Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Real Pollution

Coming from the world of fortune we Welcome You All
Welcome you to our ‘Get what you Want Magic hall’
Come here you people, this jackpot is for you all-
Don’t pass it over, because it is not your soccer ball.
We will be singing our song here with each of you & all,
Men if you don’t join us don’t blame for your future fall.
We’ll also be dancing here taking you guys & girls all,
Ladies don’t miss this chance or you’ll be ever still doll.
We’ll neither leave a chance of playing, calling you all-
Under8teens opting out this choice will make you to bawl.
We will be worshipping our idols here, stick to us you all-
Veterans avoiding us will die before Lord mails their Call.
We are tearing out our throat for calling each & all,
Staying deaf to our call will earn you nothing but big null!

Well Countdown begins, hurry! Grab your ticket from us-
We are giving you it away only at a dollar at last!
That’s not the all, we are giving you a free demo book,
Read there how our golden offers will change your look.
If you wear a slipper, slipper will turn to a leather boot;
If you have a cheap shirt now, get ready for a new suit;
Why wearing hanky around- learn wearing neck ties;
We’ll be gifting you the best attraction for million eyes.
Riding your grandfather’s bicycle doesn’t suit your style,
For you we’ll bring the Mercedes, most cozy and agile.
If your roof is leaking don’t get wet in toppling rain;
We’re allotting you own flats, no monthly paying pain.
We are not businessmen but social servers (most vile),
We want nothing in profit but to see all of you in smile.

But at the end of the day:
(Partners, I’m so happy, it has been a great day for us!
I’ve sketched the balance sheet of today’s eye-wash-
Look, only few hundred dollars more than we expected,
All credit goes to me as this scheme I’d pre negotiated.
And lastly we’ve to thank those thousand fools trapped,
They’ll never get back their money we skillfully grasped!
Tonight we have to leave this island of brainless bugs;
Already I’ve chalked out next plan, file it in yours jug.
This time we would fence in some place of Far East,
Where we’ll be human beast again disguised as socialists.
Friends get ready for the next enterprise I’ve made,
No mistake there must be and we’ll remain untraced.
Let’s cheer tonight for our recent mastermind game
We are all drunk now; don’t have any sense of shame)

Thus a group of muddy sheep paints a bright day into black!
Wake up people, open your eyes-
Let your wits to play;
When mass and mind combines,
Filtering this polluted society won’t be any Herculean task.


- littleWriter

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Nightlife

Gray dirty bat peeping at the steamy glass pane,
The red glow of interior can be seen-
Dogs barking beneath the dark streetlamp,
Bitches tempting the alcoholic owls while
Puppies dream over soft beds so damp-
A drunken man kicks a metal can
Breaking the stillness with a tinkling noise,
Overrides trill horn of the patrolling police van-
The dogs disperse away to some corners
And the bitches drop from owls’ shell so small,
Cunning bat feeling warmth of red
Cleans its skin and returns back to its stall.

The lonely road feels lonely as
Her partner footsteps are escapist,
Giving her false hopes at daylight and
Forsaken in the right period like opportunist;
The forlorn owl hoots in dissatisfaction
Relaxing over a willow branch;
Responsibility of tomorrow knocks him,
Ever-open eyes revert from the trance-
Bitch has cleared her worry for the next day,
Happy seeing her children at rest,
Purifies her fur in warm shower of midnight dew,
She needs a snooze; it has been a day of haste.

The porous moon winks at that window pane
With drowsy eyes a face full of vice,
Red glow of interior is bright as before,
The aliens inside playing with hottest ice-
Alien has no fear of catching cold
As it’s not a man of this soil;
It lives in a dungeon so high and
Walks over wheels without toil;
The dark moon knows the alien and
Likes its dishes,
Curiously stares at the steamy window and
Enjoys the dance of witches-

The wholesome chunk of ice melts in flame;
Meanwhile the bored moon
Has indulged in an earthly game.
Frustrated dog howls before closed saloon-
Barking dogs irritates the holy moon;
A lesson needs to be taught soon
To fill up coming morning’s tabloid book
And get some glory for his nocturnal look.
After all, the moon is a sincere cop;
Has good vision to act as the alien’s prop;
A small number of poor, skinless dogs are trapped;
The dawn is knocking; moon will go for a nap.


- littleWriter

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Hateful Peace

The creaky feeble noise of the old windmill,
Immiscible with the darkness of the site-
Black baleful sky above dissolving its blades
Enticing it for an indisposed survival fight.
The odour of decayed departed souls
Blended in the core of this sluggish breeze-
Only the evil spirited serpent creepers
Deceitfully embracing the fatherly trees.
A sudden gust of bizarre poignant wind
Passes kissing the numb burial place-
Acts of wantonness inside get amplified,
Tombstone frowning at coffins’ disgrace.
Soft Moon subdued by a sinister cloud,
Murky leaves running out of shadow-
Subterranean cracks on coarse sterile soil
Veiled in vain by nagging roots below.
An infinite space filled by mysterious air
How passionate the room seems to be-
Chocolate scope of immoral love making,
And pain of separation none can foresee.
Is it the ethereal empire of evil spirits,
Sketching scarlet plot for a death match-
Embryonic human race is at high stake,
Gladiators are however to be hatched.
Blazing smell from some far away land
Bothers the sleeping flora in the black-
A hooting queen feathers away the whiff,
None ready to lose the ongoing blackjack.
Witchcraft soaked in malodorous blood,
Preaching communalism in bare breast-
Poisoning the tonic like drinking liquor
Magnifying the deaf leopard’s unrest.
Sulphurous essence of the prevailing peace
Murmuring the truth of an odd serenity-
Motionlessness must not be conked out,
Or it’ll tarnish Emperor Saturn’s vanity.
But monsoon time coincides with winter,
Frost of blood raining down the night-
Muggy darkness sinking down the hell,
Eternal sand-clock desperate for daylight.
Lord of Justice descends down from heaven,
Be aware that the Judgement Day has come-
Hey cast your gothic spell of stillness now,
Tussle hard to save your tottering kingdom.
The wheel of time has completed a rotation,
Rejoice at the sight of our blood bathed sun-
Repent for your slavish schizophrenia and
Vow for accomplishing the priorities undone.


- littleWriter

Saturday, August 18, 2007

His Sleeping Lady

The old man living down the valley

Lives in a timber hut-

He lives with his old spouse;

Love linking them has faded really.



He goes out in the early sunshine

With his flock of sheep

And the woman expects

To gather fruits from nearest vine.



The man rest his body on a boulder,

Loosening his bind over

His sheep to let them graze;

Solitude cloaks his frail shoulder.



He sings in his Soul:



“Let my mind flow

Let my mind fly

Let it unbind the irons

Let it soar high,

Let it soar high.



Look, the butterfly

It’s hurrying by

Look the colours

Its wings holding thy

Look, it’s flying by!”



The time passes by ending the day;

The sky has lost its glow,

The shepherd is old once again

Losing his euphoric halo.



Old man stepping down groove

With his home-sick battalion,

Tiny light from his distant hut

Perhaps, his only existence proof-



The door of his cottage is wide open!

Old Sam curses his careless lady,

But no slang does he get in return!

Is she sleeping? There lies her body…





- littleWriter

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

After 15th August, 1947

Centuries of captivity in the dungeon of Dracula-
No messiah interferes in my daily slaughter of
Semi extinguished skeleton of perception;
Rich blood of hopefulness drains out in vain;
Flabbergasted at own vastness of resources,
I chuckle at my self tolerance in exasperation.

Starving tongue praises the taste of own blood-
Mine is no “odd stomach out” as I follow;
Weaving a fictitious autocratic state in mind,
Learning the art of being content at the cost of
Self respect and pride which seems minor…
Surrendering brazenly for a gory ethnic grind.

Sack carrying mule has been my idol till now-
While I’ve mastered: dumbness in acute pain,
Plundering of my own and neighbours’ treasures,
Dusting down replicas of our ancestors’ dreams,
Brushing the crops till corn turns blue from green.
But obedience prizes my skin with sharpest razors!

Temptation of autonomy sets fire to my frozen eyes-
Feeling humiliated of own nakedness looks proper;
Cat snoozing under chair is profiting my hatreds,
Imitation of donkey is no more my commitment,
The hot air enveloping me is healing my paralysis,
Modesty sucked a lot, let me see what mettle begets.

Here starts the clashing of swords built of my bone-
I’m a comprehensive fighter with ocean of passion,
Splattering of blood here is my religious conviction;
Infatuated with the newly developed extremism
My boisterous steel blade slices this and that,
Till the vanishing of evil Dracula calms my notion.

Only hovering vultures and remnants I’ve achieved-
White veins and barren lands dumped as my award!
Shrewd vampires peeping through martyrs’ cemeteries;
I can’t hold back my tears of shame and futility…
Celestial voice mocks from far away distant cosmos:
“Wingless Eagle, sense your Freedom, it’s time to fly!”


- littleWriter

Monday, August 13, 2007

I’ve the Sword of Non-Violence

My bent heavy head is terribly aching- do I need a painkiller?
The blood inside has turned into a sphere of rotten meat-
I can’t find a scavenger to be indebted after I die-
What is it- a habitual nightmare or the mood of a sufferer
Who has dwelled in the darkest dungeon ever known to man,
Encircled himself with a flock of thousand groaning hyenas!
Arms being coupled together with the strongest iron-
No hope does he possess to witness the rising sun again!
I’m that tormented living matter on the verge of death-
Still scorching air coming out my nose- it’s a trouble for me;
I don’t wish my heart to beat now, and wits must not act-
I’ve to start dodging to heaven, this time I can’t be late.
My limbs are no more my servant; they are not my slave,
I’m a kind old master freed them from theirs years bondage-
Light of my life will fly to God’s home to turn into His angel.
But no scavengers around me, where to dispose off my flesh?
I’m unable to die within this black cage, once show me the sky,
Take me out of this abstract hell once, let me feel the air,
Let me breathe to fill up my lungs for the last time-
Else, I’m a tough lover of open earth and I would never die.
I know this is my last gamble and so I can’t lose the game,
Let my carcass rot here; I’m ready to take up that pain-
Can’t compromise with the tyrant who enslaved me so long,
I won’t accept my crush and mess up my final dream.
Iron shackle seems thinnest glass wall now; it never was so fragile!
But I was longing for a sedative, now don’t know why-
I want the strongest venom now for inflicting me more pain;
I’m changing to a skinless fighter determined to die in the earth’s isle.
My enlightened free soul will be punishing that cruel oppressor
Who have raped my golden ages and made my treasures decay
And pushing me down to the unfathomable layer of black soil,
Not taking his route, without turning to be a bigger tormentor,
I’ll take all the means of non hostility and highlight before him:
Teach my co-sufferers what freedom of mind really means-
His whip can’t stop me preaching, nor can his framed laws do,
He’ll be a shocked new man then appearing to have lost his limb.
He will turn a man from his present beastly form in my light,
He’ll kneel down for compassion before all of our radiant stature
Will be ready to give us something, which then we wouldn’t take-
What freedom will he give us? We are at a much greater height!
Now the fight will not be with he and me but with thousands
Of my fellow victims raging for revenge having lost their epoch-
But my guidance they would never deaf-ear, I’m their torch.
We’ll forgive our sinner; we’ll lend him our rusty chained hand.
Tears of regret will purify his soul, make him work for humanity-
I’ll put my hand over his wet shoulder, talk few words of console
His sore will be much deeper than what I had; I’ll drop my last sigh.
The triumph is mine, harmony prevails, Gandhian spirit won’t ever die…



- littleWriter

Saturday, August 11, 2007

My Reminiscence on a February Night


Thousands of inspiration to choose out from but, I don’t know why my mind is so vacant
When I’m sitting with my pen tonight, under the starry sky of 13th of second month!
I keep turning back the filled pages of my diary, must be expecting a creamed theme;
Filling old wine in new bottle though I barely favor, presently is the only gleam-
I strive hard to press my lyrical mind on the blackness or solitude of the setting,
But my eyes get set to an older page, I wrote a rhyme on black night approaching;
No solace there in repeating that same subject scripted by hundreds even before me-
Sitting stationary with my pen is a pain, I feel like a thirsty aged man living by the sea!
Now it seems, I have to get back to a very outdated idea of composing verse of ‘Love’
Those same fantasies of valiant prince and gorgeous maidens, for me not thing so tough-
I pinch myself with some obnoxious memoirs, sacrificing my present mental comfort-
Transposition of mind had never been so bitter; I stepped into a frame of lost rapport-

Some warm dim light have filled up the mind
I express my soul like a child with no bind!
I enjoy the arrow shot by that stupid cupid at me-
Desperately looking around for my own “she”;
Prior to it I’ve to recognize the timeline I’m at-
Else my passion wouldn’t be strong enough
To suit this present context of my love story;
Though not sure if it’s my recap or poetic hurry;
Did I craft an atmosphere of soothing moonlight
And a garden beside with scented flowers so bright?
Are those stars more glittering, moon more shimmering
Are they spoiling the backdrop I’m craving?

My self –created lover boy waits by a red rose shrub
Weaving those seven colored dreams for his lady love;
Black clouds above in the meantime keep passing by
What an apt stage for a fanatic like me, I won’t lie!
Everything is going fine, yes, the boy has picked up a rose
Having hurt his tender finger letting few red drops to ooze-
This’ the best way he could show his emotions for her
“A glimpse of my Suzan; wow she’s looking like a star!
Suzan is one in a billion, sharpest of diamonds ever seen,
She lives in a far isle, where, in my dream I’ve never been;
I perceive her by that hallucinating aroma she consumes
Against those blue eyed obsession, I’d never been so firm-”

Till now the poet in me has been isolated at some…so called ‘a world of practical’
To shield his rational heart from an erotic virus called ‘love’, cause of million ordeal;
I wasn’t aware of those cozy visions, warm hugs, stony promises and sensuous kisses
Until my shackled heart, thirsty lips has got the sense of that lost voluptuous opulence!
No boundary remains now between the soul of that love-sick boy and its playwright,
I’m turning crazy for Suzan at this moment, I want her in this pre-Valentine night-
An old movie starts playing involuntarily behind my eyes reeling those faded romance:
Suzan is walking down the Oleander Street embraced delicately in my possessive arms
Halts at a sudden before a florist’s stall; amidst hundreds petals, picks out a ruby rose
Silence followed us for seconds till Suzan came closer and her cheeks touched my nose;
Union of two flaring hearts; I whispered “Oh Suzan, my Love, Happy Valentine’s Day”!

Then? …Twilight dew spoiled my delusion before those same words Suzan could say...



- littleWriter

Don’t Waste Your Youth in Chasing ColorS of Life

In my life of daily dilemma
I wonder with a hazy mind,
About how color can come back to life,
To infiltrate the gray scale melodrama-
Without overdramatic effect
As if edited by a looser mathematician
Having lost his rainbow shade
Of youth, in vein wit,
Now crawling for snatching from us
What he didn’t get……
His green creeper died, then water
Was necessary to be added-
But could manage as well,
Not to be a strawberry one over green land,
Instead, a cactus on sandy soil-
Now it doesn’t
Open its mouth for tropical rain-
Why should it?
It has forgotten the longing for rain
Which was its shadow at gangetic plain-
It’s a life now but devoid of life
Its standing now ….but,
Not under self whim,
Under the fancy of this mathematician
Veiled in dictatorial theme,
Made nazi of his own youth-
How could he save his gray cacti
From future drought-
Drought of vigor,
Drought of green-
Turning yesterdays berry
Into spine of steel.
But like this dupe I wont
Let my hue to fly to so far a galaxy,
Anchoring to some vague excuses
Of daily business porcupines,
Slaughtering tiniest scope of ecstasy
Which were not created by creator
But I, thinking myself
Higher to mediator,
Possessing lethal mind,
Suppressing His gifted youth and
Willingly craving to be terminator,
Like a virus
Passing this pessimistic psyche
Among my race and upcoming generation,
Negating their development,
Guiding to a spiral bypass-
When destination is the centre
Why to orbit…………?
Why wont they…? they need
In their life color a bit.
Meantime I consume their energy
Misguiding them, and taking pleasure of
What should not have been unknowingly-
And me keep composing verse in elation
Until they reach the centre and sob-
Now they have also drowned to the
Same black spot where color is a dream-
No way to revert…all path have collapsed
Having lost their youth regret is at brim.
Now I can be astrologer and predict
What route would they follow and
What will be their verdict.
They would resolve to guide others
To save them, and teach them
Forbidding them to turn color hunter-
But alas, what they will speak
Will seem thesis of old,
A wall to repaint……
Rather a roof with a million leak-
How can they cohabit,
They need a rainbow to ride,
After all they are new color hunters,
They have billion fantasies to rear-
In the course, which black body
They are stepping to
I wont be there to care.
Feeling guilty for having thought
That mathematician a dull,
An agent against life-
Today I know the truth,
I know it all.
No scope to articulate it to
These present day dreamers-
No chance to apologies
To my guided all spiral spinners.
No hope left for me but only
To look back for what good I’ve done.
Meanwhile little aspirations condensing
Of what color after life I’ll get in turn.
This time I’ll keep a record of
What I expected and what I’ve got-
And make a survey of my fore walkers
To make my end of the day a little less tough.
Me still not aware of what is
Color of life and where has it been lost…..
No more would I think of this color-
Surely it’s a new illusive dust.
Oh !I’m in ecstasy once again

I’ve got this realization at last !

- littleWriter

Spoiled Fantasy

The silky purple fairy of his childhood day,
With her he has flown in all red and gray;
With her, Robin climbed a snowy peak so high,
She had trained him like a trainer- how to fly;
She had been a caring shadow behind Robin
In his infancy, boyhood & till he stepped teen-
The first dream he indulged in his deepest sleep
Couldn’t be possible without her crimson lips;
The earliest romance that made his heart thrill
Was the effect of her two azure eyes’ spell!

No acquaintance with the world she lived in,
Not aware of the reality of his leprechaun,
Robin painted the pages of his malleable heart;
He was a boy then, till not at an age to flirt-
Jabbed his imaginations with all imagery of
His purple fairy; hard to guess-was it his first Love?
Those early colored days slipped away too fast
Before his kiddy fancies could shape into lust.
Teenage demanded Robin a fairy sparkling in red
Purple elf had vanished, from whom could he beg?

Gazing at a distant rainbow gloomy Robin snuffles,
Obsession of this red elf- his life has been ruffled.
It’s painful to be lured when you crave for a break
This ruby red nymph spoils his sleep by a tweak.
Her emerald eyes speak nothing but of seduction-
Mature Robin is jaded of this physical satisfaction.
To get rid of this corporeal fantasy, he cries like a kid,
But Time was the dramatist- teen Robin was deceived!
His twenty-fifth birthday today, a glow in his face…
Youngster Robin will join him in his midnight rest!


- littleWriter

The Frustrated Poet

The same chirping morning birds,
The same morning sickness,
The unchanged inauguration everyday-
It bores my soul, repels me whole;
I live in a rusty cage; I sleep on its edge
I don’t know why I dwell in it
When its bars are broken;
Willing captivity is my survival token
I pound my head on its hedge
And nothing new I feel in it-
The same pain and same sprouting blood,
Same cry from my tongue and
I get bored of it… I get bored of it-
I sit at leisure with my pen,
I’ve smaller value than a hatching hen
As I don’t feed your famished belly
I keep scripting my lyrics in vain.

My pen keeps scratching the pages
I make them victim of my crazy usage
White paper turns dirty with my words
Still nothing change my world,
Same rising sun- same singing birds
And I get bored of it, it bores my core,
I roll my frustration on some distant shore-
The same plastic smiles I bear daily,
The same smoky air I inhale and
The same chattering of a group of apes;
I can’t put up with this world so silly,
I feel the madness of a barred rebel
I cry, I weep, I howl, I moan, I groan
As none appreciates my poems
I wish I could reproduce delicious novel;
A novel to feed thousands of folks
Gorged with my lunacy but all dreamy talks!

My blunt teeth tears a brown fibrous bread,
A sense of vomiting fills up my head,
I keep chewing it like a chewing gum
A series of starving faces floats by my eyes
The same boring tear rolls by my cheek and
I get a fruitless yield, it salts my sweet bread
This was emotional case- but realism unread!
Impulsive self provokes me to incise my vein
And conclude this somnolent awake state-
But how can I bear that shameless bare pain;
I was never a gutless in the ocean of sorrow,
I’m waiting for the fire in me to ignite
In this hopeless frozen furrow, so narrow
Yet, I get bored of my impatient mood
I lose my stream of optimist thought
All these seems so vague to me, meanwhile
My pen and paper rolls on some hazy riot...

- littleWriter