Tuesday, March 11, 2025
Boils, Carbuncles, and Furuncles
Monday, March 10, 2025
Disorder (Poem)
Dis(order)
I
Go or drive
Everywhere I
Wearily walk
Or
Leisurely stroll
Immersed in endless thoughts
Or
Silent quietude
Trying to watch
A flycatcher here
A bumblebee there
Or, a winter black butterfly
Feasting
On Arka (Calotropis) flowers
Then
I am shocked with
The spectacle of outrageous
Dirt, debris, irritating air
Pollution (AQI*) all around following me
It’s there in many Indian cities
At all places without exception
Even the
The outlaying village suburbs
Suffer too; they
Are not spared either.
Yet -
I did not notice
This much of manmade disorder
In my youth
Nor the menacing troupes
Of
Mosquitoes with bloody thirst
In the hot tropical southern states
When I return
To the cold Northern Latitudes
The air is clean
The skies – with an eye piercing bluish dome
Here too
During my walks
I
Am pained by the careless
Wayside trash on the roadside
Empty
Marlborough packets, Red Bull cans,
Cigarette butts, Fiji water bottles,
Tiny bottles of spirit
Soon spring will
Bring a plethora
Of
Roadside cleaners,
Rotary Club volunteers
Or
Local school children
Meticulously collecting the
Wayside trash.
My eyes do not perceive
Disorder
In nature, in the interior woods
Or
On the banks of desolate streams,
Waterfalls, or the meandering creeks
Of the now abandoned Erie Canal
The backyard is strewn
With fallen stumps
Decaying tree branches
Heaps of last season’s autumn
Foliage with pinecones, hawthorn berries
They’ll soon become nutritious
Compost for future ground cover
Or, silky moss
Bringing out wild geraniums, trout lilies,
And bloodroot blooms
…
After decades of
Hard working
Environmentally conscious citizens’
Contributions
Now
The communities
Try to bequeath
Clean water, pure oxygen-rich air,
And
Fecund fertile topsoil filled ground
To
The innocent, yet to be born
Future generations.
What an invaluable treasure
This healthy ambience
Of
Verdant gorgeous nature?
Not everything in the world
Need be touched by modern man
Nor it needs to be accounted
By penny pinching bean counters
Copyright 2025 by the author
*Air Quality Index
Saturday, March 1, 2025
Pious Prayers (Poem)
Pious Prayers
Not earnest enough?
The little sparrow
Had to crawl underneath the car
For a lick of freshly made cool water
Below the a/c compressor
A thirsty crow was
Tapping the skylights,
The translucent convex domes
For cool condensed mist drops
A tiny few at most!
That too has dried up
Hardly there is a trickle
In the lean summer months
Now you see no current –
And
I miss the music of our
Backyard falls, its meditative murmurings
A soothing
Hushed lovers’ conversation in the night
Have performed yagnas – on command he could
Call the benevolent Indra – Prajnanya
My maternal grand father too
Was a simple, self effacing reader of the
Vedas – that perennial fountain of dharma (धर्म)
No, not the misinterpreted phrase “dhamma/damma”
Found in modern dictionaries or eastern religious treatises
Outlined in a foreign European tongue - English
The original mode of human conduct -
It is meant to uplift one and all beings (souls)
And gently guide them towards
Real enlightenment; that was
Way before the modern Maslow!
I can utter, say a bit haltingly
Prayers to the thirty three crores (of) gods
For a simple cool summer shower
I need them for my Gardenia flowers,
Lawn, sacred Basil (Tulasi),
And Okras
The local farmers too need them
For sweet corn and vegetable crops
The deer, birds, and playful squirrels
Rabbits too need them
A respite from the hot dry wind
Won’t you bless us with
A silky carpet of Jasmines and Dianthus
Govinda?
Your name itself is – Narayana
You seem to float on
A veritable ocean of fresh water
Tuesday, February 18, 2025
Winter Vacation (Poem)
Winter Vacation
India
We discovered
Not six inches
Not one or two feet
No, it was four and (a) half feet
Yea, it had to be several feet
Of hard crusty snow -
A mix of freezing rain
And frigid snow
Like multilayered chocolate cake
With interspersed frostings
Hard unbreakable icy frostings
But all white in color;
Crystals of pure water
What is the point of
Studying hydrogen bond
In a dry lecture hall?
You learn it
It gets into your bones
Into the sinews
When the age worn
Hands struggle to break
With steel garden pointed shovel
The ice boulders
And wearily lift the heavy
Loads of Crusty Snow
Lord Siva must have smiled
On this devotee
I have to seek pardon
From Ganga mai
For hitting Her hard
With cruel metallic blows
But what could I do
I had to make way
At least for the minivan
Everything got stuck -
No groceries, no milk
No doctor’s visit
Everything frozen, totally standstill
Surrounded by icy walls
In that little space
Call it driveway
Or car park
We’re trapped for almost
Three full days
Yet
I have no hard feelings
About the celestial downpour
Of pure white angel dust
It is really white pure snow
No acid rain here
Just pure yech-two-o
You can drink it directly
And you can use it
For indoor plants, for misting
Or in the steam iron
In between shoveling
I stood silently
Wondering
Will this mountain of snow
Ever be finished?
That’s like asking the philosophical
Question: “Will this mound of
Accumulated karma ever dissolve away?”
Thursday, December 19, 2024
Muscle Ache, Stiff Joints, and Backache
Monday, November 18, 2024
The Blind Spot (Poem)
The Blind Spot
It
Opened my inner eyes suddenly
The little blind
Winged creature
Was stuck
In
Some unknown surroundings
We don’t know
How it came inside
It had occurred once
Before too
But what a marvelous
Creature it is!
It could save itself
From all the walls,
The steep inclined
Ceiling, the hanging
Fan and domed lights
‘Cause it can see (feel)
Without Eyes
The stealth bomber
Is
Only half-a-century old
Here, this little mammal
(Thanks to million years
Of evolution)
Can avoid collisions
With the walls and
Other hanging objects
And
Find its way out -
Of an open window
Or door
Often we think
We’re blessed
With
The Five Senses
And a few more
Like intuition or prescience
Internal signals
And then cry helplessly
When we lose
A bit of hearing,
Sight, smell, or touch
But all along
We've been groping in the
Dark – really.
We can’t see the infrared
Though we do feel the
Sun’s warmth thro’ skin
We can’t hear the infra sound
Of the chronological time
We are prisoned in the
Now or past incarnations’
Dense fog
Then why?
Why?
This crust of ‘useless pride’
Whatever we gained thru’
Evolution and brain -
Did it make us lose?
Some senses too
Better be
Light and live
Live
Lightly with a feather touch;
With least perturbation
To
The ambient surroundings
And creatures
Copyright 2024 by the author