Snake In The Grass

Mr. Rao was sitting in his front lawn
He looked dull and worried
'I haven't mowed for a month'
He said looking at the wild growth

The lawn with its grass blades
Some tall, some short looked to me
Beautiful in its randomness
'There is some odd grace
Even in indiscipline' I remarked
'There is a method in their madness'
I laughed and winked at him

He stared one long minute
At his beloved lawn and said
'Ever heard the idiom'
'….Snake in the grass! It was said
About the lurking dangers inside
Such unruly growth! Thanks
To the indolent masters'

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Common Coxwains

They row! Row! Row!
Towards the sliding wonder world
Of a fleet of hovercrafts of elite on show
Afloat on bubbly milky ocean
Like gold-threaded hammock of a lazy baron
Flaunting opulence, splendor and élan
They row! Row! Row!

They row! Row! Row!
The common coxswains in crowded little boats
Carrying their weights, plights and half-fed entrails
Craving for the étagère at floatilla distant
In iridescent glitter; baroque and extravagant
They row! Row! Row!

They row! Row! Row!
Sooner or later they come to know
There’re no blades to their paddling oars;
Lingering are their sampans
Like their middle class torpor,

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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The Slow Death Of A Bard

Boss asks euphemistically
“You’re not the same force you were once”
Friends demand anxiously
“Hey! What happened to your antics and puns? ”

He smiles at once and embraces silence!
What can he say of something he wishes to suppress?
There is always in heart, something hush, hush
One cannot divulge and publish

For a pure materialist
This heart is a bloody pump-set
And for a staunch spiritualist
It is a holy nest where God rests

But lo! For a frustrated bard
His heart is a live hearth
Where there is no birth or death
For pain, laughter, love and hatred

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Body And Soul

This body; a sheer materialist
Seeks sensuous pleasures
The soul; a pure spiritualist
Wants to meld with the Redeemer

Man is thus in fight with the man inside
Whether to treat this flesh and blood
With aesthetics and physical indulgence
Or wait with asceticism for heavenly bliss

Questions reign; answers elude
Many a true wise man died dispirited
Leaving a little said and a lot unsaid
Those few greats living today are subdued

But these conundrums, for some charlatans
Became unexpected professional boons
Mushroomed half-bred brains christened as
Saints, sages, realists, rationalists and so on.

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Professsional

PROFESSIONALS
It is his loved profession
As good as any occupation
Indeed a damned lucrative one
Yes! He is a born politician
People bowed him; not known
Whether it’s fear or devotion
But made he name and fame
And amassed wealth aplenty
Ample for his progeny
To guzzle for generations many

Earns he easily his yearned goals
Votes or any profitable posts
He expects nothing free to fall
Ready to pay in full to all
Be it dhal or alcohol
Sari, dhoti or a cotton shawl
Payola is his way to enthrall

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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I Am God

I AM GOD
I am God! The innocent first born!
Before nothing did dawn
A parentless kid I am
With no kith or kin
To nurse, nurture and train

I am an amorphous whole
Filled with nectar called pure love
Which I enlaced over human race
My spiritual progeny in universe

But see what they have done
I am scared! Alas! Of everything
Done in my name! Shown as my shape
My devotees and their airs
Their signs and ostentations
Their prayers and swears
Their transgressions and confessions
Their rites, rituals and superstitions

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Beauty

Countless are beauties
To suit every taste
One Venus, one goddess
And many an angel
Seen, vied and gloated at
But! Lo! What is beauty?

For one fair skin is lovely
to another, black is bounty
But blonde is gorgeous for many

Lively smile, lotus eyes, long legs
Or total comely structure!
Ah! What is beauty? Where is beauty?

Theories were floated! Thoughts purveyed!
Frustrated hearts even wailed
That beauty is nothing but skin deep

Descriptions fail! Debates prove futile

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My Dark Nights

At the distant verge of the horizon
Slowly submerging is the weary Sun
With reddened face
Bidding grudging adieus
To his day long drudging
Brooding over mandatory next come

I stood there staring at Him
I wanted to say “don’t depart”
In an automatic reflex
I lifted my right hand aloft!
Nay! He didn’t stop! I wept!

As feared reemerging are my
Horror-ogres, with creepy insurgence
A dirge from distant mountain range
Barged inside my fragile core
With harrowing clangour

Oozing out acid-reminiscenses

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Radha Waits

I know, you never keep up your word
by habit O' my mate.
Yet I sat in that deserted place in wait
behind a thorny bush, beside a pond
pulling the innocent grass roots
and throwing stones into the defenceless waters.

My enamoured heart
allowed me not a glum retreat.
My hoping eyes didn't like a disjoint
with the wiggling country path
in that dim crescent light.

The Moon's melting down;
The white jasmines in my bridle were wilting down.

A mischievous zephyr whispered into my ears
"He won't come dear;
better you go. How long you wait? "

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Autumn Leaves

I still hearken a little deep
from the rolled out time
the last song of cuckoo
humming through the hot winds.

The scents of last spring-flower
still drift through
my dried up nasal lanes.

Today walking silently
over the crackling autumn leaves
I rue for the withered
bed of roses that once paved my way
towards a breathing heaven of verve.

The parched earth and naked trees
stand before me
like fossils
of the deceased last spring.

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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