The year bundles.
how fast it has been?
I wonder.

2017, as it departs,
makes way to the next one,
might be in a few hours
in the regions, I live.

Birth is an ordeal,  an effort
to both mother and child.
A cry records the entrance.

The labour of 2017 identified
in the privileges and deficiencies,
achievements and failures
wrap with a grace.

2018, with a cherubic smile,
greets us to another period,
one of hopes, that of glory,
while expectations soar.

This is an anthem, a requisition
to  my friends, strive to make
peace and contentment
rule the world. Think  not of
contests and fights.

Smile, the world will be yours.




Reddish Hue

An outbreak of red,
a sight  unfolding,
where the hibiscus
turns riotous.

Scores of flowers
crimson blossoms,
the lengthy stigma
dense with pollens.

The misty dawn
not bright,
yet not grey,
allows the sun to play.

The leafy stalks bow,
inadequate to bear the fecundity,
as if in obeisance to the earth,
professes a modesty untold.
Learn from this virtual glory
Man is no match to Nature,
either in benevolence
or in perseverance.






The Stay After Two Decades

Had to spend fifteen days
in my native village
being so after two decades.

The hamlet is as modest as ever
with festivals and weddings.

The stay twenty years back is significant
for the good or the bad
both in the style of living and food.

The milk vendor, Palani, rings the bell.
Supplies milk at dawn.
when boiled turns watery
retains the colour lacks taste.

Twenty years older,Palani
delivers  creamy milk at the door,
these fifteen days.

The milk is delicious. A sip is fulfilling,
extends an aroma distinct to the Kanagayem cows.

The vegetables look green and wholesome.
Brinjals, spinach and gourds  glimmer.
Love to eat the curries.

Earlier they were withered and contorted, l
ifeless, tasted insipid.

I felt hungry often  those days,
while I am contented at present.

The vendor, the grocer,  the place
and I are  not different, but older.
Any scheme in the background?


















It Is A Hundred

Few numbers short of a hundred,
the barest minimum to go.
I answer with fear.

The last leg makes me nervous,
know not the reason
find myself not too confident.

I   enocunter with trepidation.
My hands quiver.
I slid them into my pockets.

I have crossed  99  mark.
One more to achieve. I  hear the
heartbeats. The final.

I come out with the correct answer.
It is a win. Reached  hundred.
My eyes well with tears of joy.



House No. 14

The gates are ajar,
the entrance and the back one.
Nights and days
they remain being so.

Burglars do not enter
Intruders keep away.
Looks buoyant
with flowery beds

Acquaintances show up and go,
relatives stay for days,
Hot coffee is served
food is  available  all hours.

The house looks barren.
The iron gates fastened
The wooden ones bolted.
Brass locks flourish.






The Emanations

I listen to a converstation.
It continues with an edge,
moves with a momentum,
turns and twists as often,
beats me down for a moment.

They call the stars for accuracy.
The moon remains as an underwriter,
Affirm by the sun. The hillocks
provide them support.
I stumble not once but several times.

What do they talk? I am lost.
Their words are implausible. They go
for hours together. Could it be an exercise
of vanity? Sounds quixotic.
Wish to be away from such emanations.





Half Saree —Forgotten

I behold with pleasure
A sensitivity encircles.
The girls walk to the school
attired in flowing skirts,
with matching blouses or cholis,
the half sari,two-and-a-half yards,
one end drapes over the choli
while the other is tucked
on the waist.

Illustrative of elegance,
the girls deliver a charisma.
I join them in their march to the assembly.
The prayer invoking “Saraswathi”,
the Goddess of learning inspires.
The announcements follow.

Like the beautiful butterflies
the kids go to the respective

Proud to be one among them,
I learn with  a curiosity.

The half saree flutters in the breeze.
The girls  hold the  loose ends
with a discretion..


The Faces

The December morning
unfolds with a chill.
Opening the door
the breeze flows.

I pull around me
the pallu of my sari
walk down the path
pick the news papers.

The sun is on the horizon
I read the news
while a whiff of air
strikes my spine.

Wonder at the illusion,
the sun as radiant as ever
but the quiver I undergo
seems to deceive.

Gathering the dailies,
I get inside, rest myself
in the couch. Sense
a warmth.

Un relatable, yet I am inclined
an analogy with the men I know,
Possess many faces, one soft and gentle
while the masked is cruel and harsh,
the rest portend emotions optimal.









Am I?

The arches and the columns
appear majestic.

The wide doors
open out to huge halls.

The corridors lead to the courtyards,
which lead to the private chambers.

I brag with my nose in the air.

My friends look at me as though
I am  from the moon.

They prefer minimalist style.
Maintain small is beautiful.
They accuse me.
Call me an idealist.
Brand me an utopian.
Set me aside telling
I am ut of context.

Am I?









A Speculation


I sleep in the afternoons,
a habit hard to overcome.

The siesta offers me a refreshment
which I could never define.

The health tips criticize to the practice
I can never quit.

As years advance a
my time has lengthened.

I relax before and after lunch.
A visible experience,
much to disturb.

I doze off reading a novel,
fall asleep while working
slide into slumber
while travelling.

Is it an element of concern?
I Google.

While browsing the eyes close
the fingers  trace letters, form words.
the writings make no sense.

I give up my efforts
sleep when and why
I do not realize.

The way I live my days .
How many years more?

I speculate.