Is summer over or just cooling down,
days are getting shorter do not make a frown.
Sun time use varies widely,
in many different places.
Do not tell me barbeque time is over,
that will make me want to pee my bedcover.
As BBQ corn does eat,
great with hotdogs and watermelon too.
Tell me it is not so,
no more ice cold sweet tea to drink slow.
Now to make only hot tea,
keeping lips moist not open.
Summer will be back next year,
must I really wait twelve months with no cheer?
Friends gather happily in just,
time for the holidays and not missing the summer.
If five sons so well can live
In father’s one-room-- a palace,
But no one in their five-room space
Of each can find enough place
For their aged parents,
O blame not the spirit of time,
Nor even irony of time,
Ought we not blame our heart’s
Shrunken space within, not in house?
Not widely wafting Westerly Wind
In place of Purbee breeze.
A lot there’s to learn from West,
But what and what-not be the test.
_________________
Free verse | 16.08.2025 | father son, time, irony
Shines would soon be taken off poetry,
When machines replace humans as judges,
By then wisdom will have fled human minds,
Making AI seem more intelligent.
Poems churned out will then be wishy-washy,
Since standout ones will have been discarded,
As machine junks — confirmed by machines,
So undeseving of recognition.
As more and more inferior works are praised,
At the detriment of discarded fine ones,
Our brains will adapt to produce more junk,
And our age will be known for poorer arts.
But are AI-written poems hard to spot?
When all they write is devoid of feeling,
A mimicry of professionalism,
Yet widely accepted as genuine.
Eyes drifting
In waiting,
Silently,
Gazing
In vain,
Despite it,
He enlarged them
Widely opened, as if
Searched for something interesting,
Very
Carefully,
Silently,
Like a lazy bear, he put it on the old wooden table.
Carefully,
refolding
his courage
lifting up
ferrous arms
stripping
Carefully,
a tinny piece,
rolling himself,
In still noise
a cigarette of
Powerful
low-graded
rustika,
a variety of
great purge
hunger
killing
good reason,
One pack a day
It helped, like hell
Helped.
It helped survive
the cold,
and everyday
toil when
soldiers and ants
starved,
Makhorka,
insecticide
of freedom.
Silently,
Looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently.
________________
Heroine content with her beloved’s
love, affection and dedication,
one with her own mind.
____________________
Heard had I tales of male malefaction
By and large true, far from fiction,
As happens oft, one out to prey
Gets hunted O to be the prey.
Full of hopes I’m your spouse,
Not filled with any grouse,
For, you my love belied this old wisdom,
I’ve been a free bird in your kingdom--
A truth that needs no proof,
Nor display from a tallest roof.
Lifelong shall ye be my temple’s deity,
We shall be together for life
Lived forever and rife
If not for eternity.
_______________________
Natya Shastra |08.02.2025| Free verse,
Note: This is eighth of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Swadhina-bhatruka is the eighth of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
_______________
Separated from her spouse who’s sojourning,
the heroine awaits with deep longing.
___________________
The warmth of a day nigh sunny
Nor silver of moon passing by
Gives me hope nor solace any more,
Freeze of darkness spreads to my deep core,
Separated, I feel utterly incomplete,
O cut your long sojourn short, beat a retreat
And come soon to end my loneliness,
O come to end my day-long stress.
Let morrow’s sun dawn with the news
That would end my life’s blues,
Let me await no more, come as warm breeze,
O come to rhyme my life’s verses.
_________________
Natya Shastra |07.02.2025| Rhyme,
Note: This is seventh of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Proa-bhatruka is the seventh of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
To soften his adolescent growing pains
he was encouraged (can’t recall by whom)
to take up painting – to make a name
for himself, they said. When that failed,
and miserably, he took up drinking
which he likened not to a godsend,
rather to a bodily need and calling.
And so it was, for in little time
he became proficient with the bottle
and was soon dubbed master of alcohol.
His first exhibitions were private,
of course; he was, after all, a novice.
Only years later, with no small courage
or lack of inhibition, did he feel
competent enough to go public.
To his disappointment, however,
and a severe blow to his pride as well,
his public exposure (though widely known)
was not well attended except by
the usual “patrons” – mostly police,
psychiatrists, and condemning clergy.
Happily, however, his name often
made headlines on gossipy tabloids –
the only recognition he consistently
garnered during a long career which has
kept his name burning in the public’s
ears and eyes for decades now, and is
certain to be his legacy long after
he has passed out and away for good.
Two young princes, both bold and loud,
Each quite certain he made Mum proud.
One wore armor, shining and bright—
The other wore socks that never matched right.
One shouted, “Charge!” and raced with a roar,
The other said, “Please, there’s mud on the floor.”
One liked dragons, fire, and swords,
The other preferred snacks and crossword boards.
They fought (of course) like princes do:
About who was taller, or who smelled like stew.
They argued on horses, they argued on feet,
They once had a duel with spoons in the street.
One wanted wars and epic parades,
The other liked naps and quiet shades.
But every time the kingdom was stressed,
Both young brothers did their best.
For though they bickered night and noon,
They howled at the same jokes under the moon.
And deep in the palace, it’s widely known—
They shared one brain... just loaned on loan.
So here’s to princes, brave and absurd—
Who ruled with laughter, not just the sword!
The treasurer they called Judas,
In his folly and imprudence,
Sold his Master for silver’s stock;
The shepherd who betrayed the flock.
The fisherman they called Peter,
Tasked to build the Church and lead her,
To be her foundational rock;
The shepherd who cares for the flock.
The scholar widely known as Saul
Adopted the new name of Paul;
He saw the light on one long walk,
Repentant hunter of the flock.
In 2013 Amélie Ségarra danced on a Grand Piano with knives
taped to the tips of her feet.
The room is empty apart from a single man in a music box
He wears a black an white suit buttoned up to the collars with bronze cufflinks,
To get up she uses an old Woven Rope in brown
You can see her nipples as she looks up, Adam's apple following her gaze
along with everything else.
She starts dancing.
From above the waist her arms jut out, grabbing widely at air and trust
But below it's easy
At times it looks harder to be the piano.
Remember how close she got to the edge.
Rapidly tapping the tips of toes, taped into shoes,
Screwed onto knives.
At times the screech was louder than the music.
Engaging her hips she’d lift up her thigh, bent at the knee
The arch of her foot seeming to just hang there.
Before it drops she makes the sound of a boxer.
Something only rooms with loud figures giving orders to lots of people
doing the same thing in repetition can bring out.
The music has stopped, so now all you hear is knee engaging ankle,
Holding up a foot wrapped in pink ruffled straps.
Smalling down an into
a seemingly endless
Grand Piano.
IN PRAISE OF DIVINE LIBERATION
I once wallowed in apathy,
I once had bad feelings
Of being unworthy;
Struggling with failure:-
In anger, I once felt
God had abandoned me,
Until a keloid memory
Of a childhood lesson
In gracious spirituality,
Massaged my aching soul;
And with amazing divine
Wisdom and guidance,
I became blessed
With the healing awareness
That lesson had taught:-
In renewed soul searching prayer,
I sought action to replace apathy,
And labors of love were revealed;
I beggingly asked God for help
in arriving at belief self worthiness,
And it was profoundly given to me;
I knocked on the door of determination,
And opening widely, it ushered out failure,
Graciously ushered in faithful persistence:-
Indeed, with forgiveness and supreme love,
God has never ever abandoned me; rather,
It has always been me abandoning Him!
Yet, with His forgiveness and supreme love,
God has now eternalized me with living faith;
Energizing me in being an instrument of His love
And a reflector of graciousness in labors of His love:
To god be the glory for forgiveness and divine liberation!
To be truly, fully present
Of consciousness and
answering why we are here,
These studies are a promising field of research
Yet by powerful backlash
research has halted
For severe depression and PTSD
Universities use micro-doses of psylocibin
Derived from mushrooms
It lowers stress and doesn’t
cause hallucinations
Follow up studies show dramatic improvement
of conditions not previously responsive
to conventional medications and therapies
This chemical is still widely banned
Except for a few controlled studies
Underway at accredited, renowned medical
and psychiatric departments
at major universities
When popular conventional
therapies prove ineffective
the 60’s and 70’s proved a fertile ground
for those seeking help
New age treatment called Primal Therapy,
When religious cults such as love Guru’s
Hare`Krishna mantras, Buddhist chants
of Nam-Myoho-renge-kio or being shakabukued
or Hollywood fix its— for anxiety’s
mental illness failed,
Came the psychotherapists
and the latest Primal Scream Therapy
new and experimental, so-called Hollywood therapists
took it to levels unimaginable and a bit too far
and should have never been licensed!
___________
The heroine indulging in quarrels (kalaha)
with her beloved, might well suffer remorse
later, and try to end it all.
__________________
Not dagger, even aversion robs life,
My Love, I know it is no less a knife,
Pray forget my harsh words,
Let’s be the same love birds.
O try and look me through my heart,
If wish, even split it apart
To see if ye find anything but love for you,
Tell me then where I failed, give me a clue,
Why hast that vast store of love dried in you?
Why in place of love-showers this sky blue?
Recall, we had pledged together to live
And walk one day together to life’s eve.
_______________________
Natya Shastra | 06.02.2025 | Rhyme,
Note: This is sixth of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Kalahantarita is the sixth of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
______________
The heroine angry and disappointed,
confronts her beloved for being unfaithful.
Mood: despair, jealousy, and weariness-
mixed aggression of a wounded lioness.
_________________
O my long-dreamt dreams’ only man,
I never could imagine a woman
Other than me in your love life,
Nor in my life such fateful strife,
Yet, even my wounded self-worth
Won’t let me get swallowed by Earth,
Thou hast made a mockery of my love,
But I’ll still be faithful to rise above,
And keep fire of love burning from within,
Nourishing it to remain green.
Rare a green leaf sprouts on a twig gone dry,
Nevertheless, with my love I will try.
Today in betrayal let your joy burn,
Mine shall, by the morrow when you return.
_______________________
Natya Shastra| 05.02.2025 | Rhyme,
Note: This is fifth of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Khandita is the fifth of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
In the depths of your mind, where shadows reside,
A voice whispers doubt, with nowhere to hide.
Depression's a monster, a weight on your chest,
A longing for solace, a moment of rest.
The future seems hopeless, a relentless refrain,
"You're lost in the darkness, there's nothing to gain."
But wait, through the struggle, a beacon appears,
Three digits of hope, dispelling all fears.
Nine-eight-eight (988), a number to hold,
A lifeline for all, a story to be told.
Not just for veterans, with burdens they bear,
But for every soul drowning in despair
The battles they fought for, the freedom we claim,
Now a lifeline extended, a whisper of a name.
For teenagers troubled, for mothers in pain,
For anyone lost, caught in life's pouring rain
Don't let silence fester, don't let darkness win,
Reach out with three numbers, a chance to begin.
A listening ear, a voice strong and true,
To mend broken pieces, and see you anew.
So spread the word widely, a message to claim,
Nine eight eight whispers, hope's burning flame.
Let it echo through valleys, on mountains it'll rise,
A beacon for all, beneath vast, open skies.
Related Poems