I recall the paths, Of childhood; of distant mood, That took me to the river. The red soil that revived into air, as hooves of bulls pressed onto them. And the rhythmic wheel of cart oiled by grease patiently made screeching sound. Mixed with these sounds were the calls of birds, that gently cut through even the afternoon forests, and on either side of this road which was hunched in the middle , were bamboos and shrubs that grew not too long;in their pomp. nor too short , lest be useless. but just tall enough to cover the soil, and protect her rich freshness from the father. The rays of Father made mosaics on the paths, ever chanting sketches of times and times , In the morning they were slanting and boisterous, Sketches of kids . afternoon; sturdy and arid . sketches of middle-aged men; with burdens on their shoulder, In evening, the fading mosaics were silent but wise. I took the shadow and i took the peeping rays to, on my face ,my laps, my back,my hands. we played all the time . Sometimes the rifest berry shrub, If It was a May afternoon ,was like black shining pearl , the dance of black pearls , abundant, sweet with red juice inside , I recall all that ,as if it happens before me, right now. O the sweet childhood and its reckless glories, the dreams of impossibilities and the romance with skies the sweet sweet paths that lead to river. And If if it be Monsoons , It would all greens, The soil will be less gay , and more gravity bound . The hunch ,the protective shrubs and their leave's blanket fatter now ,to play with mother rains ,than the rays . The clouds , the smell , the dark chocolaty muddy ponds, and how many lazy afternoon spent

Paths to the river

I recall the paths,
Of childhood; of distant mood,

That took me to the river.
 The red soil that revived into air,
 as hoofs of bulls pressed onto them.
And the rhythmic wheel of cart
 oiled by grease
patiently made screeching sound.

 Mixed with these sounds
 were the calls of birds,
 that gently cut through
even the afternoon forests,
and on either side of this road
which was hunched in the middle ,
were bamboos and shrubs
 that grew not too long
;in their pomp. nor too short ,

 lest be useless.
 but just tall enough to cover the soil,
 and protect her rich freshness from the father.
 The rays of Father made mosaics on the paths,
 ever chanting sketches of times and times ,
In the morning they were slanting and boisterous,
 Sketches of kids .
 afternoon; sturdy and arid .

sketches of middle-aged men;
with burdens on their shoulder,

 In evening, the fading mosaics
were silent but wise.
 I took the shadow
and i took the peeping rays to,
on my face ,my laps, my back,my hands.
we played all the time .

 Sometimes the rifest berry shrub,
If It was a May afternoon ,
was like black shining pearl ,
 the dance of black pearls ,
 abundant, sweet with red juice inside ,
 I recall all that ,
as if it happens before me, right now.

O the sweet childhood
 and its reckless glories,
 the dreams of impossibilities
 and the romance with skies
the sweet sweet paths that lead to river

. And If if it be Monsoons
, It would all be green,
The soil will be less gay ,
and more gravity bound .

The hunch ,the protective shrubs
and their leave's blanket fatter now ,
to play with mother rains ,not just the rays . T
he clouds , the smell ,
the dark chocolaty muddy ponds,
and how many lazy afternoon spent

आज चौकोनी रस्त्यांवरुनी ,स्मरण पुन्हा तापले ,
कसे होते विष तुझ्या धमन्यांत , पण मरण मज लाभले .

असा उरलो तुकड्यात पूर्वीच्या ,कातून दग्ध निखारे ,
जणू आमावस्येच्या चंद्राचे दुक्ख लेवून स्तब्ध नगारे ,

आठवणी केवळ धुक्यातील स्वप्ने ,मोड्कळून गेलेली ,
त्या सोनेरी केसांची झाक ,निरंतर लेणी भिजलेली ,

शेवटचे वळून पाहतानाही ,लालबुंद डोळे तुझे ,
केवढा गुन्हा मोठा माझा ,आज मला उमजे

निघून गेलीस अचानक , ज्या ज्या रस्त्यान्मधुनी,
तेथील धूळ वाहतो ,आज विराण वारा रडूनी

एक एक भिजक्या कुशीची ,साठवून कहाणी ,
रात्र प्रत्येक वेडी ,माझ्याहून तरी शहाणी

अजूनही कधी मोकाट हिंडतो ह्याच रस्त्यावरूनी ,
पावसात भिजत भरदुपारी ,तुझ्याच स्मरणातुनी

सनातन कृत्रिम काचेमधूनी,
हलकेच निखळला तारा,
लिंपून रुधिराची कवने;
मातीत मिसळला निखारा

सरपण मांडून भिजल्या प्रीतीचे ;
सतीस चढला एक तारा ;
मद्य चाखून रत्नाकरी ,
रात्र झिंगला एक किनारा

when the kisses are returned empty

when the kisses are returned empty ,
its time to wrap the sky and run;
never to fall back
into shadow of abandoned sun.

the papery lips,
cold as ice
and dry as evening'
a great shallow abyss
of pretentious love ;
unrequited,misunderstood;
cruelly oppressed,
by whims of her breast

rage,rage against thy dryness,
O woman,
Your billion deceptions ,
and My confessions

the hearts shatter
and hands meet,
kneed to the cross,
abandoned, too

And then the desires drouth ;
as Man's madness drops,
and coalesces
into the thick original mud
what is found then?
A non-relieving burden;
and a hopeless salvation.

when the kisses are returned empty..

Plastic Coated Bum

I saw a Plastic coated bum,
swimming ,
on a winter morning rum
His hands were cut by leprosy,
begging,
on lifeless early streets,
of a city,
That never should have been,
here nor there ,
why was he pastic coated?
an empty wafer wrapper ,
was he a wafer?
fried to life?
Oh,It was just a protection ,
from winter cold,
and from people ,
like me and you.

I feel pity ,
how pastic coated he was!
Plastic for protection,
plastic for prtoection,
garbage for protection,
from cold winter mornings ,
garbage protects his worms,
from demons and death's charms.

Plastic coated bum,
I see him like a warrior,a samurai,
a persion immortal covered in strength,
Like a robot from special effects,
as his plastic covered face shines,
and leprosy eaten lips vanish,

what a strong man ,
better than us wool covered ,
My hero,my hero.
I may as well worship thee,
you Plstic coated bum,
in the temple of suffering,
I would put you ahead,
of all Gods and other phoney things.

A butterfly on the buttock,
of a Bull,
Is same as that on buttock,
of Mule.
So I have my repect to the Bum,

who shall be my hero,Forever.

Silent ovation

Poetry was a passion , a pejoration ,
A plastic exploration into,
Mind’s empty elations .
Poets are saved from purgatory ,
Because Gods are effectless ,
On Poetic Paganists
Pianists of vast universe

And then Came economico voices,
telling us of their vices,
stories of drowning nations,
into the baskets of recessions,
endless oceans,endless oceans,
of words ,of grotesques protests,
that manifest and insist,
on their own constitutions ,
such a barking glory,

But I like the trees,
obeying to the darkness,
and to the Moon,
to the cats ,
In their silent ovation ,
to the Farce of Mankind.

Dreamy Eyed Race

Visions of Angels are not scarce,
for us,young dreamy eyed Race.
Some say that aint real ,
But what is real anyway?
Nothing is ,not even science,
If you can Contemplate the Quantum Play!

Where the electron spins,
In her own ideas of waves,
In the great Atomic Grace,
Not knowing who she is ,
Yet never the momentum cease

Such is our world ,
Of dreamy young eyed race,
Into the intergalactic space
Where we see our Angels Dancing,
In the starry cradle of dust ,
Where birth is, without lust

Born are our dark angels ,
From Supermassive Black holes,
That hang in emptiness ,
They must be laughing at you,
Who say order is due,
Who pomp in their reason ,
Caught in the rational prison,
Of rules ,structure,season

But Universe is Chaos ,a Haze,
A happy wobbling tear,
on the Angel’s face ,
And For our Dreamy eyed race ,
This is the only Holy bet!

The longing, ancient and eternal,
beyond poet's words,
beyond Philospher's boards,
Nothing to be done ,
Nothing can be done,
when water has evaporated ,
whats the use of the bowl?

whats the cause of the mysterious?
whats the source of it all,
this longing is not sadness,
for it is too sweet,
to be anything that uncouth ,
its distilled sorrow,
pure in its lineage of fogs,
of centuries ,
That stir a soft man's heart
Man who longs for the secrets,
not for any desired effects
But for that uncontrolled pulse,
to drink life at one go!

But then this unfinished journey ,
both bitter and sweet ,
maddening and wisening,
resurrecting and damning,
murdering and saving ,
is still My most prized possesion

That supernatural has installed in me,
this eternal blood ,
that dries not,
nor does it clot.
So kind the supernatural to me
That I seek not kindness
nor a fairness ,
anywhere else .
In the ordinary world,
of ordinary people,
Let them come and be unkind,
Not a muscle I will stir
i will just rejoice in the longings,
Mysterious,ancient ,eternal!

sweet sadness

what soft burdens of this heavy Plight,
That in this sweet sadness I delight ,
morrow be when the duty calls ,
let me just die again tonight !

Upon Thy bosom let me play,
Upon thy lips let me stay,
let me drink to thine eyes,
lest I burn and you the flame

If I cant prosper in sunshine,
of that beauty ,innocence thine,
then let me atleast be a refuge ,
in shadow of your unseen smile