiles.

Some times here, a pauper speaks to a pundit, roles get reversed,
experience speaks louder than the knowledge in the book,
the many voices heard under the banyan makes,
one awake, from slumber,  the orchestra of many voices,
builds a music, euphonious in its composition, pregnant with meanings.

A poem nebulously arrives
at the precincts of mind
like in every pregnancy
it changes a whole lot of things

A firefly with a drop of
oily yellow light so feeble ;
but one gets lost in the
happiness it brings

I haven't ever known
a happiness similar to this.
In the days of my childhood,
I used to sit in a room opening
to the vast green rice fields,

At the sunset, when light fads in to darkness,
the gloom that spreads around
makes one ask, 'what if the moon
wouldn't appear tonight?'

A drop of light appears from nowhere,
flies to a bamboo grove,
this I couldn't foresee,
it turns out to be a  firefly, its light
pulsating like a coded message,
to more fireflies so shy and want
the pain of darkness to foster them,
I close my eyes and wait for the sound
of  their wings flapping in my subconscious.

Now, they come in swarms, a spectacle
one can't explain, all I know is
that I was yearning for their presence.
They are guests for this celebration
of light,  I crafted with my pain,
and love, the antidote, for all that angst.

A poem is born as a dome of effulgence
these fireflies create in pitch darkness
that meditates alone only on light .

Morning sun splashes
molten gold over ripe wheat fields,
Spellbound,  stands a village lass,
she feels like a dragon fly, fragile but mirthful,
her spirit soaring high above the clouds,
one of those uncommon moments in her life,
when she felt something beyond words happening to her
she doesn't know how she forgets her dreary life
in which one day is just like any other.

Demure village belle, in her bright colored
patch-work dress, traditionally worn by women,
in Northern Indian villages, bathed in sun, walks alone,
through the winding village path, crossing fields.

Her smile conceals the pain, the thorns on her path give,
walks miles and miles in scorching tropical sun,
to the common well to get the water filled
in an earthen ***, carried on her head.
Her silver ankle bells, incessantly tell the tale of
harassment and violence, cheating, bullying, all that,
by ruffians, tricksters, con men and the like prowling,
on the wayside.Her own family members are no less!
**"It's all in a woman's life" she mumbles, curses fate-
something she has not fully understood, is this
why fate mostly interferes with the lives of women?

He asks for a coil of wire
changes it in to a slithering snake.
The illusionist mocks
the certainty about things ,
creates a riot of laughter
irrationality sits light on our shoulders
like friendly doves, when he performs.

Tampering with reality
to cajole absurdity out of it,
was making fun of God's authority,
someone murmured,
we kids thought God claimed importance,
a bit too much,
why, at times God's actions
are no different from us,
thoughtless kids.
We loved the jiggery-pokery
of the illusionist, who made
reality stand on its hands, with his tricks.
And the anarchy he brought
in dealing with our expectations!
who would expect to pull out cow dung,
from a bag where he put a cat?
The illusionist says seriously like a scientist,
"I ape God and this world, that's all"

1
The jack tree, framing the museum gate
was an eyeful, with fruits from top branch to roots,
reminding  a lush woman, pregnant and languid,
expectant, beaming a smile, what else could be
a better fertility symbol, gladdening one's heart!
2
He sees her, Lila,waiting under the jack tree
Lila, a fixture, highlighting jack tree's abundant fertility,
on a juncture of present and past, symbolizing
what is left inside the walls of the museum
only the bits we came to know sporadically,
stashed away for curious eyes, a puzzle for us always.
Everything flows in to one, yet remains in fragments!
3
He knows Lila will turn the corner,
now or later and go in to the museum,
standing in a lovely garden
full of past waiting for her
he guesses someone else too, accompanies her,
A lover? Perhaps not, his heart consoles,
only a dim figure, he could see
in his repeated dreams of her.
4
He ingeniously attempts, different ways to see her,
in points of time and different points of view.
Lila, he feels is a girl, he may fall in love with,
but the fact is that she is in mystery's wrap,
the play of Maya -illusion- in matter
that realization wakes him up to awareness,
of himself, many things that count.
On the lonely roads of university campus,
she walks looking in to a past,
she wants to leave behind or retrieve?
Following her far behind, from a clearing
in the forest of a time past, he thinks about,
the time they were together,
now, she becomes a symbol,
to explore the secrets of the past, himself, life.
5
A name with dimensions, Lila is,
the Sanskrit word for play, the cosmos is engaged in,
the dance he would do life long,
but there would be walls erected, like the time they were together.
He thinks being together has significance, if only you count so,
Lila is in the scheme of things that moves universe too,
he learns to detach Lila from her physical form.
6
Lila in the universe is the dancing atoms,
the stars dying and being born in other universes.
While reciting poetry on stars and* 'multiverse'  
he feels the flow of life. Lila is the flow of energy unlimited,
Lila, takes over body, mind and consciousness.
7
Lila smiles at him as he walks to her,says she:
"Waiting for you here, took me to the unknown, waiting for ages,
I am curious, is it you looking at me or a past fragmented?
I feel your eyes playing with my body mind and beyond"
She didn't say she is imagining things. Now, all that matters is this.
They gravitate towards each other.He is pleased at the light emitted
They both are fascinated by the jack tree full of fruits,
life forms of nature and nebulous energies that navigate,
going back and forth has become a habit for all of us.

A big bang in every nucleus, inviting big crunch, that creeps in,
Lila and he walked in, the doorman in the museum smiled

Choosing between a witch and a vampire,
should have been a real dilemma, of course,
none among these two did he choose,
but a nun, to explore the path of renunciation**.

They loved each other with equal fervor, natural,
he met her half way in everything, but was unaware
never did they stop cuddling, still had own space
he mended his ways when she said, something troubled her,
they imbibed the spirit of "Half man half woman"
the "Shiva-shakti" ideal, in the human form, they became.
In their kind of love, there is no day and night,
or distinction of body, mind or spirit
the surrender was mutual and total, no going back from that,
even the physical becomes supernatural then, so magical!
It's a dance of resonant energies, perfectly synchronized
they go up rung by rung on the ladder, to reach the perch at the zenith,
from there the universe looks different, bathed in eternal silver light.

On the
extended palm
of a lotus leaf,
falls
a drop of
untimely rain.

water drop
runs around,
refuses all
attachments,
takes refuge,
in the cupped palm of
the supple leaf.

The leaf
in its kindness
receives the drop,
as it's own,
feeling responsible,
the leaf keeps it
safe from
malicious winds;
protects it
from spilling over,
till the sun
proposes to the
water drop,
requests to be his own.

It goes up
as invisible vapors.
The drop,
as vapor
takes the form
of a cloud,
hovers above
the earth,
sans
attachment,
but realizes
sun has her heart
for ever.

He invented a light
for the long night
he had to endure,

fixed a limit
for the height he aspired,

he found a verdant sight
to soothe his tired eyes

wrote a poem
for his bleeding heart
to rejoice

he was alone,
knew she was in her cocoon,
still sung a song for her,
that too was  love,
though limited and scarce.

through the window
the saw a winking star
far away, light years apart.

life was a dream,
love he felt then, was real
when he left at last,
like the scent of a flower
wafting in night air,

few drops of tears, from the eyes of the star
mingled with his gratified spirit.

**"love never fails, blindly believe in it"
A nightingale sang aloud from somewhere.

We love this wide open grass lands,
the  prankster  brook running through the middle,
clanging its anklet bells,
jack trees, bearing fruits, happy
spreading  sweet smell  in the air,
silver bellied fish, jumping up from water,
just to show how mirthful water life is,
swirling wind that hums a tune
and changes the coconut grove,
to a group of lissome girls dancing as if possessed.

I love your gentle eyes , probing my soul deep,
talking eloquently without words
finding a new language only we can claim our own,
the setting sun's good bye to the hillside,
sudden appearance of a million stars, a symphony of light,
                                                  all over the eastern sky,
your long, garrulous fingers speaking with my eager  fingers,
**your full luscious lips, giving me lingering, therapeutic kiss,
the way we walked side by side, inebriated by the seasoned wine of love,
and how we decided that night we'd cross all the limits. and find the treasure.

The antique shop,
a cauldron where memories
from far and near boil and froth,
where chronological order
didn't matter, time stood still,
part real, as much magic,
different lives from distant lands and time
rolled in to one.
Here they met, by chance,a man
and a mysterious woman,with an eye for unusual,
among what was  on display were
things a conman would seek
and also favorite stuff fit for  kings,
artifacts and articles they must have used
or hankered after.

Past uses these museum pieces
as baits for us, secretly preparing us
to surrender before future,
unkind and rude in mind;
he changed roles as both con and king,
there was a constant yes,
she was the mate in each
he couldn't take  eyes  off her,
and she asked what he looks for,

"The famous ****** quilt,
that was to be mine twice before,
I missed making it mine,
narrowly every time"
He wondered how did he
make up that story so quick.
"I can take you to the quilt,
but it isn't here" she said
not a bit  hesitant
He was flabbergasted by
the turn of events,as if
a hidden scripted move shows the way
They left by her car,
she was eloquent about
the effects of the ****** quilt.

As they stood near the ****** quilt,
in this room he thought was part
of an antique shop, the place looked deserted,
and her eyes shone when she suggestively said
"Want to test the effect? Don't be disappointed"
It wasn't. How could one  imagine, that
the quilt can be so voluptuous.

That secret shook him out of his shell,
she had  nothing to do  with antique of any kind,
just another visitor like him, and the quilt
was an ingenious plot she hatched
in keeping with my sudden flourish,
the quilt, was a new addition in her bed
patch worked in silk, light weight,
it wasn't a blanket, but ****** in its very touch
it was them, the moment of adventure they found
had brought the rapture,who would regret?

Creating a moon, pale, soft and melancholy
with words, bleeding wounds, trembling with pain,
putting it up above the dark clouds, on a lonely sky
and make it reflect in water, turbulent and agitating,
so that you would see my anguished soul in flames,
wasn't easy, it took long sleepless nights and wasted days.
Did you understand this; then what did I get?

Am I a wanderer as they made out, or the opposite, a lonely seeker?
Wasn't I trying to look at life, putting aside all pretensions,
being simple and becoming aware as one,
who has no control over anything, that happens in life
except, knowing myself, to be in touch with things
hidden from us all through the walk,
**over the cantilever bridge we walk on
jutting in to the sea, with only the other end fixed,
as we walk forward to a gap opening to the waves
that roll below, I look above at the galaxies and smile,
I realize, the purpose of this run is to swim,
across the cosmic ocean,  to be one with the limitless.

This woman I fell in love with
is an enigma, none like her,
I admire her, this quite night.
Flames of desire lick me
when I even think of
her voluptuous softness
wearing shimmering black.

She prides in what she is,
doesn't pretend
as someone else.
Darkness is her
without any apology
though she owns a brilliant
cosmic jewelry shop;
only she can display diamonds
looking different in every minute,
each more dazzling than the other.

Without any arrogance or
posturing that suggests invincibility,
she surrenders all she has,
when sun demands it,
with the confidence that
when she'd  come back
after a hiatus, she will be no less.

Somewhere in the lake
of deep sleep
is an island, dark and mysterious,
entangled mangroves here,  resist movements
where I snake in like a thief
excitedly breaking in to own house,
pretending to be an alien
and find
a body double living there
acting out one's secret-
fantasies and voluptuous desires.
I won't dare to speak aloud here,
where, the overpowering smell of
too ripe fruits of indecent passions waft.
The dark chamber,
the smoke filled ***** den of my mind,
is to  take secret refuge and be one
with a dream that flies me
to the border lands of psyche.

Thirsty beyond words
his eyes drank
from the  blue depths
of her eyes,
hungry lips munched her smile
again and again.

she  is
          an eagle on the wing,
he is
          the wind on whose carpet she is buoyant;
they both depend on each other's might
to be together, they are conscious,
a little too much.
The higher she goes
she is beyond his ken,
the more he holds
her powerful wings down,
to control and limit,
she is more than a captive,
without her true expression.
They are
passionate lovers,
unaware of making
each other dependent,
and believe
they are in a perfect relationship.
When would they learn,
to make freedom their
true and trusted friend.

From the elements that dance around us, I gather this and more,
a desire to be one with them, in ways one can't fully discern.
A meteorite had fallen in love with me, I am the fire raging inside her,
no evidence one has, how inner fire changes, till it happens!
Look at that distant star, does it speak? But, I know she loves me for ions.
One will better understand, if one lends ears to the tune of nature.
The wind booms its love, caresses the desire, let it grow in to a fire,
we are energies in dance, love and longing disguised, that take many forms.

A boulder, black granite, love oozes  in its core,
but none would believe the truth, it slept,
hearing the foot steps of passing millinnia,
birds and butterflies on their journey
took it as a shelter and sat in its shade,
beasts sometimes, sharpened their claws on its corners,
big cats bit it, in a bid to make it submit and surrender,
warriors in their frenzy to eliminate enemies
sharpened their war axes and swords on it.

None saw love pulsating inside,  even without a heart,
or asked it how it felt, when treated
like just a stone without future.
It had love in many depths, it never regretted,
being a stone, formed with  ingrained lack of love,
the journey became tough, as it just began.

It needed to bear it, make the dark core melt by its
acquired sensitivity,  through experiences-
it comes across; every bird, bee and butterfly was its teacher,
in its longing to break in to grains of sand and fertile earth
begin a new cycle, that'll take many millenniums.

One day a blue bird sat on its shade
looked at it as if it heard something and asked"Are you listening?"
heart of the stone was overwhelmed, "My dear we were soul mates,
I never could imagine, you 'd come searching for me-
in my cursed state.Sing, so that your song could melt me to life"
And she sang about billowing clouds and copious rains,
love, its magic and songs frozen in stones.

The stone melted when love poured over it,
it was a new beginning; stone to fertile earth.

1
**I like your light makeup,
mangled logic that never
served its intended purpose,
the svelte figure that creates
an awareness indelible on proportion,
and the intelligence you have
to keep it just as petite
all through the years
the out law male chauvinist, that  lurks in me is pleased,
lopsided analysis of contemporary affairs
you make,  allows me
to intervene, put you back to the track.
I dig the coiffure that makes the birds think,
its their nest, newly built.
Your purple prose I learned to like,
as it gets more and more evocative.
Syrupy songs you write, and sing
used to get one bored easily
no more, your emotions now are
more rooted and move me very much.

you know better than any one, how much I love bitter concoctions you cook.
2
But then
I realize that the cadence you create is unique,
you look life at its *** and frown,
your poems though rare, show plenty of evidence
of quirky charm, which I like.
Your weepy stories and convoluted plots too
I learned to like, all these are just habits, right?
They bear a stamp of your originality I can vouch,
love your starry eyes when each is filled with admiration,
for me in those special moments,
when I pull you out of quagmires
time after time.
3
I can't take eyes off your face,
exuding such innocence,
that vouches your genuineness,
each time that assures me that
you cannot ever be bad,
unless you want to portray
yourself that way cleverly.
Though not my cup of tea,
I love the gizmo culture you love,
your craze for computer games,
(though bit bizarre at this age!)
I enjoy it and get fascinated when you go too far.
You love to make love in the dark,
I later learned to appreciate  its tactile advantages,
and encouraged you unleash the panther in you, on me
though I love to do it with lights on
so that we can see the rainbow
the moment it spreads on ,
till it dissipates and we dive deep in to sleep.
4
You touched my depth in a way different,
made it possible to love the woman you are-
the way you are,  I love it
because, you are unique,with all imperfections
together we are complete.

A honeybee he is,
but how does he know
it's his brief to make honey;
never once it was  articulated anywhere,
following a faint tune of fragrance
he flies, crossing barriers, forgetting everything else.

This is a divine madness, his blood sings,
he is just an instrument in the creation of sweetness,
but when,
the rain clouds pour down in torrents
the flowers are laden with water
his honey tastes different.
In summer he hums a different tune,
in resonance with many fragrances that invite him,
as flowers vie with each other,
to let him have their taste.
Honeybee's tune now changes to a love song,
always remembered by the inebriated pairs of lovers
roaming in the gardens.
A honeybee he is, he is unaware what it means,
he is prompted by nature in all he does.

In that camouflage she was not
the daughter of a dark night,
even his doubtful eyes
were blinded, and there by
hangs a tale;
a caterpillar of many hues,
curious looking,
voracious apatite stamped
her presence and movement.

In his manicured garden she started,
leaf after green leaf first,
then flowers all,
petal by petal, scent too vanished,
a beauty eating beauty
had some queer poetic justice
though he failed to see that
there was something amiss
but her moves didn't stop
by creating nakedness
as a garden substitute
brown with green.

She proved insatiable,
when they made love.
first like flowered plants
bees pollinating flower
with the pollen smeared
all over her body,
then they copied
animals in heat,
rolled all over the place
like cats and caterwauled aloud.
He was totally lost
lowered all his guards
that's when tragedy struck.

When they merged like
poison and milk
in a deluge of
deceptive sweetness
he saw her turn in to
a vampire bat
and eat his heart.

Marooned in an island of his own creation,
full of machine wonders and prehistoric monsters
                                 never one could dream,
he realizes,
life is what one brings out from
the depth of one's psyche's churning,
yet as much a creation of hands working,
on the potter's wheel that's turning
to create shapes of things we never had foreseen.

But deep down, he is a rage,
a fire threatening to erupt and consume all bastions of waste,
built, around our lives, by thoughtless monsters,
                                             then,
                                                a happy haze prompt him to flower,
                                                a rhapsody, kicks its baby legs inside
                                                a startling beauty begins to emerge.

Firefly dancers,
carvers of night's granite,
causing sparks,
irregular movement -
of liquid quanta of light;
made me stay put,
go beyond
the mundane concerns
of light and darkness.
Inner being becomes
another form of amazement,
letting go all insistence
on meaning in everything.

If he lacked polish and was avaricious without any limit,
he could have taken her  by force and justified that she provoked,
knowing from each move she made,
she was teasing him, and taking it to the extreme,
he may have gone over to the top, any moment.

They stayed in two rooms adjacent
in that backwater resort, a breath taking delight,
in the mornings she paraded
in front of his room, skimpily dressed,
as he came out, her beauty seemed to overflow
from bra top and she encouraged him in many ways
by suggesting many possibilities of pleasure.

A waiter comes and knocks at  his door
he gets a complimentary drink, his favorite
courtesy to her(obviously she has made meticulous research)
along with shrimps and clams cooked in olive oil.
When he came out for an evening stroll,
at the far end of the compound, in the shallow part of the lake,
she was taking bath, with an exhibitionist flourish
when he smiled at her visibly timid, she amorously pursed her lips,
she was in an adventurous mood, like nature at the time of bloom.

"Seen your paintings, loved those sensual nudes
reminds me more of myself, in front of a mirror,
obviously they are all seekers of pleasure, I am sure.
I am a singer, they say my voice seduces, all
you to me do the same when I see you as the painter,
in flesh and blood" she paused for a  breath.

"If I lacked polish, my paintings wouldn't have the magic,
you speak about; it's not deliberately created, that's impossible.
It's pure poetry, that oozes by itself, a blessing I earned.
There is no wanton desire here. Magic of the sensual
is charged in the atmosphere.I feel it all the time,
be it morning, evening or night,
the possibilities of pleasure is limitless.
Express the best way one deems fit, be liberated."

Above the waves, fish-eagles circle,
eyes scan the moving water plane,
lashing sea waves, blanket of cover,
shoals of fish, swim below in mirth.
Within fraction of a second,
a sea change, secret window opens
two eagle eyes sense a change in dynamics,
swoops down,
a lightening strike,
one fish that made a wrong move,
rides between the claws to its grave.

I heard, my  rainbird singing Meghmalhar* alone,
my heart was broken in to pieces, as her wistful tune hit it,
her swansong it was, I realized.
I knew grief was her wings, how can I make her confine
to this garden and sing, when she wants to be on the wings?
I watched her from behind the bushes
thinking to give her the freedom to sing her swansong.
In to the  rain clouds , she flew up, only a feather she left behind,
for all the memories of my music filled days with her.
Torrential monsoon rains lashed, thunderclaps and lightening
made the sky a war zone, I saw her
flying in to the heart of danger, without concern,
my eyes followed her far and away, one last time,
a drop of tear on the corner of my eye,
sears my soul all the time.

A forest adventure-we didn't plan it that way at all,
the call of the wild prompted us, is all I can now guess
hand in hand in to the woods we ventured like two possessed,
magical, it felt, we soon disappeared, from the eyes of curious intruders.

erogenous scent of damp earth, after the first sprinkling of monsoon clouds,
pepped up our interest in hunting mushrooms
popping up everywhere, like fragments of white clouds descended,
we pulled out, egg shaped mushrooms that came in to our view
the frenzy we fell in to,  possessed us in total,
after all we we are also young and hot blooded,

We competed like hounds in hot pursuit,
ran, collided with each other, fell down,
with a gentle thud, upon each other.
She did lay flat, face down on my chest,
I smelt,musk on her neck a slow intoxicant
and mushrooms hidden in her both armpits,
which I pursued and found out,we were getting hot,
in pursuit of each other's secrets.
the world, we had forgotten completely for long!!

We didn't see evening light melt and
darkness spread stealthily over the woods
that engages the robust body of the night,
from the rendezvous, of these secret lovers,
we sneaked out and saw lighted torches,
approach us from all four directions.

they zeroed in on us,"Who goes there?"
a harsh voice asked,
"This, do you know, is the holy grove,
of mother goddess, strictly  watched
for not to be get desecrated
by people who seek some sort of adventure,
such an act never goes unpunished,
we'll search you and find what you did"

We held out mushrooms before them,
and I saw each face turning  a lotus!
"where did you get this,? Oh! so much!,
Those are so rare and any one is able to pluck it,
only if mother goddess is pleased"

And then we realized this,
in that forbidden sacred wood,
between us a miracle has happened!
that pleased the mother goddess
of the woods,  the blessed presence,
aren't we then  the chosen ones?







,

Muriel, when  our eyes first met and  your name  rolled off my tongue with a fine ring,
felt, I was charged with your sun-filled-sea-radiance from inside out
just the cadence of a name has an unctuous something! I've never known that  before,
just saying it evocatively few times, I felt touching your heart; a golden thread did bind us then.

An inexplicable alchemy blends us
and transform, when you are with me;
I am fully filled up by what is 'you'
then, how could'I' be there, it's all you.

Wind whistles ***** songs,
                      bamboo groves dance to its tune,
            the voice of my love wafts in fragrance
                                calling me from her hiding place;
                  my pleading heart, tender, love drunk, replies,
                           "Come hither, in a kiss fill all your fervor
                                               that would make me faint in its mystery"

Coiled golden serpent, furiously hisses from behind the thicket,
hiding mongoose, wakes up from its siesta, gets alert,
game of life and death, spying on each other goes on nonstop,
death hidden in serpent either surrenders or escapes now and awaits its next chance.

His wisdom tooth started to rot,
he didn't listen to its complaints at first,
dismissed the implications,
without much thought,
wasn't it denial?

When removal was inevitable,
the matter came out in a facebook post,
as if it was yet another case for
immediate social action.
Getting a line written in today's wall
wasn't bad, he felt a secret elation.
Why debate  good and  bad, if  there is a strong
chance to change perspectives after the  posting?
The rotten tooth thus asserted itself!

It felt good for the first time,
to know others focus on even your wisdom tooth,
soon, the feeling was replaced with,
regret, for feeling good, Ouch!

it didn't stop there, either,
a feeling of confusion fallowed,
a sense of ebullient nonsense prevailed,
what else could it be called?
How to escape to the normal?
the thought came after a while,
and yes, tell me the wise,what is a normal state?

The little one is excited, on this prospect,
imagines herself as a fortune hunter,
sifting through the thickets of poem trees.

Her teacher has promised to give one credit each,
when ripened to ten , will gift any kid a chocolate fudge
with peanut butter frosting, if they could bring fine metaphors
unharmed and wanting to fly, on their wordy wings
for the teacher to examine and find it fits
and pronounce it passed 'the healthy metaphor test'.

"What if the other kids too set their eyes on
iridescent metaphors I woo and net?"
she asks with a mix of innocence
and a kind of poetic worry  in her little eyes.

Pretty Periwinkle, lovable, at my happy doorstep,
full of purple flowers, winks at me every time I pass her;
she has something to tell me in private, it's evident,
she whispered, I tried within limits, but couldn't afford to concede.

1
Rain's blue-black cloak, tied with rainbow girdle,
visible over the green hills,across rice fields,
she waves and rushes forward.
From distance, the incessant chant
of South-West monsoon,
sounds like a mature witch practicing her craft.
      One would think,she is all evil,dark
       the overcast sky her sinister cloak,
But under my umbrella
a coy maiden, i desired from afar,
who walk with me step by matching step
with all the cunning tricks of love
trying to entice me with her soft body's tunes,
her tender cool fingers rubbing my cheeks,
her unmistakable lover's touch eager, transgressing
desirous of getting me in to her arms.
2.
She makes me mad
i throw away my umbrella
in the rambunctiousness of a teenager and run with her,
at once her naughty hands pinch and tickle me
then an intense embrace that makes me shiver
with the deep pleasure, I drempt in wakeful nights,
joy of life that rain tune and smell of damp earth evoke!
The green loud glee in me it creates!
In dreams, rain come to me
and tells me the secrets of night
that I long for my love and me alone.
3
Rain, the seductress who taught me
the secret passions of living and loving,
and the burning sensation, of love
that runs deep in the  core of one's being.
When I lay awake, in a monsoon night,
outside my window, she plays tango,
wind holding her by the waist, with fierce passion,
that keeps me awake til,
I get absorbed in a dream
that has passionate love as the under current.
                   )O(