Love was the fragrance of every flower
in this city, of celebrated  gardens,
not long before,
Why i sit here, nursing my uneasiness
in this bus with out a destination board,
I don't really know,
                               all I hope is this:
my belief that it would take me to
it's last stop- love- would not fail,
Once there ,I know,
my redemption would be easier.

I don't see any one bound
                                     to that destination,
not even one whose face i recognize,
night has no language, like a dumb man
i have to be contented with signs,
in this overly lit long, red bus, too sleek
for everyone here to feel happy about,
i feel the shock of change, from every side,
The city is busy shedding its old skins
and its soul, the villager and his words
that spoke of rain, crops of corn and harsh summer,
almost in a poetic vein, is alien now,
they aren't invited here anymore,
sulking, loitering around a bit, they have left, before sun down.

We are racing towards deadlines,
roads everywhere are blocked, broken, changed beyond
recognition, one's own street, needs introduction
work is in progress even at midnight,
new flyovers, elevated roads, sky scrappers
you easily lose count, and crawl through a maze,
all  for a make over, to a global city of electronics,
from  a sleepy town, embracing villages
to somewhere, the world feels flat, in an illusory grandeur.

Trees  died horrible deaths,
a loveless and forlone look takes over, even on young faces
the sparrows, disappear, no one knows where
they have gone, bees and butterflies,
what would be their fate, studies are on.

A lady in the front seat
gets jittery, she is not sure where she goes,
the driver doesn't pay attention,
there is none to reassure,
we are on the move, fast too.

I was looking for Mahatma Gandhi  Road, but the signs
are all gone, hope, those would be back pretty soon,
but would love come back?
                       OOO

The ancient banyan tree is huge, its parallel trunks,
Go across , spiral out, spread  branches,
Sheltering birds; doves or eagles, it doesn't bother.
Above that a kite lost  mid way on  its pleasure flight aimlessly circles.
A grey half moon tries to remain inconspicuous in the day light.
A single engine Cessna sky hawk from Bangalore flying club,
Laboriously crawl across the sky like an overeaten caterpillar.

He remains,
Oblivious of the world around, and its many preoccupations.
Within a craggy nook created by the irregular stem of the banyan,
The old man sits like an idol, totally alien to the world, that is in its Nataraja's dance*
A long, grey, shaggy beard; serene radiant face,
Stunning  any one, looking at him with the contentment blooms there, a radiant flower.
His rags for long time has not seen water, its obvious,
A soiled turban around his head is tightly tied, yet  he looks regal.
He is silence personified, has no needs, it seems.
He breathes freedom day and night, no dependency on others,
Sounds, discordant and confusing, from the nearby road, fails even to touch him,
The dust wind that circles around, only creates a halo for him.
A plastic bag full of stuff, his worthless belongings, lie by his side, like a severed head.
An old news paper he holds, to shield him from the setting sun's attention.

On the third day I found out, he has friends.
Though there seems no need to speak, words are too precious to waste, isn't it what he implies?
A dark, frail woman driving back her buffalo and its calf after grazing in the fields,
Stops in front of him smiling, he smiles back; for the first time I saw a smile speaking to another.
A silent exchange of feelings, I could experience, even  in nature, since then. An awakening he brought.
Every time I watch him, with an open mind, the contentment I see, recites wordless poems

By instinct, I deeply sense
the ocean moves of love,
in her heart and respond,
as if, by nature's prompt.
In each wave we combine,
as the force and water mass .

You are
incipient
brilliance,
I eagerly covet,
unendingly
ebullient,
seems to be
in boiling point,
evidently
prurient,
an unfailing
euphoriant,
for me
a constant
element of
wonder
day and night,
But yes
I must not
forget this;
you aren't
an organic
compound
sans side effects.
More of a
a kick ***
designer drug,
that adds an
extra sense
yet, without
a legitimate
name to call it.
Aren't you
a hallucinant, though
yet to be invented,
I am hopelessly
addicted to.

An original creation, that's what  you are
in vibrant colors nature carefully assembled,
as you sashayed through your time,till here
now all across the front page one can see you
arousing  pleasure that moves me deeply,
done in bold sweeps of a brush immersed in joy
making onlookers stand agape, thrilled
mumbling inanities as none has the grasp
of the quicksilver aesthetics that rules you.

And I, obscure , at the best like a crop circle
done in the secret hours after midnight,
or a cryptic mural on a dull wall, long past it's prime
doodled by an interplanetary traveler gone astray,
a drawing in grey fading slowly in to oblivion,
yet to be deciphered is the benediction,
it carries from light years far away,
it will be gone soon as the light from galaxies far
want to make it their own, little by little each night
Am I not transient  and  to be forgotten soon?

But you are steadfast and adamant
very rooted in your reasoning
sprung from a center devine, we both
claim together.
                         "Am I not a woman and lover first?"
Your eyes, gleam, exuding  a timelessness that speaks to me.
"I would only dream of lying naked under your
sweet heaving heaviness, to receive the nectar,
the transient ecstasy that gifts me the precious seed
that'd grow to heights immortal,on the bank of the milky way"

You tenderly carve, day and night
my heart with your chisel, sharp, incisive
as if it's a block of alabaster, at your disposal
chosen to create your one true masterpiece.
I believe in you,and submit, why? I can't really tell
Isn't it true love, that transcends limits of thought?

I let you do it as I can see  it pleases you the most,
after the moment your eyes had fallen on mine first
and stood still; I saw a divine  excitement on your face.

Is it pleasure or pain?I can't answer that question
I love you, and want you to do what pleases you the most.
My muse said, "Don't let her do this, she doesn't know
it's true worth, she'll ruin it in her, enthusiasm without limits"
I said in a whisper "I've hopelessly fallen in love, for ever"

I'd be your monument of whatever, success or failure,
I feel  the forces of nature that decide what it turns out, at last
and I listen to the sound of hammer on the chisel and patiently wait.

Harvested perfect eggs,
of the mother to be,
are kept, in deep freeze.
enriched sperms of paid donor
(looked after well
to keep perfect fit)
are getting impatient.
the bee, fertilizer nonpareil
handpicked and hired,
fertility specialist,
didn't keep his word;
away on leave,
"pollinating vacation"
over phone, he explains,
"my last chance to
proliferate my clan,
wife is excited,
need to make it happen now
this time, of the year,
the chances are the best"
a melancholy moon, barren woman
silently weeps moonbeams
over the sparse, still thinning forest.

a traffic snarl-up,
at the middle of nowhere;
down the rabbit hole!

Gently he'll take her in his arms,"Öh! my precious orchid"
he looks deeply in to her eyes, classic lover style, it still works,
that was the hope he finally clung on,her mother would murmur
something away from  his ears,to be careful, he didn't get her point.

her eyes were bright and deceptive, his Waterloo,those two were,
eyelashes always would flutter, as if she is afraid, he would abduct her,
how romantic, his heart jumps up at once in delight,
a shipful of bounty returning after the hunt of a lifetime!

"Could I call you anytime, please let me, even if it's too late"
she would plead, too cute,then pretend dejection, ah! he  likes it
as if he'll deny it and she can't bear that thought, her heart'd break,
he'd say" Ẅhy not, I'd anticipate your call all night"

he would stand sentinel,that night, wait for her call
hell, she won't call, not a day!, still can he go and sleep?
he'd meet her with bleary eyes, the day after so apologetic,
she'd get offended at his disheveled , mad look.

"Aren't you my heart's poem, then come to me little more decently"
asking him  to keep awake all night, this wasn't her speaking!
"Come to coffeehouse, sharp at  four" she is curt this time.
then, someone will come and inform, "She won't  make it today"

And when things get muddled, she comes running
and pretend **** apologetic,"Sorry, a fool I am, to hurt you, dear"
never did he tell her what she really was, never asked her to *******
she was a shipwreck, spectacular, rescue was someone else's business..

Blood, now boils quick, it's intense, he is in fire,
on her every touch, there is a special anesthetic
a poisonous binge, causes tidal waves go berserk
in his stream of blood,tangible effects of arousal results,

body now is a vast field,  goosebumps sprout like spotted
magic mushrooms after a night long rain and thunderclaps,
the salacious intent of the scent of woman,wafts,
singing pheromones perfectly rhyme with *** center
of the brain, "Ï am addicted to tarantula's love"
his whisper sounds ominous, tarantula casts her net

Serpentine vines tangle on wild trees,in natural history
museum premises,trees fall down and rise, create leaf beds
dark enclosures where lovers escape the detection of radars,
explore,the unbridled ascent of carnal wishes,as if a permit
is ingrained in the scent of exotic orchids wafting in the wind,
allowing the wild run of instincts, a dam burst, here cobras prowl,
tarantulas, at a quick look are exposed ******* with dark *******,
on eight legs the desire stands,waiting for the next ***** lover,

She was watching an insatiable pair of tarantulas in elaborate
mating rituals,they move inside, cracks and burrows,concealed
by the cover of darkness,they come out,to eat the night flowers,
exhaling ****** hunger; their dark, devious fingers, touching, caressing
finding each other's intimate  parts has a dark frenzy...
he saw the blue glimmer of a concealed weapon,smeared on by amour,
as they tumble in bed,she flashes her most venomous smile,
like the quick move of the sharp end of a bodkin,
Tarantula's love affair,when it all are over, her lover's end comes near.

A girl sitting at the table next
restless, was slyly eyeing his pie,
kind of cute, like in childhood
it sure was, yet seemed a ploy
to gatecrash in to his privacy,
and give company, as it pleased her.
"The pie is blackberry if you fancy it ,
I''ll be glad, you can have it all,
I know there is no other left"
He played Mr.Nice guy,solicitous,
but behind that face of his,
was the arrows of light, hitting him,
from those  sparkling eyes,
vying with each other, to build up
a halo chamber,  almost visible  around him!

Blackberry pie is no big deal, of course
he knows a whole hillside with
bushes full of ripe, succulent ones,
any day he could have his fill, raw
or as a flaky crusted pie backed by his mom.

But those sparkling eyes that in a moment
made him build castles in the air
had an electric appeal, he can't ignore.
The offer she said, was irresistible,
not a type she is who snatches,
dainty stuff from someone just bumped in to
"But the way your eyes did glint,
when you looked makes me ask
:haven't we met somewhere before?"

"There is a fickleness in this,love at first sight,
do you need to fall head over heels?"
a little voice within, that has a problem
in such things, kept raising a doubt.
"But without a first sight,there can't be love
may it be fickle, we'll tackle it the way it goes"
replies another,who seems to care for love.

The clock demands a tower, for it to look outwards
night has an absence, the key factor
bringing relevance to a lighthouse,
the nightingale infuses sweetness to night hours
for those listeners who never fancy hearing her on a day
a tall wall, a ladder and an iron cutter, perfectly
shapes a thief; there is a mysterious disorder
pointing the other way to every careful order.

The cactus flower and delicate butterfly on it,
brings to focus a certain delectable incongruence,
eternity has an eye resting on evanescence,
a scientist with a reverse cerebral process
alone can snake in to the origin of such nuances,
where hides the complex aesthetics of the 'other'
of what we are familiar, more fascinating than this
the universe that's the tip of an iceberg, hides from us
though, it exists here with all of the 'multiverse'
But who would institute a Nobel prize for 'otherness'
to shed light to the dark path, that would gift more astonishment to us

This heaviness, a stone in the chest,
a brooding passion flower,
fully at bloom, at moonlit night-
emits the distinct scent
of the tormentor of my heart,
an intoxicating accent it exudes--
which cages my mind.
Lust is its subtext.

Lungs are bottled up
with a mix of her pheromones,
signature perfume and the musky
scent of her sweat,
If a girl, with that intensity
gets in to the system, mixes in blood,
it's excruciating pain, is a bane,
and an insane ecstatic bliss, same time!
This isn't animal instinct, I know,
didn't she bare her mind though on the sly,
in words that has many facets, like a diamond?

No, still not sure, feels like an idiot,
(Wasn't she quite an artist,
playing with my heart?
But I am totally her's, can't help it,
from those moments,
which refuses to leave me in peace)

A longing that won't
let me take her off
from  my mind's GPS.
Oh! now, shut both eyes and imagine
her undress in slow moves,
her lush, chiselled form, sends me
waves of fragance,
I am on the verge of collapse...

Then-
suddenly the phone rings,
she complains
a heaviness of heart,
***** thoughts that-
refuse to go to sleep.
"What would you do for this?"
she  anxiously whispers,
"Hey, you are the only doctor,
I can lay my hands on,
to keep this malady at bay,
I badly need you near here,
**Is it true?
Am I falling in love with you?"

Night sounds
speak to the sky's silence,
star lights wink
love messages to lighted windows,
unveiled night coyly smiles
at moonlight inching forward, to kiss;
an orchestra of million pieces,
lights, sounds, winds, waves and flights of passion
plays for a time capsule, to be kept in eternity's chest**.

Opened
the door
            to infinity,
eternity
 came in
            to
      invite.

With a firm footed march, under sun and moonlight
We slowly advance towards December,
She was, like butter, so tender, I understood
We would sit near the camp and  compare notes,

A walk in the woods, we'd do,  smell wild flowers,
Gather ideas, without rhyme or reason, laugh together,
Life had an irregular graph, like always
And an internal logic, one needs to soon grasp,

There is nothing fool proof, here remember,
Sudden cloud bursts, land slide, thunder and flood,
Are no wonders, be ready to face wonders too as facts of life.
Every smart plan go burst, then what about windfalls, did you forget?

How can you loose heart, cry unconsoled,
We grasped every unwritten rule, so why cry?
Didn't we stand still and sense which way the wind blows?
Ever did we forget, to partake in  simple pleasures?

On every lake, with clear water ,we found time
To swim ****, competing with silver bellied fish, till we were tired,
On the shade of a tall mango tree you sat on my lap playfully,
We closed our eyes, snoozed a while, till the breeze woke us up again

**At  December, in the journey's end, we'd part ways, as it is said
Though alone, one always is,  this togetherness was really the meaning.

From the top rung of the ladder,
         she slowly steps backwards
seeing me  approach, touch down
        then, like a whirlwind, quickly turns
kisses me full on my lips
           with  such an urgency
love full of passion alone would explain,
          the feast for my eyes for
what seemed a long time, a fallacy of course
         is forgotten by my thankless mind,
but, oh! yes my lips now receive
          the same measure of pleasure,
  as a love potion, with a searing taste.

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?

You are the deep blue sea,
my red shimmering sun
   little
          by
               little
                       sinks deeper
                       a gasp,
                       a  silver shiver, exquisite

inside the dense waters
sun moves in sensuous pace
arousing hellacious passions, sea hides
makes her yell out
in thousand  voices of seagulls

Intense spasmodic waves
rise and fall transmitting euphoric notes
that dissolve in the gentle golden light
of a lone curious star, watching
without batting an eyelid.

Buzzard, eagle, falcon, hawk,
Tiger, cheetah, lion, leopard,
panther, cougar, wild cat
intense all these predators are,
in carnal love and the war for dominance.
Each has characteristic hunting ways,
in day time prowling,  plain beasts, they remain,
at sunset , each springs up,  party time starts.
Birds of prey in silence watch from above
and find the right target, at a time that suits.
No endearments, in love or in games,
only body speaks of desires or warnings
Swift expression of demand, quick strike,
overpower and make the other surrender.
Throaty growls hurting silence of the forest
double as their sparse love language.
Hunters can never be lovers, their actions speak,
they demand, commandeer, force to surrender.

Her lubricious bikini has full of criss- crossing fancy strings,
the central idea indeed, seems to be not concealing any skin.
when you pull at any one,
the whole becomes undone,
can you blame if the focus of the action shifts to other things?

The day they operated on his brain
he imagined it as his day of poetry
freedom from the pain of living,
and heard a train reciting a long poem
on love, nightmares and death
by a Chilean poet he adored,
whose name he tried to recollect, over and over again
but his train of thoughts curiously missed
that one station in each, separate attempt.
.
Did he hear anyone whispering anything about 'bad omen'?
reminding a poet killed by a dose of poison
injected by the  doctor treating him
to end the emotional ******* of
his poetry over the mind of millions
of readers
                 - and then he slowly lost orientation
in delirious state he fell in to a pit of delight and thought
about the white luminant mist  poetry, has created in his being,
all through the days of suffering love gifted him.
He received poetry as a feeling, deep, deep inside,
Emily Dickinson was to him a fragrance enveloping his consciousness,
then a feeling inexpressible, an elation, leading him to a plane higher.
His brain was a night filled tunnel, through which
the train reciting dark poems of stark beauty of death
traveled like lightening, he sat perplexed looking
at a mirror someone held before him, reflecting darkness, an eerie feeling.

That night train wailing as if  someone dear has left for ever
traveled through the surreal plane of Dali paintings.
"Life", a unfamiliar voice proclaimed aloud near him,
"Is poetry written in one's blood, which one fails
to read as it is dangerously close to one's suicide note,
that one finishes reading  only at the last minute".He hoped
they must have finished his surgery by now;
it was getting dark, a kind of mist spreading like a swarm of evil beetles,
but they were still at it, panic reigned
on  the operation table. His face was peaceful
immobile like the wings of a dead butterfly.

has the dawn overslept?
her shut windows remain unlit;
night still has a ball.

I see you sit expectantly biting lips
  on the extended museum steps leading
to a veranda around the building, that invites
a flash mob,of your ilk, effervescent, to come together
perform and celebrate, nothing in particular,
  except giving a shock pleasure to all those marked  "the other"

Once you made me believe, together we make a whole,
that is the story we live on I was told, I merely listened,
I and you missed few beats and steps here and there
find us now in pages different, why, even ages apart,

"What a fine specimen,!" a pacifist, I can't but appreciate
watching your elan. As if seeing an alien in my home ground,
I watch the spectacle, gulping down my discomfiture dutifully,
while you romance with much finesse,to the cell phone,
you cling on as if it's the beau you want to show off.

"Wouldn't she make a fine museum piece?"
that would point towards the life style,
that highlights only the moment present,
and constantly on the run to remain there,
while past vanishes and future becomes obscure more and more.

With a gentle smile for you to pick up, when you are at peace,
I move on; more than the museum pieces still living,
I am interested in  regular exhibits I easily grasp.

a heart shaped
white cloud,
slowly turns red.
A zooming black bird,
piercing through it,
a love story--
*beginning or end?

Once I chased a girl in Calicut,
Her diet, just pepper, not her fault,
Wooing her I'd plead,
"You are hot, I am glad,
But burn just my mouth, understood?"

Night appears in an avatar
of a sweet chaperon,
coming with a lovely dark gown
to dress the shy, blushing evening
cajoling her for a slow make over,
she implies, it's better letting
the will of darkness prevail.

Now she is a perfect charmer
night, lets her long dark tresses
loose, that flows in waves
down through her back and
caresses her rotund proud buttocks,
adding to her silent grandeur,
till the next spectacular day breaks.

Night is an ace  temptress
with full moon at her side
as an irresistible  magical charm
to sway even nature, catch
the sea in her net,
of attraction and makes it  dance,
bewitching night makes
the stars in her coiffure gleam.

Night is an agile courtesan,
having royal patronage,
eyeing you wistfully,
hellbent upon her this day's conquest,
her amatory skills one can tell
will be *****,she is classy nevertheless.
In her boudoir, women are salacious,
hungry men too dance to her tunes,
what you gain after a spirited
amorous duel, is the gift of dark eyed night.

Distraught, with alien invaded heart
I partied with the night in my thoughts.
Dark, distant and silent as perceived, yet
She was candid,  sweetness personified.
Let me taste swigs of wine from her cup
Sung me a lullaby of  ethereal starlights
Dreams plucked  from nights, she gifted
Weeded out nightmares deeply embeded.
On a dream boat chosen,I set sailed alone
To an emerald island at the middle of
the  ocean,
And made up my mind never to sail back.
Adamant I was not to be out of that dream
Beloved,  ******,  night conjured up for me
With the twist of  her psychedelic finger.

Dali's brush, she has
in her expressive tongue;
his cubist sensibility,
laps up that dense macabre
as if it's cadence par excellence.

The ship(notified) lost
leisurely drifts over waves
westwards, "Unhurried hereafter"
is the slogan written on it's mast
it would seem to an onlooker.
A net is cast wide,
to catch as much fish
as the tired crew now needs.
Each furious wave
that rushes towards the ship
changes tack, proclaims
a frothy message of peace.
No more communication exchanges
causing disturbances, no hurry any more.
None waits for the lost ship,
in any distant shore, with a binocular,
or spanning a Radar, uneasily .
The crew had already forgotten
every mission undertaken before.
It has no schedule, deadlines, plan
the ship feels more buyout than ever before
,just floats along, as if it's a tranquil thought,
towards the direction where
the purple sun prepares to set dramatically.
Accompanied by two astonished whales,
sailing along like two mates, the ship,
now a lone wolf,with a hidden yearning
has become more alive, once declared lost.

Her guttural moan, a flower blooming from depth,
                                                             primordial expression of pleasure-
no word could ever contain, solipsistic,
                                                                has numerous shades of meaning;
no lexicologist has ever attempted to elaborate,
                                                                     the nuances of that ****** slang,
yet, how does he understand its each exquisite strain,
                                                           so perfectly well, when she whimpers?

I am the warm lips of sun, that kiss your dew drenched petals,
when you in self oblivion try to embrace, I've gone faraway,
playing  with love struck clouds, dancing, their slips flying,
I am the fire making your body burn with desire,slyly planted

I am the wind, licking pollen off your stamen softly, making you
want me to do that more, sowing goosebumps all over
I am the movement of desire, moving through that time of the day
languid in mornings,spreading fervor at noons and in darkness
coils like a serpent that searches for burrow to snuggle in til dawn

Flow of water am I, that carries you along easily throughout,
you could ease in to me, I am the bed and the fingers caressing,
in my dreams you are the  sneaking fingers of my naughty lover,
in you are my ablutions, my fire is quenched  by your  flows.
I ooze,fluids of many scents sometimes a sprouting spring.
I trickle with  pleasure, lubricate,cross one level to the other.
                                               (C)

You are cyclic like
the change of seasons
in your reinvention;
robust is your passion,
a mountain brook
that embraces hills
plains, fields and ravines
without any restriction.

Instantly you would imbibe
any message, air, wind or water
sends through flashes of intimations,
nature's child you are, a woman
in sync with the moon in your veins
and the sun that seeks you from my *****.

I only follow the music your heart strings play
that in my psyche resonates, every moment,
it makes easy navigation in this planet my right.

You and I  move through the waves rowing
shoulder to shoulder, singing spiritedly barcaroles.
The feminine in me is under your tender care,
I let my masculine self be in communion with yours,
all merging in harmoniously, resulting in  only ONE.

My armory is in the amorous corner of my brain,
dexterously I press the button of my attack missiles-
on love mission, as soon as she advances all of a sudden
making me counter her attack, directed to my heart,
aiming with her blazing eyes, that hit the bull's eye of the target.

They repeatedly boasted aloud
of conquests and victories
for a short period between
their  palmy days of youth
and unexpected quick death;
a mad rush of adrenaline
before thought could wake up reason,
nothing more than a basic need
for impulsive violent action,
few drops of poetry could have changed direction,
a death wish triggered by moments of darkness
that invites a chain of tragic consequences.

But thoughtful they were
to  hire overzealous writers,
being aware of their need of arming future.

The writers extolled the futile deaths
embellished words, made it look  heroic
which really pointed only to a ****** end.

Look at each tomb stones lined
here in the cemetery, once more
see, if the names extolled once are still not eroded.

Uncomfortably on one shoe,
this Cinderella of Bangalore,
stood  in front of "Infinity mall"
(No prince could miss a girl here)
peering in to every funky car,
from the wee hours.
With the other shoe in hand
for easy identification, (how smart!)
her lovelorn prince, fell asleep
at the precise time
when his taxi passed her.

Your
searing kiss;
pure bliss
masquerading
as oral tranquilizer.

Ripe, golden rice,
Endlessly billowing in wind,
Wafting fresh scent.

Flower beds in every nook
was Bangalore's delight
for long long years,
even before the time
Winston Churchill lived there
as a young British soldier.
Salubrious climate turned it then
in to a pensioner's paradise,
full of quiet tree lined streets.

The one time cool "Garden city"
one finds now with a new itch,
in its mad rush to get hitched
with the so called" flat world"
every which way possible,
it kills the symphony of colors,
both willingly and otherwise;
trees fall, monstrous flyovers rise,
technological behemoths,
which fast become dinosaurs
as economic down turn hits hard,
stand daunting us, adding green house gases
now, its all kitsch and concrete **** everywhere.

Morning light, without fail tells me something new, about you!
Each day adds some more in my story book about your love,
Some little thing, makes me think about invisible you each moment.
What do I do other than being possessed by you, in spirit, body and mind.