lightening doodles
night and city lights dissolve,
more or less than than real?

drum beats to murmur,
a lull in nightlong rain rage;
wind’s bugle again!

A colourful butterfly,
male of the species,
utterly romantic,
in his pattern of behaviour,
says it all simply
by the  his style of flight.
It is a kind of skiing
up in the air, as if on ice,
He practises it,  to tail her,
a duty he quite earnestly
took upon himself.

She is visibly pleased about
all the attention she commands,
revealed by  his spectacular aerobatics
her every response, tells it.

With his jittery moves,
he gives her good cover
from other pesky suitors,
with loud painted wings.

By flitting right to left
and then the reverse
he smears colors on her wings
his inadvertent gift, of love,
in the process of the courting ritual.

With his passion, he anoints her,
with all the fervour he could muster,
you'd see him tremble,
with uncontrollable delight.
as he defies the rules of the wind,
hovers over her as if she is vanquished,

Only she,sees it with a pair of different eyes:
"Love makes us both victorious,in this game"

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.

Hanna to me is the  BEGINNING of an evolution,
She finds me the END(of her fervent seeking for long)
Many worlds (we knew) existed between us until then,
Willingly crunch to make a perfect ONE from the debris.

From one corner of my eye,
iridescent sparks of love
involuntarily fly,
ignite the dormant suns,
yearning for a dawn,
within your lovely eyes;
overwhelmed by joy, they
light up my inner skies.

Either by the curl of your lips,
that suggests a perfect fit
with mine, keep  waiting,
or with the sensual swing
of your curved alabaster hips,
that display gay abandon,
you set flames to fireworks,
that in my veins create tides
and set fire to my *****,
that won't easily be quelled for a
while: till that time we both decide.

Amanda, a crazy collector of Vanda
had such an intense dislike for Aranda
she detested the ******,
when making out in tandem
her outdoor escapade once scared a Panda



(C) K.Balachandran
balaprimus@gmail.com

crows' cacophony,
on dark night's planned felony;
moon dilutes darkness!

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?"

A million poems seeking light, I haven't attempted to write,
Create waves and tides in my bloodstream day and night,
Demanding to make them heard blending  words that inebriate,
Before I forget them and chase  other butterflies in my garden.

I feel guilty about my choice of words to weave, later sometimes
Couldn't get the emotions I try to express,in my poems,right, regret,
True, there is no democracy even in my choice of poetic subjects,
Disorder could be  the suited order in making my inner world speak.

It's as if I am some other guy when I write, my heart's real prompt,
I don't even insist to be perfect,an inner voice wants to speak it's truth,
I am stimulated by a creative lust and in the frenzy of inner coitus,
Forget even myself,it's a  race towards ****** and strongly I  *******.

A totem am I,
Double helix memories,
Of DNA history!

Lovely night, soft, supple, sweetly dark,
stole my heart, with her salascious gait,
did arouse my desires, beyond all limits
embraced me tightly, put to bed, lulled to sleep,
dream, her accomplice, an enchantress beyond compare,
crept in, to ****** me in  perfect silence,
as I writhed in  waves and waves of pleasure.

I bat both eyelids.
She attributes motive and winks.
The right moment to think!

Amidst ancient ruins,
A pair, fugitives from past,
Conspire against time!

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 mystery gripped me unawares,
One without form, shape or color
All I could make out is this dear:
Weaved  out of million fine strands
Its essence is all; all of it a mystery.
No distinguishing mark, you’ll find
Its warm grip transcends limits
In such a state I was left, for which
A name none  has ever invented
Even that’s not a need, of course
Being the one of it’s kind, a name
For the singular mystery won’t suit
It’s beyond the realm  of identities
The mystery is just that,get it right.

Seductive anchor,
News seems deceptively tame;
Anesthetic helps!

soliciting wind,
Cheeky, trembling, flowered woods;
ecstasy explodes!

sultry summer wind,
kisses mango blooms came late;
make them regret it!

A dense black rock
in deep meditation for ever
gesticulated to him in the dark
as if they have met at the appointed hour.

He could feel the warmth
of love in its inner core
never ever given a chance to express
for long, long millenniums.
"Open your heart" he commanded
in a voice, that  triggers miracles,
thunder roared, lightning flashed
goosebumps did quickly spread
in the center of the dense granite block
speaking a cryptic code,
cleaving it in to two, what a brilliance!
this moment was kept hidden by circumstances;
a diamond filled the darkness
with such radiance, that has no measure.

An alien fruit
on a low hanging branch,
she swings invitingly
flaunting her color,
that pulled me near
what an adornment
you would be to my
meager fruit basket,
inebriating scent emanating
overpowers my senses.

Your design, I certainly smell
I hear the whisper,
the disclaimer to entice me
to your side, "I don't like him,
the keeper of my orchard,
he pretends he owns it
but does he know the truth?
it's different, fruits aren't
his passion, just a hoarder
he doesn't enjoy  the ripe fruits,
and I am a **** fruit,
I see yearnings play hide and seek
in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy,
I've been waiting to come this way,
take me, soon I'll forget him,
throw away your qualms
like fruit peels to the dumps"

I can't now discern,
what I now think,
no, I am no purist
who detests tartness,
I like the taste of vinegar,
this fruit offers so much,
this is a taste I relish,
but I am not game for this,
like to chase and hunt,
fruits from higher branches,
"wouldn't touch a carcass,
even if it promises much"

This Tamarind tree
with a thick  thatched roof of leaves
spread to all the sides
like matted dreadlocks
of a sage
in silent, inwardly turned contemplation,
for long long years
has such cool, comfortable shade,
that is--

lovely rendezvous
to the love smitten,
to bill and coo for hours,

transit home for nomads
who own nothing more than their backpacks
and looking for a shade,

playground for children
in the neighborhood,
with curious eyes,

resting place for laborers
tired from toiling, in the sun all day long.

pen for itinerant goats,
that playfully fight with each other,

kennel for stray pups
finding companionship
all by themselves,

hive for honey bees
that hum tunes for all these refugees,

venue for a cocophonous
congregation of  birds of different feathers,
obviously very political,
probably arguing about the future
plans when such a kind tree no more
would be there, soon
when the road gets broadened.

Foaming sunlight makes love
                 with the tender purple leaves of mango trees,
light crafts a crust of luminescence,
                  over the profusion of yellow and blue blooms,
avenue trees vie with each other to  hold forth
                  their  flowers on sun's water fall of light to bath.


Evening doesn't show any sign of waning
                   the ebullience  the day had sowed in the world,
"ANANDA" though unspoken as a word, aloud
                    is heard by  inner being, making everyone rejoice,
living and nonliving seamlessly join in,
                    and swim in the swelling  waters of force of life.
past invisible floats gently to the present
                  flows towards a sea of tranquility crossing nights.

Ancestral riches
In ancient jewelbox,night,
No one would swindle!

fire ant performs
acrobatics, on a leaf,
pauses for applause!

she binds with her eyes,
restrains break with gleaming  smile;
love's sweet anarchy!

Eschewing that second thought,
let me tell you what I truly sought
come, lock me up in your heart
you, I've no doubt  is a true despot

I don't hold back, life is way too short
can't heckle and haggle like an idiot
on the planes, see  profligacy of robust water
hills are in the reign of wild sun and winds

Here ends the vast fields of ripened  rice,
where prowl crooked foxes eyeing hens,
on the foot hills furious bisons flare nostrils,
as you climb,eager leopard smells blood.

Love is the  fragrance  that outlives the flower,
my trek to the mystic mountain continues where
**** and shroom grow tangled  everywhere
the trek to the love hill, to strike  gold,is in progress,

Astounding things, await you, but
happen only on the stage of mind,
beyond that is the realm boundless,
all cosmic magic, true abode of everything.

Donning my costume, I am a string tuned,
expectant to start the play I wrote for myself,
on  stage, when the curtain will go up
only that magical moment decides ,

The daily grind is a mere repetition
from morning till dusk and beyond,
In between I peep through the window
and get a glimpse of mind's sky, star studded,

Loneliness my mistress, is a daily visitor,
an age old and true love who never fails to please,
kissing deeply on my lips a few times she leaves,
only to come back and take me to bed with her,

Strangers become sweethearts, on my stage,
in a play we act our roles, emote, overwhelmingly
subtle moments gifted,  I shed my worn out self, a stranger here,
*my dramatic monologue rings out loud, "What are you, life?"

A trek to the golden peak,
of clarity of every kind,
she had taken up earnestly
as her singular mission all along.
Near  the  upper reaches,
at the difficult terrain,
without any admonition,
an avalanche.
Her ego, frozen and hardened,
rushed towards her,
blocked further progress,
for ever,
like a wall of resistance.
She tried her best
to venture forward,
but she had lost the path
completely by then
and didn't know which way to turn.

Slightly built, yet robust,
not frail, a daily jogger by choice,
shape conscious, proud-
about keeping the weight
in check, all these years,
articulates her feelings well
but, not the argumentative type,
this facet endears her to all,
keeps her Indian mind agile,
which reflects in her awareness
of eternity than here and now.
Takes oil bath twice a day, in keeping with
the true Malayalee spirit,
never a river in spate, yet
forceful and gushing in making heard
her opinions for others to consider,
from the first day of marriage,
unlike the demure Indian women.

None would doubt her might
that transcends the limits of material and physical,
hidden power sources are tapped at will,
cites her matrilineal heritage, that
stems form a long line of matriarchal grandmothers.

I can't imagine a day passing our premises
without she giving permission,
putting her signature,
all over each passing hour,
though we never keep a formal register for that.
Aren't we three, auxiliaries, the boys and I
in the orchestra named after this inveterate conductor?
Sweet to the core, but if needed
could be pungent, never erupts or go wild,
Smile is disarmingly gentle, yet
that firm answer, needed at the right time,
is never delayed.

Two adoring eyes flutter,
pledging support,
they never let me down, day or night.
a hand that gently touches, me
with the  fingers of reality.
when I dream in day or night.

One tiny fiery ant
with a tiny wand,
deftly conducted
a grand orchestra of
ants with varied talents,
resulting in a musical storm,
unheard of in the
craggy ant world before.

The ants with diaphanous wings
smug, complacent dandies
that counted themselves
nothing less than regal
buzzing above unaware
of  this magic electrifying
the land of ordinary ants below,
but had a hunch somehow
wondered:
"Are we missing out
on some fine thing
ants like us should aspire for
or is it just a feeling
without any basis?"