In his dreams the Vally in the throes of efflorescence call out
in a language heart alone understands;
from the hanging bridge over Ganga, he views the ice-capped peaks,
Vally's ***** extravagance and the river's turbulence.

The river runs too deep, at times he finds,
the currents treacherously strong,
from the window of his *Ashram, the view is clear.
She bathes naked, alone on a step submerged in water,
eyes feast on her moonlit curves,
the pleasures skin deep, camouflage the existential dilemmas ! he smiles
In memory his Guru speaks:"Eat only those fruits that make one immortal"
Yet another Himalayan journey in search of the fruit tree unknown

It's too late to redefine, life and love when the avalanche thunders above
on his lonesome path, every step uphill is fraught with slippery stones,
one way leads to the top, to bathe in the light of  the star reaching down

Some days end in too long nights, too cold, the sun shows up hesitant,
her body has the warmth that reaches to his icy depths,
a ****** alone could penetrate, but it still wouldn't melt
Himalayan silence, chant of Ganga, the ghost of a ******
that follows him  like a faithful dog, are all these fragments of a dream
or realities stringed together from many different planes?

Stately stone mountain's pride,
steep granite peak, seat of vultures,
single lush tree uniquely shaped by winds,
stand atop like a mysterious symbol,
big, round, purple sun, in poetic candor,
like enlightenment, rises behind it;
a sight words can't contain.

Far far down,
in the middle of the grappling green,
the blue jewel, a lake in meditation,
hidden in the thickets, hanging down
in to the water plane, cunning eyes
in hundreds, of black-spotted wild alligators.

A doe and her fawn,
stand at the edge of the lake, driven by thirst,
her both ears perked up listening,
before stepping in to the water to see,
if everything is in order.

Nature, mother kindness
stand guard to all her children,
non interfering,
what now will happen
depends upon  laws
governed by karma,
decided by the action that triggered
the sequence, long back
and not easy to discern.

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.

An amorous robot asked her out for a date.
One 'inappropriate touch ' by him,
No doubt, would have sent her up in smoke.
Yet, avoiding the danger of  war with humanoids
For spurning one of their kind, was
Uppermost in her mind: she thoughtfully gave the nod!

"A poem written by a drunken poet
**** inebriated by beauty so rare
and thought his words would be
immortal but did lack coherence"
on seeing her for a while, he gathered
"This beauty sure has a raw appeal,
but needs someone, patient and deft
with  experience to polish and edit,
to bring out her true effulgence"

She was watching him keenly in silence
Are hearts capable of exchanging notes?
Her eyes shone as if she read his thoughts
"A rough stone, precious, am I,  found out
from a distant mine, no definite shape or
remarkable shine, no one tried ever to cut it
and chisel fine,  so that light 'll reflect from all faces
carets not clearly known, will you take it in your hands
and consider it as thine, lavish your love on it
and reveal the hidden beauty, that's ravishing
born out of sedimented carbon,soot laden on outer layer"
her eyes spoke to him in silence, and he smiled.

Sylvie, I am alone here
doing nothing, except
thinking about you,
in a meditative trance.

It's a beautiful feeling Sylvie
strange, I don't miss you,even!
I imagine you as an awakening  flower
of changing colors and petals
You are in a whirl of realization.

Then a lone tree you are,
near a vast,waveless  lake
what an intriguing  koan,
to churn my inner sea.

You're nowa drifting white cloud
all through the kaleidoscopic shifts
I forget to think,what would I be
in relation with your whims,spectacular


Beyond apparitions, I search for  meaning
that  eludes, as it is fathomless

I hear the song of the lonely star, so near
and realize,"I am the light of the burning star"

Sylvie, I can't remember
neither you nor me exactly
or the distant star that sings
a song in the tunes of light years


You were from the forest, Sylvie
I used to be the mountain wind
that once caressed the forest trees.
Sylvie, we are one; the imagination
of the waves of light, beyond time.

Lurking memories,
Echo of silence resounds;
Grave stones seem baffled!

A girl wearing a flowing gown,
on which yellow butterflies are in profusion
sows seeds of happy confusion
inadvertently in midtown.
The day on its upward swing
pauses a moment,  catching my breath
I jump on, with her, we fly up
the girl smiling to herself
allowed me to arrest herself
inside me for keeps, without persuasion

A forest fallen flat
in to the water bed,
of this extended lake
gives him a feeling of surreal
and yes, an immense sense of peace.

he sits there alone, quietly
peering at his cold narcissistic face
now, broken in to pieces by fish
curious to look at his face
by swimming around his reflected one.

After many cold winters
when at last one finds out
that mere reflections all are,
the face thought to be real,
and the reflection on water plane,
on the pool waters of time
that drains little by little,
liberation wings in like
a white dove, the harbinger
of the last good news.

The cuckoo
in the bamboo grove,
swaying from one side to the other
as the bamboo moves in the hands of wind,
on the clod water sheet, sings without sound,
the forest that grunts
like a wounded animal,
observes grave silence
in the other reality plane-
water spreads.
He watches in alert silence
a recluse in parallel realities
           he has awakened.

A wild rider through the prairies of life, extending to far horizons,
in my veins the true spirit of intergalactic nomads, stardust,
from many past lives brims; it sets the tone of my enduring quest.
My  indefatigable steed, and me are one in our thoughts and heart.

Through her changing  hues and moods, nature speaks to me, inspires
drenched in moon beams, to the uplands we would  traverse,
then come the slopes descending to deep pits and dark hollows,
my prairie homestead, tucked away in that valley distant,to me
is a dream mysterious; dense solitude keeps it for me as a secret.

A miraculous herb, I found by chance, among the flora rich,
keeps thirst and hunger at bay, and the quest continues unhindered,
low hanging fat, white, clouds change the display in varied forms,
to regale us as we cross the badlands, that try to bog us down in vein.

Love caressed me at times,like gentle wind,once a whirlwind
made me lose bearing,with a thorn made a slash across my heart,
love is a sweet pain, but losing a beloved, a crusted ugly scar,
but the traveler is in a trance, still led by the pole star's lonely light,

The bows and arrows I destroyed after long  introspection,
herds of bison as I pass would notice,see me empty handed,
stand still as if in a guard of honor, to watch me pass with a smile                     
Still night, embellished by starlight, sung lullabies to us weary souls.
my steed and I go diving deep,hungrily in to the pool of sleep
                                                           ­                                       
**Sleep, wakefulness, day and night; all encased within a dream.
I, my steed and the lives the prairie embraces, and the galaxy  are one.

Ah! that naughty wink,
Could accomplish many things!
Or make one just sink!

Comes winter, walking on cat's paws
with the promises of a time different, again
Hail the **** ingeniousness of this cheat,
who arrives with a new guile year after year.

yet again I fall in to that ***** trap
winter cleverly sets for me with
her sweet nothings, falling ice flakes
and her characteristic ****** white attire,
I am seduced by her ****** virginal frolic,
snow soft murmurs that lengthen nights
hear her  orchestra distinct plays without fail,

From my neurons the winters past are  erased,
deeply in amour I am with her,my marrow tingles,
how do I still get entangled all over again,
in a dilemma, programmed to recur every year?

Each time this happens I'd say to myself:
"This is the last and final time this love happens
this cold uncaring cruel maiden's embrace!"
winter, beloved tantalizer,who loves to freeze me
and extract the last drop of love from me before she leaves.

Winter, I now understand,I too love your desires
that torment me all through your stay here, every year,
In your white, gilded resort,you keep me as a prisoner
where I am no different from others,in clinical white cloaks.

Winter nights are the cruelest,
sound of incessantly falling ice,
disturbs.It accumulates,
on the foliages above,
slide,
       and fall
             on the earth
                           with a
                                      thud.
   I am sweating tears,
my heart bleeds; a pain-
I can't share with anyone,
as you aren't near.
*My heart develops a hole,
                        I peer inside,
and see you
               sit there perplexed!

In deep sleep, her  anguished voice rings a bell in my brain,
hear the screams of a woman in my blood stream,
hallucination, I loved to believe,  but then it became more frequent
at night, she whispers, her intimate secrets, without shame
in to my ears, in a seductive voice.Do I like it? she snickers
I got used to it's persuasive lilt, sometimes it  sounds like a complaint.
If I turn a deaf ear, she knows how to make me listen
Then I am all ears; become her single, faithful, captive listener.
She questions me sometimes"Tell me what you know about ***?"
I go and learn the fundas on the female of the spices,
in detail, pass the test,
wonder, how little I know about her as a person. Isn't she my counterpart?
She talks about the curtain of ignorance, that still segregates  her from him
and chides me "Will you be complete, if I didn't wake you up"

Each word is a potent seed,
sow it with such loving care,
these seeds, in fertile fields
lie in wait patiently to sprout
and to  ensure a golden harvest

1.
The non peril writer,magnificent illustrator,
dexterous editor,all in one of the book of life,
each one, each page,each edition looks and reads
different, yet one in essence, though flavors vary.
We hear  you speak every tongue,Latin, Arabic, Hebrew
and in sonorous Sanskrit,you make us chant"Earth is one nest"
2.
Such profuse creativity  baffles one and all, ever
is your prime possession;  manifestation as well!
The nebulous one, present in each cell,each neuron,
well,  everything ever appeared,anywhere in cosmos,
we attempt to know you in myriad means, give you names
that pleases us, we try to possess you in ways even mean.
We hallucinate our cameras of mind, captures  you right
with the eyes of science; you still prove to be like music.
3.
In our limited resources allotted by neuron collectives,
we make you sit on the throne, of the architect of cosmos,
that evolves and emerge,and itself erases when time is ripe.
The artistic painter of emotions, that has been baffling,
the mix of color happens without any  guide book.
sans blue print of any kind or elaborate plan to execute.
4.
You have no designated place to live, in spite of our wishes
you are omnipresent , the string, player as well as  music,
your thought work we all are, weaved in to one from
strands of of ancient  DNA things preserved,through ages!
Oh! the one that's beyond the realms of winning /losing
the subtlest of all the sublime that in every heartbeats chant,
love to be a work of art that  pleases you, in me present,
5.
Help me from within, in my dissolution as colors,varied
be the painter too and to become that work of art pleases you.

There is a forbidden pleasure in the poet's art
it's like having an illicit ****** liaison, is it not?
now it can be told, that's the way one felt
enticing while evasive, was her two way dance.

In the secret society meeting last full moon night
for the first time I came face to face
with the enigmatic girl, rumored to be  the mistress
of the poet I admire, for his skills of allusion and  veiled speech
she was so young and somnambulistic in appearance
her lips were so thin, the only remarkable thing
still in memory those pale lips remain,
how helpless we are in a world, curtained off
to keep our secrets in rooms of green darkness!

The poet was absent, but he was very much present by that,
as her shame intrudes when she starts conversations.I found him there.
The words whispered from her lips were not heard, however one tried
none listened to it, I bet, a poet's mistress is as curious
as an  object of art, stolen from its rightful place, I suppose

When the boat returned to the island to take us back
we were the only passengers left, at last, how strange!
In turgid waters a fallen full  moon like a snake swam
I was looking at its wriggle, creating a tragic geometry
that reminded me her thin lips, she sat next to me, motionless
her soft breathing, was rhythmic poetry I kept imagining,
till we parted exchanging a faint smile. her's was florescent.

The wound
though old
and hence
looked closed,

the pain
it caused
was quite
obtrusive,
even after
all those
years, were
somehow
left behind,
oblivious of
the misery
it created.

Couldn't leave
it like that,
insistent pain
made to decide at last,
when it was
opened again
memories
sprayed out
copiously, like
dark, coagulated blood,
never before seen.
Then, fresh blood
started to ooze
as if reluctant
to close the wound,
unable to forget
emotions that are
made to sleep
anesthetized.

Yes, the night vision binocular
we call science, is fantastic!
Good to locate distant things at night,
but tell me, by any chance is it helpful
for the user to locate oneself/self ?

Elena receives a secret message from God
"Keep quiet and listen to Bach, kid"it said
She was so cross with God at first,naturally,
"The old man is cold, I won't listen to his
new commandment" she averred
as she wanted to annoy Almighty as much
as, a retaliatory measure.She felt good,
pleased, she fell silent for a long, long while.

Quickly she realized she obeyed His word
and by that time her ranting and raving
had fully come to an end.
                                             "Oh! my God!"
in astonishment she thanked God,
for making her feel better though she was
thoughtless and horribly blasphemous.

"What a crafty old geezer God is"she grinned.
yes,her defiance was intentional,but it was
as God willed,how intelligent His designs are!
"Oh! Bach! she remembered his words
she ran to fetch a record.Hey presto! it's there
right at the top of the heap, as God willed, of course,

while 'Christmas Oratorio' of Bach sweeps her off her feet,
Elena feels elated, as if the hands of devine, embrace her tight.

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.

1
Bark, say, those who probed its meaning deep,
is a complete dog language;
but many others argue against;
say, this idea itself is nonsense.

when you hear the bark of a dog remember, meaning is not the same every time,
either happy or sad is every bark!
some could well be shouts of protest.

breaking the ruminating silence of the young night
in to hundred tiny pieces,
a dog, count him a vanguard, barks,
over and over again, like he/she is possessed.

sounds like a long pending complaint,
to the heartless master,
insistence on not restricting the rights

"Let me be off
from this leash
for a while"
a dog's days are painfully  long,
but even meager demands, mercilessly neglected.
that's a dog's life perfect!

the love showered on occasions,
and care taken, excessively at times, come with riders.

2
Now two dogs, with throaty barks,
compete to outbark each other-
(...to settle an acrimonious dispute,
going on for how long,
who knows!)

'kind souls, at your dinner tables,
please intervene,
even dogs deserve their peace'
the bark goes tapering in to the night..

3
A woofing predator- like dog,
with a bark that easily could startle, any heart,
suddenly falls silent,
like all his engines have failed!
what ever has happened, one can't guess!

4
A sleeping dog
(his barks suggest that)
breaks the lull again,
barking harshly at a dream,
that threatens ,(perhaps)
a sudden bark, like a bullet,
catches the opponent unawares and hit.
(the foe, howled aloud,
till the moment falling dead,
one imagines!)

5
The bylanes are now littered
with, many kinds of barks,
mutilated, dissolved,
vanished, floating in the air,
quickly  forgotten, as it's harsh;
swiftly passing dark night,
with the help of sweeping  winds
collects and packs,
all barks
in to a bag of silence
and walks on quick.

6
Top dogs do not belong to this club,
they are always noted for their
braided silence;
none ever hear their barking sound,
--such a secret, not even a growl!
they are known for their bites,
each one  is different.
                  OOO

the bar maid,
hides her human side;
acts as expected.

Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he  can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving ***,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with

Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog,  in the place
it  got a juicy bone.

Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.

Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green

Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.

He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.

On banana flower's *******
Three avaricious bats suckle.
Above, few still circle.

all eyes on your face,
turning ruddy, mad with rage;
hey leader, beat it!

A bloom on the hedge,
Wants me to stop, but I left;
‘Love, it’s getting dark’

Your lovely eyes(widened by a surgeon's knife) in happiness shine,
those pouting lips sure contain some fillers,to make them lusciously full,
and the make up that creates an aura,I can't fail to notice , is subtle,
yet, I hope the beauty invisible is pristine still in your tranquil soul.

Hot headed one eyed nerd,
                 walking blindly with the herd,
                 be aware, every time you croak the F-word,
               cussing like an irritated toad,
            you denigrate those moments on cloud nine,
            you inch up the rainbow panting, 
                    smearing all colors together;
                            the very moments you hanker for,
                                        past every sunset
                                  as if there is nothing else you can sanely  think of,
                                                   till the ******,
                                                     and your partner is the only one that exists,
                                                      in this whole wide world.

He undressed
her seductive
     mind.

At the traffic lights,
lone woman
in red,
astride a motor bike,
drenched in rain, wait;
thousand eyed desire,
court her in a hurry,
before the light
turns green.
O

two butterflies flit,
on a vast green lawn searching-
no flower at sight.

I want to be,
                   though
                              nothingness
                                                  is also me.

The hesitant shadow
of a melancholy poet,
while walking on it's
wobbly undefined legs,
result of light losing to darkness,
speaks to the alert poetic self,
listening with perked up ears,
in a strange dialect of darkness
about 'being in nothingness'