At mangoe lane,

At mangoe lane,
Spent a dreamy walk,
From kaka's tea,
To that big tower white like elephant,
Had a walk,
Smelling auto spare parts
At mangoe lane,
Had a friendship day like
A walk
With festive mood gripping us.

You are not Urania, you are not one of those nine,

You are possibly not
Urania,
You are not one of those nine,

I know,

Still
When through the dusty hazy late evening road
I run,
Whizzing past cabs, buses,mini vans,
I know that lighted maze
Of urban scape
Actually paints your face,
In my bedazzled eyes,

And i look at my self,
With wonder and sense of atonement,
On the side mirror glass,

How through the wintry mist I pass,
How in me a song raises,
How ignited sky illumines in phases,
How dust in me falls to kiss the dust,

And I think life's poetry just,
I sing poetry of life just.

that mandolin girl,

Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
Your hair flowing down
Like a cascade
And that red-brown mandolin in your hand,
And I , your notebook
From where you look
And find notes of your strings,
From where you find that music
Which to the whole world rhythm brings,
Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
And I , those notes that cause a mild soothing twirl
Into the stagnant afternoon air, sunlit and slight warm,
Perfect like a late autumn
And early stage of a winter,
Like a picture,
Like a setting.

that mandolin girl,

Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
Your hair flowing down
Like a cascade
And that red-brown mandolin in your hand,
And I , your notebook
From where you look
And find notes of your strings,
From where you find that music
Which to the whole world rhythm brings,
Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
And I , those notes that cause a mild soothing twirl
Into the stagnant afternoon air, sunlit and slight warm,
Perfect like a late autumn
And early stage of a winter,
Like a picture,
Like a setting.

( Note: upon remembering a painting, by Michel Garnier)

Sometimes when You like a Goddess churn a music,

Sometimes
When You
Like a Goddess
Churn a music
Straight to my soul,
Reminding me of Your Unseen presence,
Like a flicker of love,
I hold mild glow in myself,

I become an evening of several tapers placed on the long verandah-
One after another,like a decor bright,
I become festivity myself,
I become soft luminance spread,
I become a song of light.

Love Is such a Paradise!

Love is such a wonderful thing,
The poets there for love always sing,
And those writers, on their desk, biting their pens,
They write love too,
And those singers
From early ages till date
They had been doing the same thing I guess,
They all strum and pluck,
Their strings of copper, so love struck...
And few good old men made movies on roses, marigolds, jasmines,
tuberoses, dalia dreams...
And those children when they smile,
They spray their lovely innocence, mile after mile,
And some philosophers pray and worship
Love in terms of several libraries gigantic,
With long book shelves, ladders fitted with clumps,
Love, it seems,all nourish,
in  their own happy triumphs;

Still by misfortune, this poor world cries,
And people without foods die,
And mendicants on pavements lie,
And still,
Quite fortunately,
Love
Arrives,
In its blessed ways,
Love still unfolds in its glorious lines,
For
Love is such a Paradise,
For love is such a Holy Shine.

Is it not a wonder, once I write you, the words air owns,

Is it not a wonder,
Once I write to you,
Words arranging by thoughts,
After a lot of burning of candle wicks,
They never stick?
They take wings
And fly,
First to you perhaps,
Then with time lapse,
They float further
By the air,
To unknown, untraveled worlds,
To chapters unwritten,
To horizons of unsavoured skies
Where their destiny lies...
Is it not a wonder
That every day we immortalise us?
You, me,
And our destiny,
In such a lovely way,
That no one can actually say,
Where exactly we hold us,
Is it not a wonder,
That we just celebrate us?
Our birth,
Our life,
Thus.

Come, dear, let me hold your hand, and sing a song,

Come
Dear,
This beautiful evening,
When the mild chill
Mixed with the cool air,
Is blowing through the lanes,
Let me hold your hands,
And sing a song,
A song of life,
A song as deep as your wonderous festive eyes,
Come dear,
This beautiful evening,
Lets just forget us,
Our all usual daily chores,
Our good for nothing time pass,

Lets just keep us
In our eyes,
And let me sing,
A song of love,
A song that those diyas can only possibly sing,
A song that no voice can to you bring,

Let me just
Hold your hands,
And sing
That song.

There is an evening, as good as a ballerina,

There is an evening
As good as a ballerina
Dancing on her nimble toes,
Lifting up to catch the flow
Of pre diwali lights and diyas
Lit up in hearts,
There is an evening,
Dancing in toes,
Nimble and soft.

When the sky is so blue, when the day is so green,

When the sky is so blue,
When the day is so green,
Dear,
Why are we so silent?
Why can't the wind us bear?
To faraway lands?
To the village fair?
Where afternoons come
Dressed as trees and ponds,
Where dreams fields sing
From sunlit scenes
Till the crimson evening,
Where laughters ripple
On the flowing stream,
Where white cloudlets arrive
Like paintings on our joyous minds.

When light fills the morning mist,

When light fills
The morn's mist,
One finds how dew drops
Sparkle awakening of diamonds on leaves,
When light fills
The foggy air,
One gets to dreams of drawing out
Pink pullovers
From almirahs,
And winter
There one thinks
And feels with a mild chill and shiver.

On Judith,

"My days burn with the Sun
My nights with moon and the star"
She wrote once, in her ways Australian
Soon after she held Meredith,
Her soil she probably had found in her ribs,
Her country she wrote in undying lyrics,
Claiming how she took in all living things
The flame-tree, the  motherly spirit,

Judith,
She held fruits of her toils,
And prayed her great grandma's voice,
Till she held it all.

( Note: tribute to Judith Wright, the poet)

And a sunlit afternoon, placed rose blossoms,

When I find blossoms red, left,

When I find
Blossoms red
On a blank page, left,
I feel like writing nothing,

For
Roses
Are forever,
They can never
Be embellished
By any banal writes,

For they are forever.

Lets walk down that bridge,

Lets walk down that bridge,
Like a painting underneath which
The river flows by,
Lets walk down that bridge,
Looking at our colored life...
And also at those water colored trees
Upon flooded streets as they cause
Ut musica poesis...
Lets walk down the bridge.

Love, I want to You to live, in my wandering soul deep,

Love,
I want You to live
In my wandering soul deep,
Where paintings stay,as immortal as art,
Where alphabets come together to join all who have fallen apart,
Where eyes become all hearts' sublime song,
Where poetry rises and dips in all, all day, all night long,
Where tears of all, You wash down through wonderment,
Where You fill all, with poems colored dense,

Where astounded all can only be, blessed by Your divinity,
Where inspired all can happen, enchanted by Your time~space frame,
Where devout all can become, blessed by Your wine awesome,

Love,
Give me that color,
So that I can color you,
With my wandering hues.

Walked on stones, walked on pebbles, upon which stream flew

'Walked on stones,
Walked on pebbles,
Upon which stream clear flew,'
Memories of those drew
Me to stand up
To the queue,

A morning
When stood up by me
By calls of friends,
A day when stood up
As a togetherness of family,
The kid's eyes with dreams of a picture,
Darling's eyes holding flowers,
And a mild shower
Continuous,

'Walked on pebbles,
Walked on stones,
Upon which stream clear flew'
That feeling came home
With mirthful existence,
And trees by moisture getting drenched,
And a meandering flow,
All participated
Into life,
A single day not turned a waste,

'Walked on pebbles
Walked on stones,'
Memories of youthful occasion
Sublimate into a lovely evening,
A feeling of being together,
A getting together.

A green heartland,

A green heartland,
Acres of grass
Where stand
Like a cool shadowy place,
There once I put to rest
All my urban hurriedness,
A green tree filled solace,
A deep breathing space,
There once I left all my poems...

And those trees,
Old and beautiful,
They bear witness
To my letters thrown,
They bear all wintry evening songs.

Love, how it blooms like soul's light,

Love,
Like a lotus,
Blooms fair
Filling the misty evening air,

Love,
Like the light of the soul
Blooms fair,
Filling heart's bowl,

Love,
How it blooms
Like a lotus
Holy.

Sometimes with his heavy eyes, he would sing 'I am just a singer...in a rock n roll band',

Sometimes
With heavy eyes
Drooping wordless,
He would light up a cigarette,
And taking two quick puffs,
Break out singing:
'I am just a singer
In a rock n roll band*...'
And he would sing stories
Of his travels to different lands,
His meeting with people,
People who came and went,
People camping at the fringes of the city,
Selling claywares, pure Rajasthani,
Nomadic clans,
Sometimes,
He would roll up his sleeves
Strum his guitar,
And with his drooping eyes
Start a song,
'I am just a singer
In a rock n roll band...'

(Note:* I am just a singer, by M.Blues)