Happy 2017.

The sun has set
It is curtains.
A year -2016
has gone to sleep.

Closed are the happy events
along with the sad ones.
They will fade from memory
It is a routine.A monotony.

Another year dawns.
Would hold both mirth and sorrow.
Host celebrations and disaster.
Will then sink into oblivion.

Cries of joy reach the sky.
Crackers explode. An illumination
endears. Hope resumes.
That be with you. Happy 2017


That Will Pass

Passing of,
whoever it might be,
whatever it may be,
seems to be seamless.

The old days die
the new era dawns
with an ease
a felicity appealing.

The seniors disappear.
The young take over.
Have no grudge or hesitation
at the brink. A smooth change.

The world revolves.
Tireless in its rotation.
No, stop or fall at the helm.
Moves without prejudice.

It is the Universal Law.
Joy and sorrow are abstract.
The virtual is not to be depended on.
The real that matters.


Politics Incredible.

Anything can happen
under the sun.
Looting is licensed.
Atrocity is official
Power from the unknown source
dominates. Incredible, though.
Called as Politics.


The Twos.

I am in two minds
says Joseph.
Unable to decide
he bemoans

He has two faces
tells Mary.
One that solicits
while the other resists.

Think twice
commands Jesus.
Be patient and tolerant.
Speaks the Lord.

The twos in a row
make up the resolutions.
A strong union of love and kindness
brings forth cheer and grace.


New Year.

Another year is born.
Hopes abound
Thoughts soar.
Birth is always beautiful.


My Kind Little Girl

My little girl, kind,
pleasant and cordial
has her own mind.phil-barone-curved-soprano-saxophone
She never throws a deal
goes with her own find.
Unusual it is to me, at least
when she joined a music class
she took the prime seat
had an instrument of brass
that be the saxophone indeed!
I am surprised to see her choose
the woodwind instrument of all others
I feel it is hard to play with breath, close
she is in no mood to withdraw rather
 Insisted on pursuing the course.
Left to me, I would not allow her to continue
but her parents have given her freedom  to learn
that being a new school of thought in the retinue
 knowing her well she would burn
her midnight oil to excel.



The Eyes Are Dangerous

A stare not friendly
hit me hard
not once but many a time.

Even after many days
I have a feel that the eyes
follow me wherever I go.

They do not disappear
but remain stuck.
Lets me not with ease.

Eyes hit you hard,
strike you with horror. They are
harsher than physical violence

Beware of such evil eyes.
Might sound a superstition.
Virtually they are dangerous.


A Smile Writ Large.

Saw a community
rather a section of people
who were courteous and affable
with a smile writ large,

The face displayed a cordiality
The eyes did not reflect likewise but,
expressed a scorn and disdain
which lay beneath concealed.

Witnessed their exchanges in keen.
The camouflage was felt intermittent.
The celebration was a mere performance
where the ill will be suppressed by feigned goodwill.

Unable to comprehend I watched the show
with an amusement to an extent but,
with more of a bewilderment.
Perhaps, I am the one different from the crowd.


Mother’s Murukkus.

I recall the snacks prepared at home.
Mother supervising the team
she knew the exact proportion
 the measures of rice flour
to the spoons of garam masala
the relevant salt
a little asoftedia
finally a smear of pepper.
The experienced cooks mixed the ingredients
wth the required amount of water,
prepared a dough neither thick nor watery.
Allowed it to settle. They filled the flour into the moulds.
The frying pan sits on the stove
Firewoods from neem and tamarind trees
were inserted. The fire was lit and kept low.
 Oil was poured to three-fourths of the pan. Once the oil reached the right temperature
the cooks start to press the moulds. The flour falls in concentric circles.
Mother insisted on perfect ones, tolerated not the unfinished circles.
The murukkus were fried. When they turned golden
the cooks took them out and place them on stainers.
The oil dripped. There was no splatter of oil anywhere.
Mother broke a piece. Noisily she munches.
Satisfied she arranged them in big tins.
They reach the verandah ready to be shipped.
Six tins get into the car. Off they go to each of her children’s houses.
She turned back.  Saw father on the aisle.
Lo ! she had forgotten about him. Had kept not a single piece.
She had to prepare once again. Knowing her, she would set her team to work at once.  Just an hour’s work,
One small tin for father and another big one for her cooks and helpers.
All said and done, Mother managed
without dipping her hands in anything.
She had never entered her kitchen in life.
Everything she did sitting on her favourite chair in the parlour.

From The Shore.

Sometimes my thoughts go dry.
I write not anything for days.

A momentum picks up for a while
then dies down in an unnatural style.

I write a few poems in the duration
celebrating certain occasions.

My pen loses its power.
I turn pensive under a cover.

So go my days all the more.
I gaze for long from the shore.