Her house is blessed with a mango garden,
That gives love to her heart, and
She strolls inside garden path,
I am the onlooker, and on my way I see her.

It is a summer noon,
Green mangoes wait for my sour taste of my tongue,
And I cannot wait, I enter the garden through bamboo fence.
Scenes are those of a huge estate brought into eyes, and
I peep inside branches, from where these green mangoes
Are tinkling in breeze, I take one tree of my choice,
I can climb up easily to the nearest branch, and
I can pick up these fruits with my hands.
I am in favor of time and place, in that I receive no refuse.
I can think to avoid blockade by the long trunk of the tree,
And all mangoes can be easily reachable to the brim of last branch.

As I get up on a tree, I am amazed to see her again.
She is taking bath in a small pond inside the garden,
I lift my head high to see her graceful charm,
And I become puzzled, gazing her body beauty,
Carrying cherry breasts with scanty cloth-covered by her sari,
And water drops make her a picture post more attractive,
Sitting upon wooden stairs slightly sinking in pond water,
Rubbing her smooth thighs with a wet towel,
soft blush mellowed in exact centre of love,
and I cannot pass my eyes from her body and charm pits,
that is a passion zeal built-in the sense of love coming.
I fear, someone may see me thus, and may make a problem,
And I cannot lift my head more above my painting place,
Or she can see me if I do fall, being inattentive on my safety.
The mango woods thus hides my presence.

It is like waiting for my lady-love,
The green mangoes are waiting for my picking up,
I forget that esteem, I am absorbed in woman beauty,
My heart in passing through surprise, my beloved woman,
Whom I discover in my eyes, and I am filled with color game
From the flower that is my flavor with dreamless appearance,
Beneath my visual pleasure, giving me a feeling
to hold her with a kiss, and in readiness
I am travelling with bemused senses,
That is grown in an unsounded touch of love and life.

It is a crazy love, I feel it inside me,
And my mind says, waiting for a lady-love,
In the firmament of love, is like a dream, and it is divine,
In the plethora of love, adoration for hopeful love.
And I am still living in this prescribed clouds of rain,
And birds are still around, beauty is there,
And deep sigh is now with me to win more green fairies.

I take my space that is living in my memory so long,
And I am still in sedative mood now when I remember her.



Something is very important
When she speaks to any one, and
I cannot walk properly
When I learn that she is in long boring not finding me,
And passing time with somehow on the way,
Towards finding a meeting a man on the sway.

Huge is burden, she says, as she is in another life,
The language and other source of life is different,
And now she is like victim of rock mass
That is emblazoned with ozone burning,
Our prudent painter cannot change the color,
As we are never bigger than the creation.
We are born inside the whole of the source of creation
by the great painter who is immortal in our mind.

That is what I find important to speak with her
As life is getting more monotonous
as lifeless talking is nothing
but some nexus of waste shipwreck.
And with this plethora we are moving
Like emblazoned light novels and other source,
I cannot give her condolence, as she is victim of this game,
I am the onlooker from the distance, more helpless.

My dear lady friend only that I can say to you
You are my most favorite lady friend and your beauty
Gives me sense of good feeling and I am, as if, drowned
In the fiction story that you told me many days earlier.
And beneath all happenings there is one shadow
Of sorrow, that we forget to learn or ever keen to know:
Problem follows another problem,
No light can erase it or no word comfort it,
We are the small painters of our studio
While the great painter is silent on our color choices
And he never shows any sign of disgust or happiness,
Only he acts on his way, that we do understand later on.



He looks outside

Multi-wave sunrays

Red hot

Her eyes do not meet his eyes

She is newly fallen from heaven

Sole participant


Between mind and thinking

Transient vehicle

Cognate sites

Complex surface

Permission slides

Unfolding condenses

Honeyed through

Muses unveiled







Light on hot horizon


She is eloquent

Rattles body and mind

Earth, life, smell, yeast

Raising, region of secrets



I am waiting for her,
She is a grown up child,
She is woman from a mystery land,
A social net work, the new generation wave.

Four sides are open,
One platform to share,
Words play, digging the activation,
And my writing binds lonely domain,
None clicks buttons – like or comment or share.
I place one photo, with referential cloths,
With colors, internal theme, bounded with rain,
From the blue horizon, hardly I can leave the page.
I produce a modular kitchen to make me roast,
Not to roast the duck and I keep it
On the promoter stream that comes from the rain,
Inside the wave, flowing down in lonely bargain.

The woman does not come in time,
So is the trackless of her ways.
I turn off the computer, lay down into the sofa,
Mind resonates, “Darling, I cannot lose my bones.”

I do not hear, “Hello, I am here.”
I am like roasted duck, river wave getting cool.

Her love is elusive, horizon is dark.


She lives in a flat on the 35th floor of a high-rise building,
from where, from her glass window pans,
she can see spectacular sights of her living town,
high-rise buildings and elevated high ways.
She is living in relationship with a boy friend.
She is seasons of love; she is refreshing zeal of love.
Across the town she is the queen of love.
Having a baby in her lap, occasionally
she comes on a social web site to say Hello to me,
saying she is living with happy smiling in calmness.
An invitation comes in me to ask her
how she keeps her marvelous ambiance
that spills over her beauty and happiness.
One day she narrates the story.

She trembles, her glass window quivers, and sways.
There is sound of breaking on earthquake sequences,
She was asleep, and now wakes up,
Books from shelves, home appliances
and kitchen utensils are strewn over floor,
She is trembling, her footings are not stable.
She looks outside through glass pans, the roads are messy,
The hill is near and fully visible to the base.
And as far as her eyes can catch,
houses nearby are smashed to ground
and turn to rubbles, and now she has
to come down, it is so long to step down on stairs.
Lift is not working; electricity has been cut off,
she walks like a mad woman,
founding herself jumping like toad,
balance is not there, she hears sounds of cry, shouting everywhere. She takes her babe in her lap, in tight grip, in disembarked whims, finding no way but to leave this high-rise building or tower,
she moves toward road level on the ground, a little free space,
the whole flat may fall upon her, she fears,
she moves like squeezed fountain of endurance,
sudden exertion of soil, a death-blow on all that are created or naturally live, with or without a reason of blank participation to the earth’s graze, crude taint of love, here love is forlorn destiny
that crust makes, everyone falls, and love is now
something a rotten mango,
that can rot all other mangoes in the lot.
Yet she has to leave the place, her home,
it is the confidence of protection, and
so long she is in thinking about its importance in her life.
No place is safe, and the safe is the crust and the dust,
and all are left to have free choice to mingle with lifeless objects,
that have no feeling about what is happening on the floor
by the bemused shaking the earth, and later by the hurricane.
This is joyless and loveless, and wanton zeal of the earth’s anger.

She is mother; she feels the pain of the crust infusion.
Is there a birth? Is there a season to fear love?
Is there a reason to feel the treason in vein of the grace,
in a shameful design, non clouding sequence,
cramped frames of the mother earth’s love not identified.
So much quivering, so much destroying, so much mitigation,
so much exodus of fearful disgust,
so much driven burial,
so much pensive wrenched whims of mother earth, so much.
What we may call about, it is our world, our block, our pride representation, we live on it, share on it, and now
it is the earthquake, death propriety so near,
monster cannibal it becomes, destroying own creation.

She is woman; she finds no answer to this motherly shower,
and all are in crazy traits. She cannot search
for water to quench her thirst, she leaves all behind inside her home that she wants so long to have. And she builds them by ablest power of her sufferings, and she is methodic blanket of zero tolerance, zero perversion. She began stepping down stairs.
What a measurable she is now in distress!
She does forget to telephone her boy friend to know his position,
and to alert his safety, he is at his work place
and she has no time for thinking for him.
She has to think of the baby in her lap,
she is stepping hurriedly, but so many steps are there,
not ending, not counting around, she is in strangling pain.
She is losing her strength, and perhaps everything, every breathing; her heart is feeling the breathing of the babe.
Yes, she is able to rescue the baby at this time, but how far.
Every step is at danger zone, and as if the whole building will fall upon her. She is sweating, she is trembling, and she is breathing high, as if she is caught by abstract synopsis of death, no scope of evading the fate of death love. And she has to come down from her home to ground level, and still stairs are endless, and she cannot avoid the whole sequences.

O evil phantom, please peace be with you, cool down.
Let me live with my kid; let me walk down the path.
I am not false, I am not worm, and I am not evil symptom,
and I am not bone of your contention.
I am only a helpless woman, I am mother,
I am promised soul of love; I am designed for human fruits,
I am a leave of a grass; I am ornament of your soil,
I am evidence of birth, I am not stained, I am love,
I am not the shame of the earth; I am the joy of the earth,
I am proton, I am the nucleolus, I am the spin,
and I am the wave, I am the anchor.
O mother earth, behold my grace,
I cannot be your terminal point; I cannot be your pain,
I cannot be insoluble sand; I cannot be ill helix of love,
I am only a human being, holding the human life,
you have given me that reward.
O my mother earth, I am the soul, I am the raptures of love,
I am shapes of life configuration, I am like you, I am like your charm, I am your daughter, and I am your joyful plight,
I am the single internal bough; I am the cause of motherhood,
I am bright shade of love anchor, I am the eyes of cause of motherhood, and I am shades of love chromosomes,
I am the eyes of all creations, I m the womb of triumph.
Like you, I am innocence, moving life with mirror of love;
I am the inhaler of sacrifice.

Thus she is chanting, crying, moving,
quick footsteps she is coming down……
she is going down, down and down…

When she wakes up, she finds her in a hospital bed.
Her child is safe, but she does not learn about her boy friend’s fate.


Love and wisdom are eternity of our universal existence,
And with the souls journey through our learning of intimacy
In our veins of love, its emotions and dreams altogether.


Mind can take beautiful photographs
By the eyes’ sliding mirror lenses.
Unseen objects are frozen promises.
Visions can hem love throb, life poses
A gesture worth for lovelier flower
To be snapped in impulse of
Magnificent picture into the love divine.


Mind transports vesicle spirits,
Like light wave into the body’s acceptance
Through carrier ions,
In torrent couple during light traveling,
On the membrane, its motive from heart can feel
And generate breathing quarters,
Inside our sensitive things.


Heart gives consent to likeness,
Heart puts gradient to the feeling,
Heart gives passion in our body,
Mind makes a wave into inner love docks,
Mouthing to shallow motions and running rivers.


Body creates rainbow,
And moves into sportive motion.
Fingers takes care of tracing a balance,
Body fixation, energy creation.
Secretion moves into folded secrets,
Murmuring into ears’ parlance—
Contraction and expansion,
Two wave lengths in body’s reign,
Passing on face blushes
Those live in happy prompts.

Flags of body voyage give feeling of love.


I cannot count the hours the satellite spends in the sky,
I cannot count the hours the satellite falls on the earth,
Wandering around the world and the sea or land it digs in,
I cannot count the friends in wave modesty it travels
In the space of love and divinity, we injected in its working
Capability partly at its issues and partly at its color streams
That our brains make discovery, a unaccomplished flavor mixed.
It is plain room that we build, not a shadow of love
But a skirting scholarship of brave assembly, we are proud of.

In the firmament of long service device that it is pinned
On the threshold of love, and our fantastic abiding course have been
Seasoned and measured in the long run it can be stern warning,
Orbital debris is the term sheen attitudes we develop
For our development, poor directives in conquering God,
Above is our head that we portray cell bergains as and when
A winning spree travels in our mind, we then try to reach
Our merits and supreme dominations on the earth’s creation,
And heaven and earth have some patience to deal with these sky sojourners. And the lords of our creations are attending pomp.

Images of love in deep emotions are travelling in boiling point.
Victim of our sacrifices are taking speed in satellite creation,
And thus we show hope to live in the sentimental cradles,
The fall of satellites is constant observation of our love
And emotions, we live in her tenanted nature’s obligation,
The more we travel, the more we will win, the determination,
Threats are bearing upon us on the threshold of forbearance,
And finally we ask how we can live in our constellation in dignity.

If the romantic drifting is our nameless progress, the slots are on the floor of inconsolable, sounds being pattern of our something
That we fail to gain in realm of sanctity, on the traverse design.
We love our sky, we love our Endeavour, and we love our stories,
What we do not notice, the semantic variation in God’s creation.