Monthly Archives: August 2019

Merdeka 2019


The independence
marks freedom, a release
prompts a fresh lease
of life and liberty.

Each year the day
stats with a parade
an expression against
the tirade of authority.

Decades have passed
do we find any change?
could not be seen in the range,
representation of autocracy in local attire.

The celebrations are a farce.
another holiday in the year
nothing valid to hear
as speeches turn rhetoric.

Malaysia confronts
kleptocracy, encounters racism,
all being farther to realism.
One more Merdeka!

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The Hand Over


The straightaway hand out
be it a gift or a prize
turns lovely, the receiver
and the giver, both, rejoice.

So be that of a Will ,
where the bequeathing
becomes significant, Gracious
it will be if done in lifetime

It never does happen,
confrontations hammer,
controversies strike.
Litigation starts.

Egoism assumes prominence,
if not for me, it is not for you.
The one who smacked the cream
devours the pie. There ends the battle.

The hesitation to part,
perhaps, underlies the desire
to hold, the fear of losing
control, decries failure.

Called Poetic


A nicety, a smother
a run through
that takes you unaware.
keeps you in hold
for a time.

A caress. a fondness
that is affable
presents itself with a please
one of the pleasantest
at all times.

That of a rejoice,
a kind of bewilderment,
marks through with an ecstasy
one of beatitude
in times.

Well that could refresh
that could excite,
nestles in a proximity
one of a cherish
on times.

is a poem
poetic everytime

The Fight Over The Boundaries


Boundaries cause a concern
be it in the literal code
or in the applied one.

A mishap it is
to cross the borders
of countries.

Going beyond
one’s territory
is a trespass.

Could even be found
in a private one
prompts a treason in all.

Most should be
voiced with strength
that of the infiltration.

Deep into another one’s ,
unmindful of the status,
does more harm than believable.

One such being
the inquisitiveness
to know about others.

A demeaning attitude
found in the majority
who score highest percentage.

The too good a personality,
an aped image not to undermine
places one above the rest.

Temporary phenomenon of cause
as the more you disguise
the most you reveal.

Those who feign and react
provoke a despise one far
from being commended.

Monsoon Blues


A little of myself
I see around 
in my garden.
Wane and weary.
The lush lawn 
resembles a muddy patch
 with thorns and thistles.

The Coconut trees
resemble a barren woman,
 So much about the mangoes,
 gooseberries, jamuns
even the curry leaves
reflect  the pallor.

Thirstily  my trees and I 
wait for the monsoon,
dry mouthed. 
Sense  a chill
when I think of the 
rains last season.

They poured heavy
inundating the fields
made way  into the 
dwellings.Thousands 
marooned, rendered  
homeless and 
few hundreds died.

Destruction of all means.
being double edged,
 both from excess 
and from  inadequacy.
Fire chars.Water gobbles
Incensing nature 
by our mindless  means.

Ponds and water bodies 
are plotted sold, where
houses stand majestic.
Canals and Channels
 are closed, creating 
severe blockages. 
 
Whom to blame?
Should we welcome 
monsoon? I ask 
My exasperated trees 
condescend an answer
after long deliberation.
not verbally  as I thought 
by pouting, turn a sarcasm.
 mocking humanity.

Monsoon Bliss


The water starved town
congregates in the temple.
Shlokas and hymns call
Varuna, the Rain God, who
is indignantly obstinate
refuses to condescend.

Weeks together,”
the invocation goes on.
The Yagnas try to appease
Varuna. The fumes rise up,
cajole him with aromatic
infiltration.

Ananda Amirtavarshini
tries to catch up
with the chant, the not
so versatile repeat
in chorus a simple line,
‘ we want rain” in all earnest.

Varuna touched by the pleas,
specially those of the ordinary
agrees, With his approval,
clouds gather quick,
the sky turns dark,
winds stop for awhile. in all intense
droplets of water fall down.

Ecstatic to see the Monsoon
the townsfolk return.
In days greenery takes hold
cultivation begins,
the almost dead river
begins to flow.

Pranayams To Varuna.

Days As Well


Children glued to i phones
parents complaining
marks the event of the day.

My mom shouted at me
forever you read fiction.
spend time studying.

I, for my turn,
scolded my kids
as they sat watching TV.

My sons reprimand
their little ones
being addicted to phones.

it is history,
as they say
repeating itself.

The change you find
is in the mode,
not anywhere else.

The next generation
will be inclined
to things beyond .

They will face
the same music.
Days go by.

Each one is responsible
will mature to become sober.
Time is the criteria.