Lush mango groves
where  the musky scent of mango blooms
once wafted making the
bulbuls sing in ecstasy
from morning till sundown
                  are reborn as gated communities,
                  where grim seriousness parade.

                      In sun drenched vineyards,
                      shadows of dreams,
                      wanting to dress up as IT parks, spread.
                      Bangalore barters its  medley of colors and smells
                      for prosperity in terms of greenbacks,
                      as people learn to be 'smart' players,
                                       and more and more get 'Bangalored'*
                                       from around the world.
Corn fields that danced to the tunes
of  the songs of  toiling farmers
go missing within days.
To match with the new mood,
nature, in this green paradise, till not so long ago
shamelessly wears the  unnatural with style.

Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

Think!
In the Past, under clear sky, any could walk
all over Bharat, though an Indian or not so.
The notion of a nation merging petty kingdoms
dimmed the vision of the people of tolerance.
Selfish kings and selfish landlords together
severed India proclaiming "save India", alas!
     In the post independent India, I was born,
walked freely even in the starry night, till 1970s,
enjoyed outing, slept in lodges, snored under trees.
Then came the Emergency, amidst it, against people;
politicians exploited communal thoughts, Delhi burnt,
for votes; created vote banks; nothing learnt from riots;
no merging, but diverging forces hurled us, viciously
forced us to riots-in Gujarat, Assam, Bombay;
panic people run helter -skelter, in Delhi, elsewhere,
in Pune, Bangalore, Poovar or Marad, no exemption.
How lucky were Adi Sankara and Swami Vivekenanda!
The former founded four Mutts at the pulse-points
of Bharat- the latter roamed not in Rome but in India
(the land of saints, temples, home of gods and godly men)
instilling the spirit of nationalism and social reformation.
    But…while dollars roll over the sovereignty of rupees,
as a ****, with drooping eyes among nations -a land
de jure integrated and de facto dissipated and dejected
by linguistic, fiscal and parochial aspirations strutting us on-
we stand.. Who cares? Sitting around the dying culture  
all Jackals, devour and howl as vultures hover around-I shudder
to move along the road, freely breathe; as espionage, tolls
identification cards, to the satisfaction of the jackals,
that create hurdles on my way, materially, spiritually; and
bribe legislature, corrupt executive,  and blur judiciary,
****** growth and progress -even a lively move of nerves.
Independence led us to dependence to MNCs , in fact
from East India Company the baton went to British kings
and Queens; to lobbies of MNCs later it glided wasting
the blood of revolutionary freedom fighters, hurting them.
The Red Fort became the fort for the corrupted blabbers
who roar by constitution breaking the constitution of the polity.
     I don't dream of Lord Krishna dancing on the hood
of Kaliya on the banks of the Kalindi waters-polluted.
How nice to recall the glory of the past with love and toleration
that assimilated all thoughts of human beings in the world
and flowed  for ages through the canopy beside my cave,
than to shudder at every knock, and to brood in my flat gasping!
……………………………………………………………………
Note:1.Gujarat , Assam, Bombai(Mumbai), Pune, Bangalore, Poovar or Marad, :  these are places where riots or blasts occurred in India
Adi Sankara and Swami Vivekenanda!:two sanyasins(monks) of India the Former proponent of Advaita Vedanta Philosopy and the latter preached it disciple of Sri Ramakrishna  and founder of Ramakrishna Mission in Kolkota, India.
four Mutts: the mutts(Seminaries) established by Adi Sankara in Badarinath in the North , Puri in the East. Dwaraka in the West and Sringeri in the South of India to propagate the Vedic philosophy. It also proves the Undivided Indian concept the ancients had .
MNCs:Multi-National Corporations.
Kaliya on the banks of the Kalindi: A very venomous snake representing Power and torture.Lord Krishna danced on the hoods of it and killed it as per the mythology. Kalindi is River Yamuna in India that divides Delhi in to two.

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.

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Science can't save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare's 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers' eyes.
Which is why we call it "the wound that never heals."
Or the lesion that's always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It's not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your mind (realizing of course it's just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I'm
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry - also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that's what this February's been.
All to the good, for someone it's the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway,
that was Shakespeare's message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who's Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does that relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not affect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don't get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife's grandfather's inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I'll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private ****** acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities - angels, ghosts, aliens - are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you'll feel.

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

Freedom to Think!
In the Past, under clear sky, any could walk
all over Bharat, though an Indian or not so.
The notion of a nation merging petty kingdoms
dimmed the vision of the people of tolerance.
Selfish kings and selfish landlords together
severed India proclaiming “save India”, alas!
     In the post independent India, I was born,
walked freely even in the starry night, till 1970s,
enjoyed outing, slept in lodges, snored under trees.
Then came the Emergency, amidst it ,against people;
politicians exploited communal thoughts, Delhi burnt,
for votes; created vote banks; nothing learnt from riots;
no merging, but diverging forces hurled us, viciously          
forced us to riots-in Gujarat ,Assam, Bombay;
panic people run helter -skelter, in Delhi, elsewhere,
in Pune,Bangalore ,Poovar or Marad ,no exemption.
How lucky were Adi Sankara and Swami Vivekenanda!
The former founded four Mutts at the pulse-points
of Bharat- the latter roamed not in Rome but in India
(the land of saints, temples, home of gods and godly men)
instilling the spirit of nationalism and social reformation.
    But…while dollars roll over the sovereignty of rupees,
as a **** ,with drooping eyes among nations -a land
de jure integrated and de facto dissipated and dejected
by linguistic ,fiscal and parochial aspirations strutting us on-
we stand.. Who cares? Sitting around the dying culture
all Jackals, devour and howl as vultures hover around-I shudder
to move along the road, freely breathe; as espionage, tolls
identification cards, to the satisfaction of the jackals,
that create hurdles on my way, materially, spiritually; and
bribe legislature, corrupt executive,  and blur judiciary,
****** growth and progress -even a lively move of nerves.
Independence led us to dependence to MNCs  ,in fact
from East India Company the baton went to British kings
and Queens; to lobbies of MNCs later it glided wasting
the blood of revolutionary freedom fighters, hurting them.
The Red Fort became the fort for the corrupted blabbers
who roar by constitution breaking the constitution of the polity.
     I don’t dream of Lord Krishna dancing on the hood
of Kaliya on the banks of the Kalindi waters-polluted.
How nice to recall the glory of the past with love and toleration
that assimilated all thoughts of human beings in the world
and flowed  for ages through the canopy beside my cave ,
than to shudder at every knock, and to brood in my flat gasping!
……………………………………………………………………

Against the thick black curtain on horizon
of  still, gigantic cumulus cloud formation
three flitting army helicopters deftly display
a shadow play on jolly life of dragonflies,
I am compelled to think, as I drive past this
along the road skirting  Bangalore garrison

In the Past, under clear sky, any could walk
all over Bharat, though an Indian or not so.
The notion of a nation merging petty kingdoms
dimmed the vision of the people of tolerance.
Selfish kings and selfish landlords together
severed India proclaiming “save India”, alas!
     In the post independent India, I was born,
walked freely even in the starry night, till 1970s,
enjoyed outing, slept in lodges, snored under trees.
Then came the Emergency, amidst it ,against people;
politicians exploited communal thoughts, Delhi burnt,
for votes; created vote banks; nothing learnt from riots;
no merging, but diverging forces hurled us, viciously
forced us to riots-in Gujarat ,Assam, Bombay;
panic people run helter -skelter, in Delhi, elsewhere,
in Pune,Bangalore ,Poovar or Marad ,no exemption.
How lucky were Adi Sankara and Swami Vivekenanda!
The former founded four Mutts at the pulse-points
of Bharat- the latter roamed not in Rome but in India
(the land of saints, temples, home of gods and godly men)
instilling the spirit of nationalism and social reformation.
    But…while dollars roll over the sovereignty of rupees,
as a **** ,with drooping eyes among nations -a land
de jure integrated and de facto dissipated and dejected
by linguistic ,fiscal and parochial aspirations strutting us on-
we stand.. Who cares? Sitting around the dying culture  
all Jackals, devour and howl as vultures hover around-I shudder
to move along the road, freely breathe; as espionage, tolls
identification cards, to the satisfaction of the jackals,
that create hurdles on my way, materially, spiritually; and
bribe legislature, corrupt executive,  and blur judiciary,
****** growth and progress -even a lively move of nerves.
Independence led us to dependence to MNCs  ,in fact
from East India Company the baton went to British kings
and Queens; to lobbies of MNCs later it glided wasting
the blood of revolutionary freedom fighters, hurting them.
The Red Fort became the fort for the corrupted blabbers
who roar by constitution breaking the constitution of the polity.
     I don’t dream of Lord Krishna dancing on the hood
of Kaliya on the banks of the Kalindi waters-polluted.
How nice to recall the glory of the past with love and toleration
that assimilated all thoughts of human beings in the world
and flowed  for ages through the canopy beside my cave ,
than to shudder at every knock, and to brood in my flat gasping!
…………………………………………………………………….

Snaking through the cities roads into highways
that connect people from all suburbs
to a central spinal cord of lanes that
take you up and away from slum to slum.

The upmarket stores are full of bright lights
and little else that is elegant
its a cosmetic upbringing, mirage that
rises over the city's mist and clogs up the minds
magic as it swerves and rustles up the
the energies of other super cities
where commerce and hard labour have
equally sculpted a life of crime and distance.

Watch out for the airport which swings
in between the mountain of rubble
and municipal mania and parthenium ****
what finds every possible nook and cranny
to manifest itself. The politicians mumble and jumble
their way through manifestos and gimmicks
that endorse themselves as saviours of greed.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****,
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!

My friends a witch doctor
He wants to grab from within
Yes, he is a witch doctor
He is a horrible beast
And when you feed the witch doctor
You give plenty of yeast
Oh yeah dude you are the coolest dude I ever saw
You are the witch doctor
From Bangalore
You see the witch doctor
He’ll steal food off your plate
Yes that witch doctor
He doesn’t wanna be your mate
He is a witch doctor
Which will grab from within
You see he is a bad witch doctor
We need to lock him up
Oh yeah dudes swing your hips
And party party party real ****** hard
Then the witch doctor
Will move to Australia
To show us you can really party
Without alcohol
But Australians won’t listen mate they need their alcohol
And that is the way of this
Crazy mixed up world
With the witch doctor
Being the target by police
But his powers make the police
Say just this
The witch doctor is too powerful
Nobody will catch him, no
Then the witch, who is the witch doctors wife
She told him to stop his little prank
The witch doctor said
No I will never stop oh no
So the witch cast a spell to make the witch doctor more loving
Then the witch doctor
Went to the party
He really enjoyed himself there
There was no need for evil
The witch and the witch doctor
Lived happily ever after
And they did

I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.

Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.

on the prompt "Falling in Love (more than once)"

I thought about
this prompt you gave me.
A ******* a train,
I had fallen in love with,
Silhouette of her hair
border lining the darkness of eventide
towards Bangalore.

We met in a ground a year later,
no intermittent contact held,
like quantum-entangled electrons do,
dumbfounded how it'd happened.
And again on the road in Bangalore
three years later.

A direct line to the eye's sight,
first time, under a morning seeming streetlight.
A latch bolded in the color of the eyes,
I longed to deep dive in.

Words finding silence at the wrong time,
so they resorted to not all things
and happenings having reasons
and fear of consoling a needy
in a fear of an upside down going failure.

And like between life and death are only breaths,
the silence between the sentences
was filled with ours
and death by chocolate,
and thoughts of silences
of the other's mind, unheard of,
aware only of an unbeknownst wind
of familiarity of an unknown kind.

I had fallen in love multiple times,
which is to say I'd sifted through
the earth to the other side
and started rising, from it, in it.

Following down the gushes of time
sinking and rising sensations
of guilty pleasures in the chest, insinuating
that the thing of beauty is a joy forever
but only when not possessed.

                           ***

There's an old man, my mother's father
not loved by anyone, angry all the time
illogically unnecessarily hurting others,
drunk trashing long hair and glasses,
rusted in the smell of decay.

I make me fall in love with him,
again and again and again,
so that he knows he's not alone,
always.

98781-92648({ A CALL CHANGE YOUR LIFE EVERY PROBLEM SOLUTION in 5 hours
(BANGALORE,DELHI,KOLKATA, LUDHIANA,M­YSORE, JAIPUR,AJMER,ORRISA,JALNDHAR, hyedrabad,canada,australia, Domestic controverProblems in family relations. +9198781-92648 +9197801-41423
Promotions or willful marriage. Lottary & lucky number +91-9878-192648
To make your or your partner’s parents to Love Marriage
get your love back by black magic vashikaran mantra for love +91-98781-92648
Phone: +9197801-41423 +9198781-92648

check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about         strafes
multitudes                 peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of  beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please  bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!

Someone walk into your life
a kind of strict love
you can't understand
unless
you know his past memories

Sometimes
when you feel sick
to see your boyfriend
lift you in travel
and
care in dressing you
an awesome experience..

Friends are around
give different meaning to love
the real meaning comes
when you miss the world
except his memory

he sees your eye
hear your smell
eat your memory
smell your feeling

the love
a transformation of
Predator into prey and
comes and sleep on your plate..

Movies
sometimes share the beautiful thought
and conveys
we too live in the same mountain..

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

Boom,
Bangalore,
I move silently across the
dance hall floor
she guides me patiently
I do not know what for, but
I explode and this
torpedo is no more.

Boom,
Bangalore,
I have my chinos and my Rayban's, but
she wants me more and more,
she is menacing and I run deep across the floor
but have no more to give.

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.

The tourists mill about on weary feet,
seeming clueless of their final destination.
It appears, at least, they've had enough to eat,
as their clothes can barely cope with new inflation.
I wait, impatient, for the street to clear.
I resist the urge to honk my horn or more.
These beefy bon- vivants from foreign shores
move like the sacred cows of Bangalore!

As I drive past, I spy, in the sky
above the air force station of Bangalore,
two vrooming fighter jets,
three hedge hopping choppers,
five flitting dragon flies in mirth beyond words,
a swallow in love, with his lady love in tow;
fly in formations-
creations of own convenience,
(except for  the machines,
that strictly  follow rules)
against the big, round, magenta sun,
getting prepared
to set behind the mountains.

The sun, slanting westwards
chases me with competitive spirit;
speeding through, interstate highway
from Hyderabad to Bangalore,
long stretches I see, are waterless seabeds
reminds the oceanic origin of all
sense of time vanishes, I am an unknown
creature of the sea, an explorer of underwater geology.
                                    Like life, it's a winding long drive
             lonely too,  like one often finds, oneself in spite of many loves,
just incessant voices that soon lose meaning.
Speaking to myself, quietly, alone
I realize this, calmly, in life-
one is alone in many ways .
How curious,
the sun, my co-traveller,
caught sight of me,
and graciously gives me
a smile of recognition,
still continues the chase playfully,
from my right,
I like his verve
he too finds fun in our run.
He becomes red all over,
decides to set in the west
he signals,
above Nandi Hills
his spectacular farewell show
makes me slow down and watch.
At the height of the display, he vanishes
like a magician, taking every drop of light with him,
leaving me to find my way
through darkness, that I have to dispel myself.

It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.

Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in ******’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.

My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****.
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.

I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..

We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******.
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.

He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.

98781-92648( दुःख सोचने से नहीं फ़ोन करने से दूर होंगे+9197801-41423{{ A CALL CHANGE YOUR LIFE EVERY PROBLEM SOLUTION in 5 hours
(BANGALORE,DELHI,KOLKATA, LUDHIANA,M­YSORE, JAIPUR,AJMER,ORRISA,JALNDHAR, hyedrabad,canada,australia, Domestic controverProblems in family relations. +9198781-92648 +9197801-41423
Promotions or willful marriage. Lottary & lucky number +91-9878-192648
To make your or your partner’s parents to Love Marriage
get your love back by black magic vashikaran mantra for love +91-98781-92648
Phone: +9197801-41423 +9198781-92648

98781-92648( दुःख सोचने से नहीं फ़ोन करने से दूर होंगे+9197801-41423{{ A CALL CHANGE YOUR LIFE EVERY PROBLEM SOLUTION in 5 hours
(BANGALORE,DELHI,KOLKATA, LUDHIANA,M­YSORE, JAIPUR,AJMER,ORRISA,JALNDHAR, hyedrabad,canada,australia, Domestic controverProblems in family relations. +9198781-92648 +9197801-41423
Promotions or willful marriage. Lottary & lucky number +91-9878-192648
To make your or your partner’s parents to Love Marriage
get your love back by black magic vashikaran mantra for love +91-98781-92648
Phone: +9197801-41423 +9198781-92648

98781-92648(रूठे हुए प्यार को मनाये सिर्फ 5 घंटो मैं एक फ़ोन आपकी जिंदगी बदल सकता है +9197801-41423{{ A CALL CHANGE YOUR LIFE EVERY PROBLEM SOLUTION in 5 hours
(BANGALORE,DELHI,KOLKATA, LUDHIANA,M­YSORE, JAIPUR,AJMER,ORRISA,JALNDHAR, hyedrabad,canada,australia, Domestic controverProblems in family relations. +9198781-92648 +9197801-41423
Promotions or willful marriage. Lottary & lucky number +91-9878-192648
To make your or your partner’s parents to Love Marriage
get your love back by black magic vashikaran mantra for love +91-98781-92648
Phone: +9197801-41423 +9198781-92648

When we were young, we went DYU in
Lipsticks and jumpsuits and gulped
Chamomile tea on table one, our hot spot.
Now that Eapen is here, I want to go
Back to those Bangalore days with my-
Ladies, diapers and a pair of baby socks.
Tim, time, time! Stop, stop, stop!
This is the moment, the moment from
Our yester imaginings, Eapen our baby drug
Let's get back to those hostel rooms,
Jumpsuits and lipsticks with 'the nucleus' on our shoulders.

High tech city grows,
trampling the green fields.
A farmer with homemade locks,
tries to sell me one.
I say, NO, and see
a sadness without words.





(Bangalore/ India/  Feb, 2011)

A wooden cart, drawn by a bullock,
along the busy streets of Bangalore-
took over by throngs of techies,
out on a hunt, after office hours.

A curt mannered matron, the driver
sits chatting non stop in her distinct rural lingo,
on her funky pink cell phone,
about life in general, spiraling prices,
scarcity of water, lack of rain and more.

Luscious grapes in bunches
mostly violet, green and some black,
heaped on the cart, people follow
enticed by the garden fresh crop,
she drives her cart, unfazed, her man now,
has turned to her humble salesman
behind the cart is his place,
he plays the part of  her second fiddle.

No urge to show who is in control,
not him anyway, she is on top
his silence says:"I understand"

98781-92648( दुःख सोचने से नहीं फ़ोन करने से दूर होंगे+9197801-41423{{ A CALL CHANGE YOUR LIFE EVERY PROBLEM SOLUTION in 5 hours
(BANGALORE,DELHI,KOLKATA, LUDHIANA,M­YSORE, JAIPUR,AJMER,ORRISA,JALNDHAR, hyedrabad,canada,australia, Domestic controverProblems in family relations. +9198781-92648 +9197801-41423
Promotions or willful marriage. Lottary & lucky number +91-9878-192648
To make your or your partner’s parents to Love Marriage
get your love back by black magic vashikaran mantra for love +91-98781-92648
Phone: +9197801-41423 +9198781-92648

Tall avenue trees, so lush, standing either side of the road,
heads bend inwards playfully, to touch foreheads together,
were  in a blooming contest, a riot of colors wherever one turns,
no wonder, remember, this is Bangalore, the city of countless gardens.

The noon sun eager to  join  the mirth, is generous with light,splash
over the flowers of many hues, violet, red, butter white, yellow,
and the many shades of green of the thick crown foliage make,
with a rare delight, never displayed, in any other time of the day.

A midday lull pervades, very few people on the street,he was
relishing the mood, smiling to himself,but the lone girl, full of cheer
walking towards him, decided to respond, with equal fervor,
just then, a sudden wild wind shook the trees, as if it was pre -arranged
causing a shower of pollen,drenching her all over, she stood stunned,
in response he ran forward, hoping to rid her of the profusion of pollen,
what  at that moment she needed was a hug; he gave it to her quick,
they stood looking eye to eye, certain dreams happen in broad day light
even forgetting that one is awake;before they realized they became
day light robbers, robbing each other's heart, in an idyllic moment,

"Are you real?" Ravi whispered hoarsely.
Shyama the Mataji from the Yoga Shakti
ashram in Melbourne, smiled,
"As real as any of us," she replied.
Tenderly she tucked warm blankets around Ravi
as he slept on the cold, concrete, cement
steps of the Hindu temple.

Now it all seemed like a mirage to him, a fading dream.
Ravi anxiously waited for David's dark blue van.
Today he was finally leaving the austere environment
of the Buddhist Temple. New born vistas were
blossoming before his astonished eyes.

That morning he had broken the news to his mother.
"Mom I am coming home in a few days!"
His mother gasped with delight on the phone,
nearly swooning. She had just engaged in a
week long sadhana of intense prayers and
pujas in Bangalore pleading for the return of
their only son, Ravi, to their loving arms.

Soon, David and Ravi scooted down the
road waving goodby to the Monk and fellow
Buddhist practitioners. Ravi breathed a deep
sigh of relief. Everything was going so smoothly.
Later in the day I met David and Ravi for lunch.
Ravi had a slightly dazed appearance on his face.
So much had transpired in the past year. It was
as if he had been reborn. Each baby step he took,
God was there urging him on, catching him if he
seemed unsteady or unsure, infusing him with
fortitude, strength and great love.

I asked Ravi if he planned to say
goodbye to Shyama, the Mataji at the ashram.
Since time was pressed he decided to say farewell
in a phone call.

We wrapped up our lunch, David had errands to run,
so I took Ravi in my car. On our way home
we stopped at Walgreens to get some
chocolates for his Mom. We noticed a
woman pulling out of the parking lot.
"Oh My God!" Ravi exclaimed,
"That's Shyama!" We dashed over to her car.
"Ravi's leaving!" I gushed. Shyama Ma
got out of her car, gently embracing Ravi
and blessing him. We chatted briefly, then Shyama left.

Ravi and I stood there gawking at each other
in bedazzled ecstasy.
We both could feel the Divine Hand of God
showering us with His astounding leelas.

We resumed our errands and made our
way back to my house. Rama, our
inquisitive cat greeted Ravi rubbing his
furry little head against his feet.
Ravi relaxed, settling down on the wine
red couch in our front room. We flicked on
the TV. Ravi stammered like an innocent child,
"I haven't watched television in years!" He looked
at me with a befuddled grin, "I still can't believe
this is all real."

The weekend flew by and soon Ravi
was standing at the Check-In counter of
the airport preparing to fly home to
Bangalore, India.
"Ravi," I said softly, "this morning I had
a dream with Sathya Sai Baba."

"Oh really?" Ravi said excitedly,
"Please tell me about it."
I related the dream to Ravi:
I was sitting at a table, I believe my husband
and another man was on my right.
Swami was seated across from me.
He had such a beatific, radiant countenance.
I gazed at our glorious Sai, love surging
through my heart.

An attendant came over and poured juice
into two glasses. I said,
"Please give this to that man first. The attendant
moved the two drinks over.
Swami looked at me with a very
happy expression on His holy face.

As I finished describing the dream,
I said to Ravi, "I think Swami was
letting us know He is pleased with the
service rendered to you."
What a wonderful blessing.

Ravi shoved a package of Pizza flavored
crackers into his Carry-on bag.
David and I watched as Ravi trekked
through the security line of the airport,
his eyes glistened with thankful tears.

We both snapped pictures with our
cell phones of our sweet friend and
blew kisses which he eagerly caught,
a pristine beginning, a magnificent ethereal
bridal bouquet glowing on the rose pink
threshold of an extraordinary new day.