Sunday, 11 March 2018


                                                Photo Credit: Blue Bell Books Twitter Club

There are two little children - one boy and one girl - both are of six years’ old, playing in a children’s park in a spring afternoon, some conversation is there between them from innocent talks, to know each other’s pretty minds:

“Where do you live?” says she, “Far away in that direction.  We go by auto-rickshaw.”
He points out little fingers towards east.

- “Who takes you here? My mother is there.” she points out to one beautiful lady sitting on a lawn- chair a little far away.

- “My grandpa comes with me.” says the little boy.

The little girl takes a glance at the old aged man with silvered hair, standing nearby.

- “Where is your mother?” She said,

- “My mother goes on a long duty, she cannot come. She will return home next day after four mornings.” He says.

By this time, mother of the girl calls her daughter and takes her away from the children’s park. The boy stands stoned with a glance on the way they have gone away from the park.

Every playing is sweet,
And everyone plays a part in it.
Parting away isn’t pardonable,
Flower shreds something
We have touched,
Perfume in deep sensation
Left behind by flower’s kindness,
A gift we receive with warmth of heart.
It reminds us a paradise
Where we feel warmth and kindness
And leave it with some
Sweet memory, the little boy perceives.

Monday, 26 February 2018


Poem - 12

The sun promises to appear, crimson red,
Cool, round, vivid, pleasant, vibrant, stoic,
Everyone on the beach picked phone-cameras
To click buttons to picturize the entire scene.

The young couple stood close face to face
A little space between for taking snap of her,
He took phone-camera to clear her full view,
Positional crave on the phone-monitor, for

High definition resolution output, turned on,
A short-lived posture, worth much, pieces of
Strong memory, to be picturized for love, and
Created by him for song of love, on beach.

By the event for loving hearts, she is quiet,
And leans to photogenic position, like wonder
Of water flowing and seeking way to stratum
To see more, to feel more, and to learn more,

About him who waves changes in her eyes,
Where she finds noble performance, and
He goes without a word with her terms of
Dedication and someone takes him for her. 

Saturday, 3 February 2018


I am listening to all sound tracks
Of the earth, reverberating 
Either in the air, or in black holes,
In search of voice of chirping birds,
That can comfort me, to bear resonance -
Life is not hard, everything is worth living,
And dream brings moral for life,
Sorrows brings changes in conciousness.
Fire is not languishing burns,
It burns amoral activities. 
Bodies are not machines,
But are geometrical form for living of soul. 
Human being is manifestation of living self 
and its consciousness, as I feel it,
Singing is an occasion of  rhythm of heart,
And when I wake up every morning
I love to see glimpse of  beautiful birds, 
Either in the garden or in the balcony, 
They sing to hug with the nature for getting purified.  
And it will create first line of my next poem,
All their appearance will fill emptiness with love,
To gleam with words, those hold respect to delight
That is the source and beginning of wonderful things
Upon the earth for living and for going through 
Existence of the universe. 
It is substance for life and for poetry.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017


Birds chirp in the morning,
Awake to hear drum beats
To greet Kalipuja, surrounded
By pleasing sound with tune
Of courage of early morning,
Birds flock around upon a cord,
Their voice opens treasure of
Hope and wisdom to connect
Our heart with Mother Kali’s blessings,
Goddess of divinity, protecting us
With Jaba flower dancing in
The morning delight, whispering
For enthralls to call us all
To live in Heavenly earth with
Peaceful movement, moment of
Journey for prayer, comfortably. 

Tuesday, 17 October 2017


Bluebell Books Twitter Club!: short story slam week 76, 11/2/2017---11/19/2017, Humor, Poetry form, and Lots of Laughter


Water runs in river of flowing gravity. It forms little waves; those do not put us at risk, and a thin wish runs behind to form the age of creation. It is making journey since early morning upon the earth, and the sky to be happy, trees to be green, civilization to be happy with crops, and reeling under shadow of soft sunlight becomes one mode of making life graceful and whole of the world turns to be the messenger of peace, and breathing becomes easy to open mind to every man and woman to locate where the life is easy to look through window of solvency, to listen sound of breathing and love. All hope will rise to accommodate wild rabbit to roam around field to eat grass, and no pirate will pursue chase to share grass, but modesty will engrave the world with sculpture of deepest blue of the mind that carries of essence of life, and no sword will cut the butter for others’ happiness. And the world look up for another version of the earth to be created in the miracle of own creation and otherness of  livelihood. 


Sunday, 15 October 2017


With slain sculls in hand, dry blood soaked,
She stands, and the grief seems end in glee,
She wonders if she knows enough in this land,
To be bold, at the edge of eliminating evils,
A wind of defeating all waring dacoits out of trolls,
It brings October night cool upon her shoulders.
Lord Shiva lies calm beneath her, a sail from sea
Resembling peace around the world, on the turf.
A patch of many evils fallen from mind’s inside
That flows beneath reality, arrogant in red eyes,
Her countering red eyes places a balanced wind,
To be the way on the track of normal stream,
To defeat anxiety, to establish forgiveness and
Peace, giving all the way to introduce seamless stride, 

Like the sage of healing spirit, inside dust-free mist. 

Thursday, 10 August 2017


As if rib-cage –
perceived pain-drops pouring in –
because enough pain makes a pool,
with rain-drops.

Inside remote of heart, the blue
steps in with its breathing, and
forgets to rebel, as if it is locked
inside green edge over cold wind.

Fruits do not get maturity,
in some weighing scale,
images quieted by mind’s mirror.
Clouds wandering far below.