OLD AGE HOME

Away from old home, age being melting gold,

Searching for service in a new home,

With all sides open and loving companion

Those I want at least for last lap of my journey,

I roam from place to place with wishes

And with eyes to feel cool in new establishment

Away from burnt quotes those are still spilling

Over mind, not even blanketed being staying

Outside of old periphery scarcely three years ago,

I want to have a shelter for pleasant sun,

To love and to live there with peace

And beautiful caring personnel in that home,

That I have dreamed to live for rest of life,

But I am not blessed with vision to be reality,

As every moment I arrive at a historical epitaph,

That makes new generations alert, life is short,

And life can’t be free from pain and anxiety,

Always it favors to breathe in smoke, mingled.

WAR AND PEACE

Everyday news come with photographs those hold news of war, blasts, tears, from places where morning has sequel of smoke, sarin or chlorine gas fomented dreaded paces. Cactus loses its beauty, peeled bags full of bones, tied with yellow grass threads, (although everyone does not want to let everything go with anger and apathy), and bodies of children horribly contorted, lifeless, and wrapped with white papers.  Places are there where sounds of guns roar for decades, followed by another warned moments, and deserted lands, exodus of refugees, more and more and more. No one knows when and where peace will prevail for shake of humanity and other values of life, hope, existence, for constructing gardens where downpour rains, green grass to sprout, no difference between mine and theirs, and we stop fuming up anger, agony and stop seeing human being dead by war and let life go with colors and dream, like flying of kites in delight of lights, in the vast sky, and its darkness is a beauty of wonders, and sky is not an urn full of ashes.    

SONGS OF SHRI KRISHNA

Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna,

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare,

Hare Rama, Hare Rama,

Ram Ram Hare Hare,

They sang words

About Krishan

To fill all hearts

With blessing of Krishna,

Happiness in mind,

Misery to be abandoned

To remain gleeful

With kindness to the world,

Not binding in a room,

But to travel with peace,

Across home and the world,

Without disguise,

But free with everyone,

To endure pathos,

To live with energy and dream,

Miracle is in our hearts,

And we can dwell in melodies of life.

LOVING SILVER SWAN: Short story slam week 49

Between two silver swans, a fairy lady stands, a simple beauty to guide light for those who are wild at whims of hazy understanding.

She stays in such a way that one can think of lovely appearance of peace, sticky dark may disappear from this fairy land, into the sky, and no fear stays, one can live with honor, its process bears no anxiety, and this comes effortlessly by the way of singing of swans, in a garden of charming trees, settled down at this exotic place without vanity.

This serenade of mystery of beauty, in fairy morning, creates future of life, with songs of birds, over conscience of love, along the life’s intention, with hope of dwelling peacefully.

Dreaming for a while

We stop at a place where

Fairy queen equals

Inequalities and binds

Images with dreams.

Short story slam week 49: NEGATION OF LIFE

Short story slam week 49: NEGATION OF LIFE

Today I have learnt I have no place in this world, and so long I have traveled places to places, without any gratification from all people whom I am supposed to be my intimate, and find that these self-destined people hate me, and they think that I am only culprit to deny their demands, as the world is theirs, and I am their boss to fulfill their unforeseen whims those are so violent that I cannot follow their motive to locate the world from where they will gain everything they want, and I am their mistakenly chosen person of granting dream land. They think I have no dream, I have no whim, I have no demand, I have no fairy land, I cannot have beautiful nights, I have no passage for seeing the world in my way of living intertwine, I need no counselling, I cannot enjoy beauty of life.  I cannot act in the way of act of rejuvenation with love, sympathy and promise.

In a moonlit night

I come across a fairy land,

Tales of life with dream,

Beneath the starry sky,

I cannot stand in this life.  .

SILVER SWAN

Picture Credit: 

Short story slam week 49, July 21---August 7, 2016, Silver Swan poetic stories of romance and mystery

I want to be happy,

After a long simmering wave in the day,

A stress put into body and mind,

I want to be proud and

Happy, clearing stench air,

Leaving surges of invisible necessities,

Paving into a dreaming silver lake, with

Eyes dipped into loving galaxy,  

Like fairy lady looking at morning lights,

In blue joy, with white swans.

O fairy lady, come with coolness,

And take me to the world, where

Riddle of worldly affair disappears,

Far away from this warring zone,

I want to live, with caring aroma, at

A fantastic land where cool lake and

Fairy garden form rhythm in swimming,

Not forming a suffocating nebula,

But to move like a brave swan around a

Dreaming lady playing with loving blossoms,

And I can be free with a vision for a long time

More than what I am enjoying

When I was in an earthly dream,

This journey will raise a name of love.

Short story slam week 48, Indians are good folks! - I AM NOT ANOTHER PERSON

A fairy lady beauty spread out a falcon in one hand and stood on the path of dreaming.

I came upon her way and she asked me, “Wait!”  It was awesome, and her eyes are marvelously fixed deep into a location imagined to be a city. Her adoring attitude and beauty supposed to touch love and beauty to steal my heart. And she said, “You all live at places those carry broken modules, blinded with overspreading loneliness. I come here to convince you, life is hopeful, Love is not bubbled out.” It seemed to me, I was just standing before the city gate. And she offered me a falcon that can rule the awkward birds those forgot to establish love in the kingdom, where mirror is money. Trees are there, but flowers are popcorn.

I looked at the bottom, dropped my views, signaled for nothingness. I am not equal to that task.

I woke up and looked for her all around, and it seemed nothing had happened. It is a dreaming balm. I am not another person.

The moon embraces

The night sky. Expectation

Does not turn eyes

Into madness as it is yours,

Not theirs. Learn gladness for all.        

WATERY PATHWAY

Vision unbound in harbor passage,  

Water responsive from dream spot,

Too vast for a voyage, we begin,  

Quest starts back from school days.

This December my attempt starts

From street, from rout chart enigmas

One way, crossing it by steamer

The river gets elongated fiesta in port.

A singing motion, envisioned catharsis,

Shrills of walking on mud, sediments,

Salty taste of water, are stages with

Thrills and penance, vision is charm.

On the journey, we reach nearer to

Deep whims and sacrifice of existence,

Our foot prints and home are presents,

All attempts in reality carry our dream.

  

NEW TOWN

I walk to the construction site

Soil is prepared, r.c. column tries to grab the sky,

Rubbish, building materials scattered everywhere,

Metro railway on the foreground with sidewalls,

Buildings crab to get architectural beauty,

That fits to the new town’s appearance.

I want to search lost field’s greenery,

It is bounded with fencing at some places,

Either it is a mall premises or lawn to sit-and-eat,

Having one big sign-board, “Multi Cuisine Restaurant”,

Cosmopolitan town just takes the shape,

And sign of purposeful commercial intent,

Living here is a boast for those who can afford price,

Cemented whims is established with no grudge,

We need not think of the past, exposure is there

Just to walk beside the glimpse, edge of dream.  

BETWEEN TWO ROADS

I walked too often to find roots

Of quiet place – away from home

And many times, I am plunged

Between two roads, striding away

In a long and strenuous journey.

Instead, I have to wash away dream

From my mind, dry pathway makes

Me frustrated, restraining me from

This wild journey, and excesses

Have been done upon my mind,

Sweet home is the prince,

Filling peace in everyone’s mind,

Rescuers are not at red soil or metallic road.

From daybreak to evening,

I learnt to stay at home, even if

I am dried out with thirst

Or melt in agony, none has loving tongue.

GREEN VIEW

I first went to this garden,

Green greets me, I respect it,

Coconut and betel nut trees are in queue,

With attention, I moved into it.

In its singing blitz,

Pets are also inhabitants,

A symbol that reveals continuity,

Translating truth in reality.

Assimilation, a trait inside,

A kind of morphemes of life,

Consciousness being present,

A dream turns into congruent fullness.  

FLYING IN THE SKY

Airplane has no dream; it can fly like a bird,

It has style, it has machine,

Man creates machine, and flies in it.

It is visible as man thinks it has that home,

Because man has dream to have picture

Of that flying in the sky, children express

Joy seeing it in the sky and photographers

Take snap of it, for advertisement and

For showing contest in their skill and beauty

How to have something to love and enjoy

Over the boardroom of our creative whims

Growing on learning for life and own form

To perform and manage how it becomes

The best vehicle to travel on the best way,

No nervousness does come, at least for

The time, in transit over colorful screen.

BEES

Sitting near bamboo fencing of a village house

I am looking where bees are moving around.

The fencing is covered with small creeper plants,  

With flowers blooming in this spring season.

From where do these bees come? I think,

I do not find bee hive nearby or in vicinity.

How long do these bees collect honey? I think,

All the time I see bees are hovering near flowers

And collect honey for a few moments, and fly away,                                                                            

Sometimes, they sit on flowers and immediately

They fly away and this tells that honey from

Those flowers, has already been collected, I think.

Are these bees are like those are living within us?

Are these bees symmetry of our thinking? And

Are these bees composing hives of collective dream?

We are on the forefront of our living panorama here.

JOURNEY

Morning sunlight prepares

For the day, it is spring, journey

Takes leap for revelations  

Over the water, waves take

Directions of flowing, coming

Over passage of time, and journey

Begins on the platform of

Howrah Railway Station visible

In clean colors, window on touring

Space, keeping life on probable

And possible of self appearance

Where mind is open and

Fantasy is other source of living,

Slowly flowing over dreams. 

DREAM

At the time of busy hours

Every launch takes crowd

From random walks of life

Till busy corridor gets empty

Or thin crowd overboard.

The launch has that capacity

Simply for larger role that plays.

Distance is comparable to

Combining molecules those make

Cell-formation within phase to phase

Preferences, altogether we all behave,

As if drowned zeal to surface dream.

We all float from dream-bank

Where lies dream-station, waiting and

Recomposing our voyage to other bank

Across the river that portrays flowing of

Mystery of working silence on the horizon

Being it the great assimilation, moving is

Always greater than rehearsed appearance.

MANGO FLOWER

This mango tree has magnificence in this morning,

That flowers blooming with vastness of first hand and

First track of motivation of soundless mutation for

Spotlight on the occurrence of newness in spring, and

Both activity and control of life’s dream render most

Significant sharing of events of inward journey, and

I am the witness of this swinging of earth’s canvas

With leaves and flowers, and it is neatly balanced. 

THE RIVER, SUBARNAREKHA

In one winter morning this year,

I stand upon a make-shift wooden bridge

Upon the flowing of the river, Subarnarekha,

Sunlight sparkling on waters

Light-bubbles dancing,

Looping and pulling time and tide alongside.

Moving fast with bouncing waves,

Glittering episode of life just survives with joy

Sharing and glowing with great integration.

I come here sixty years later

Of my childhood, and that time I stood here,

Played with water and sand,

And childhood memories do not mess

With present happenings, all are going

With anchor and shore,

With distance and dream,

The river Subarnarekha flowing with gleam. 

Note: This poem is written in celebrating Thursday poets Rally, Five Year Anniversary ,  Week 79, January 14 - 27, 2015, i.e. January 14, 2010 -January 14, 2015.

WITHOUT FOOD WE CANNOT DREAM

Those are cultivators

Sowing sprouted paddy seeds

In watery ploughed field,

They will work till 4 PM.

I am moving in a bus

That is speeding high,  

Villages, cultivate meadows,

Electrical lines pass along.

Busy work in rainy season

Functioning through rain waters,

Putting tender roots

Through watery muddy ground.

I am one to capture picture of it

Eyes to see the working men, women,

While all are in exploring time,

Without food we cannot dream. 

SCUM

No, all tides are not broken,

Tides do not add up momentum there,

Scum is around, muddy sea water moving

Along the sea-line with shore, time of recess,

I have gathered tasks; just sit at sea side,

Coming here needs money, more needs are

With tasks of asking me within me,

Can clouded mind appeal for rest?

Can it wake up for prayer upon wind?

How things come here and make scum,

And goes beyond blue horizon, it is a beat

Upon sea-surface, and it takes rest for moments.

Deep into waters, resides one sentiment

That is peace, ahead of truncated dreams,

Money and mercy are two sides of the dipped aura,

Still I am in the game of planning and plundering.