A chameleon called Life...

Hungry flames crackle in quest

licking every fragment up to the core.

Smacking, diabolic, seeking for more

the molten fervour hammers at the crust.

Throbbing to spew forth vengeful lava,

malevolence blows, raining infernal plasma.

 Oblivious to the tumult within,

the calm columns stand.

The crowned cupolas, ornate therein

skyward look, though aloft a blazing quicksand!

Fierce within, serene without:

Isn’t Life a surprise of such turnabouts?

White-black; Heaven –Hellhole, Core-Crust; Fire and Calm-

Switch places in merry abandon!

Once within, once without and once never there,

playing serious ‘truth or dare!’

Like the faces of a mere coin, Life’s not bare.

It isn’t two-dimensional. Not even three.

Only a myriad dimensions make me me.

Look another time at those tireless wings.

An eagle? No. Stop your eyes from playing tricks.

For soars there the soul of life- the undying Phoenix!

Rising from the nether worlds, tempests, storms, droughts and embers

a thousand dimensions old, never yet a singe!

Vasantha-My Spring!

You willed seasons

for Your earth.

But Time stills for me.

No winter, no autumn

Spring will ever be

mine

in loving blossom!

Fragrance to what need

when I breathe You?

All my rainbows bleed

their selves into your blue.

Eyes found

no vision better worth.

Feet off the ground

as You walk my path...

I cannot be me

when you are within.

I am not me. You are.

We are. Have ever been!

Wisdom of the lamb...

Trail our path, staring...

you can’t change the end.

Butcher’s-kitchen- and at the dining...

we’re destined for the weekend.

His chopper sounds

staccato on the wood.

A teeter at my throat,

dried grass at my feet...

Most went today,

tomorrow I should.

Beckoning, they tease me.

Blackened, scraped hoofs

lying by lifeless heads.

Beefy torsos on hooks

washed clean of life, long bled.

When mother went, sheared,

without dissent,

she said:

Let most think us meek.

Not horse, not tiger, not elephant

only a lamb’s sacrificed in a ritual!

The truth is cardinal:

Not even Gods shelter the weak!^**

Son;

Don’t bleat.

Silence isn’t a frailty.

Don’t totter at the altar seat,

Yielding isn’t inability.

We die,

letting the world live,

quietly suffering their gluttony!

**  अश्वं नैव गजं नैव व्याघ्रं नैव च नैव च ।
    अजापुत्रं बलिं दद्यात् देवो दुर्बलद्यातकः ॥

Ashvam naiva gajam naiva vyagrham naiva cha naiva cha;

ajaaputram balim dhadyaat daevo durbalalahdyaatakaha.

                              -The Subhashita

Not horse, not elephant, not tiger, but only the lamb is sacrificed in a ritual. One must understand that not even God protects the weak. 

Halloweened Zombies...

Face and Mask (Acrylic on paper)

Most observe halloween,

everday.  All life.

Mask over mask, as colors and sheen

buttress overlays. All life.

The true face lost,

smothered to silence. All life.

The con self left to accost

a pathetic zombie. All life.

The Mask maker's boutique...

Mark that shack

veneered as a palace.

A mysterious one-track

byway from human race.

The weather-cock atop

in a fickle spin

welcomes to the shop

of a thousand twins.

Within-

A cornucopia of dissonant hoods

hung on every nail that could.

Consorting where they should,

the flesh, festoons, fragrance and flora;

feathers, flavours and flamboyant aura.

Not a mirror

or a façade familiar.

Not a repeat face

in that assortment somewhere.

Espouse your choice,

the medley is yours.

Just

veil the eyes

and gag that voice;

the hood stays on for years.

Waxing in tiers; aging

to a flaking paint

on an aching core.  

Unrestored, you scar;

adrift, on the other shore.

In search of self

delving the shelves;

still helplessly shopping

at the mask maker’s store!

Bonds

A mere tether dares to hold Me

 to myself.

A  tug, flip and yank,

am sure to come free!

Hours, weeks and years since, and it is gone!

Now grows there a banyan tree

its multitude roots richly spawn

from that sole sinuous shackle!

Multiplies self over and over;

myself and mine, myself and mine.

Never  the boundless Me...

(Acrylic abstract on paper)

                                                            

Putting Muse on back-foot!

Muse...(Pastels on paper)

The fancy muse is fickle and fussy;

autocratic and greedy. Robbing

hours from glorious mid-mornings to

romantic nights, day after day!

The less fancy muse consorts

an a-social, eccentric bard.

But I can ill-afford either.

So a carefree giggle, an unshed tear;

a news-paper tidbit, a curious gesture

stealthily snuggle into my grey cells.

Tether in remote niches as neuronal connections,

hibernating as restless vesicles of chemical neuro-transmitters.

And then tumble out during stolen hours

of my time-strapped life-at midnight or at day break...

On to the nascent paper or the computer screen

Even as the muse plays truant

with a million other writers!

The muse is a coquettish spider,

weaving that gossamer web;

delights in snaring writers in blocks

time and again.

But no, not me.

We live exclusive lives.

I’m free.   She begs for my summons.

As I romance papers, pens, colors and the WWW,

I put that spider out into a no-exit maze!