A Bend in the Road – Part 4 ( Final )

Man is born free.

Don’t tell me !

There are wheels within wheels
And deals within deals
And then we are told
Wall Street is clean bowled
The economy’s overheated
Again we are cheated

It’s a disgrace
In your face
A scandal

Out , out , brief candle !
Out , damned spot ! Out , I say !
Out , damned candle !

For all that we mishandle
A cure , for sure

Nightfall
Once for all

“A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—
….this wan and heartless mood….

I may not hope from outward forms to win“
I may not hope
I may not

Grief or Joy
Go but a little distance

The rest is just the pathway
Ennui without end
Stagnant around a bend

An opiate haze
Minus the old opium
Of Religion
( For God is dead
And has been dead
These hundred years and more )

A new miasma engulfs us
For Google, Whatsapp , Twitter
Have now come to the fore
And Bezos, Gates and Zuckerberg
Shall rule for evermore
Or if not they , their clones
Through drones and virtual thrones
The Internet being the new Narcotic-
Demotic Psychotic Chaotic –
Of choice

Voice :
But what do you call it ?
Sound :
Road . Country . Road .

Going round
and round and round

Every Country
Every Road
And Country Road.

Also , Zoonotic
And utterly Neurotic

The panic epidemic
Is everywhere endemic
And then is called pandemic

On which the pharma scene
Is many a vaccine
Till mutations are seen
That always might have been

The cycle being repeated
As mankind is depleted
And species are deleted
Till Nature is defeated

Oh Woe !
Whoa !
Ho !

Oho!
Oh no !

You know
Now
And how !

Ha !

Ha indeed,
And Pah !
To greed
Which will be the death of us
Enemy of the breath of us

Don’t ramble
Unscramble
The Bramble

The hapless tree ?
Could be you ,
Could be me

Tied
Crucified

Starkness
Darkness

At the quotidian
Meridian

Oblivion

Road , Toad
Bend , UnFriend

The End

( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )

Betel (Bitter)Territory

The street dogs running around
marking their territory ground,
from pillar to pillar
and every nook and corner,
they would balance precariously
on three and not four
one hind leg in air
sometimes right
and then left they pour
happily expanding their kingdom
and guarding it ferociously…..
then came a two legged
with super brains and super powers
he could talk and not bark
he could think and comprehend
he could speak a dialect
he was blessed with a spark
best creation of God was he…..
but certainly something was wrong
his brain was wired
and heartless was he
as he too went around
marking his territorial ground
Spitting red slurry of betel leaves
by the pillars and trunks
lining the walkways
and bang in the center
plonk he would spit
on the roads newly laid
insulting higher faculties
his civic sense dead,
worse than animals
flogging he deserves…..
save my country
save my animals,
scared are they
with such competitors
who mark larger territories
Giving disease to others…..
© Dr Swati A Gadgil, All Rights Reserved.

A Bend in the Road – 3

Part 3

The Country Road
bears witness, gives testimony
still stands , though it never stands still
Still runs ,though it never runs away :
What do you call that ?

When all you get to eat
Is a carrot and some bones
When all your beds and sofas
Are some mounds and some stones
When everything is crappy
And all that makes you happy
Is a nap , an exchanged cap
Or rhyming rap , and that’s a wrap :
What do you call it ?

Yes , Sir ! What do you call it ?
No , Sir ! What do you call it ?
Three bags full , Sir ! What do you call it ?
I have forgotten
Tell me

Call it absurd
Call it the great void
Call it nothing

A bend in the country road , Mr Toad
A twist in the plot of the story, McRory
A sting in the tail of the tale , Abigail
See ya later , Alligator
In a while , Crocodile

May I give you a hug
In this brief life ?

Hug , hog ?
Hug , pig ?
Hug , dog ?
Hug , pug ?

Absurd !
I’m not your bird
You …. !

Are you a man , a woman ,
A hog , a dog , a pig , a pug
A road, a toad, a tree or a country ?
A time , a rhyme , a reason , a season ?
Or are you Elon Musk
Monetising
Civilisation’s dusk ?

How dare you ?

A science , a technology ,
A digital platform ?
Artificial Intelligence ?
The Fourth Industrial Revolution?
The Great Reset ?

Merde !

Are you the Depopulation Agenda ?
The Overdue Cull ?
The Anthropocene ?
Or a Conspiracy Theory ?

Unheard
Of .
You are dead .
Know it .
Off
With your head .

Are you the paparazzi ?
The glitterati ? The twitterati ?
The cognoscenti ?
The Illuminati?
Are you Anarchy
Or global oligarchy ?
Are you the Firm ? The monarchy ?

What malarkey !
Don’t be snarky

Are you the End of Imagination ?
Are you the Platinum Plutocracy,
Mindless Mobocracy
Or dead crazy Democracy ?
Are you North Korean Media
Or hacked Wikipedia?
A Nuclear Gnome
Or the Human Genome ?

Best go home

Are you the Panama Papers ?
The Paradise Papers ?
Wikileaks ?
Or Guantanamo Bay ?

Nothing to say.

Are you Cambridge Analytica ?
Are you Mossack Fonseca ?
Appleby , Obermayer ?
Or Bauer , or Bayer?
Monsanto or Cargill ?
Are you over the hill ?

Say a prayer
Stay still

Are you Breitbart
Or Bannon?
Or the Rose of Shanon ?
Or Mercer
The Purser ?
Or are you , then ,
Edward Snowden ?
Or Julian Assange ?
Are you , at the very least , Arundhati Roy ?

No.No.Nay.Noy. No , Boy !

Passing Away

In today’s materialistic world,


Passing away matters, if you are person of fame.


If you are rich enough…


Or you are with loads of name and fame.


But the ordinary, a nameless man on the road,


Goes un-mourned and unattended .


The person might have died of penury


Or hunger, exhaustion laid him dead.


I mourn the passing away of the forgotten..

Whether human or the values.

I mourn the lost kind words,

And the selfless love,

The era when women were safe as well as respected.

The innocence of childhood and the peaceful

Nineties.

I mourn the dying Mother Nature,

And Mother Earth breathing her last.

Why do we mortals take our existence and

Destroy everything in our haste!


Dark Connections (Part Two)

Episode 2 –  

   
A Mutilated Body & A Poor Alibi


” You’re alive!! “
This was Miss Roberts – his Secretary & PA, the type that movies were always casting 20 years younger than the real McCoy. John Smith affected his usual nonchalance,”You sound disappointed Toots, how come ?”

Miss Roberts always gave great ripostes:”Thing is Skip,when we heard you were dead first thing I did was look up florists in the yellowpages..”

“Aw,that was sweet of you Toots, on the ball as always”.

“Yeah I’ve got as far as ordering the wreath”

“No flowers yet?”

“You got any preferences?”

“I’ll pass on the flowers, I get hay fever you know”.

“Yeah, but Skip the flowers are meant to go on top of your grave”.

“Got it all figured out ain’t you, the boss croaks and you’re into the flowers for sentimental occasions catalogue”.

“So how come you’re not stiff and laid out on some coroner’s slab?”

“I just wouldn’t be comfortable,anyhow toots you going to let me in on this pantomime show or do I have to buy a souvenir program?”.

Miss Roberts, a widow to an authentic hero in the war.The kind of older sister figure that men like John Smith wished they’d had back in their childhoods instead of two dumb too dumb brothers;anyhow he extinguished that line of thought- the one that only leads into the past and on into melancholy.

Now was not the time for morbid self-reflection;he had things to do and problems to solve now that he was supposed to be dead.

Miss Roberts let him know that an Inspector Ruyter and Sergeant Brannigan were up on the 7th.floor making official enquiries with you know who.Smith nodded appreciatively and prompted her to phone upstairs and request the cops pop down.” ‘Pop down’ ,excuse me Skip?”

“Yes my good woman? ask if they wouldn’t mind awfully popping down”.

Miss Roberts phoned muttering in her stage whisper that someone’s been watching too many Ronald Colman movies lately and ended her call with ” it’s far far better thing” aimed at Smith who had diplomatically already turned his back on her so as not to crack up.


Once they’d all been introduced – police and civilians alike – they settled down with Miss Roberts acting as stenographer.Smith reassured Inspector Ruyter that occasions of this sort here at Continental Development were routinely recorded.Thanking Smith for this unusual courtesy Ruyter proceded with the interview.


Later that evening, everyone else gone home and the city switching to night mode,on the 5th floor of the Hitchcock Building,John Smith and his trusted P.A.were going over what she’d recorded earlier.Each in turn picking out salient highlights.


“30 to 40 large wounds..”
“Remote platform used for freight traffic of which there’d been little of recently due to the wildcat strikes at ports on the east coast,so fairly deserted.”
“On the basis of a heavily blood stained and almost illegible drivers licence and one of your business cards..”
“They triangulared it was John Smith, in particular this one”.
“You say here that you were at the Station to get the 9.11 for your meeting with the mysterious clients but someone you assumed was calling on their behalf advised you not to get the train as the meeting had been called off and they also told you to await for instructions from them”.
“That’s right”.
“At this stage Ruyter asks you for more details about the call and made a pointed reference to Sergeant Brannigan for him to check the call logs for the Station Manager’s Office first thing in the morning”.
“And my answer to what did I do after I got the unexpected call cancelling the meeting..?”
“You said you went and bought the Daily News morning edition and made your over to Steffano’s Bar for a very late breakfast ..”

“After which?”

“You wound up back here on the 5th floor of the Hitchcock Building at your office-Overseas Acquisitions of Continental Development Inc to be greeted by me..”


“You’re alive etcetra and so forth pax vobiscum”.

“You haven’t told them everything have you John?”- Miss Roberts looked at him more in sorrow than admonition.

“Of course not Toots”.

Heaving an all too visible sigh of relief, Miss Roberts continued,”Thank goodness for that, for a moment I thought you were breaking the professional habits of a lifetime”.

Smith grinned,”Yeah and by the time Brannigan who got too many knocks to the head playing gaelic football at College ,will have ascertained, even for his limited intellectual faculties, confirmation of the cadaver’s erstwhile identity from the department of motor vehicles”…
( To be continued )

My Parents’ Garden

In my parent’s garden, there is a big tree
with a huge round shape, and humming bees.
Myriad of colourful flowers gazing at the sky
pink, yellow, purple and red all shining bright.

I love this place, where I rest and ponder
why the sky is blue, my mind wander?
I often wonder while sitting in contemplation
why I adore this place, in my parent’s garden?

My perfect paradise, with the melody of wind
the sunshine sparkling over the escaping spring.
The nurturing of nature holding me in its lap,
the chirping of the birds captivating me in its clasp.

Sitting and enjoying the best of nature
holding my breath and I am ready to go.
In my parent’s garden, the place I worship
my mind is pure and full of hope.

He

A LOOK AT LIFE-87
BY-Smruti Ranjan Mohanty

        HE

No one was with me
No one is with me
No one will be with me
Except Him at whose lotus feet
I have surrendered my life.
Karmic debts and deposits
Sorrow, happiness and anguish

Over the years
My love and tears
Longing and relationship
Had been but marriages of conveniences
Permutations and combination for a better deal
No one was bad, no one was good
No one my friend, no one my enemy
Nothing but my priorities
Defined me and my relationships
My relationship was as transitory
As my passion and infatuation
Only for a period of time
Wilted like night jasmine

Love, romance, relationship
Everything has changed
Everyone faded Including me
But not He who is beyond time
He has been there since the day I am
His love and concern has never changed
My relationship with Him is as fresh
As it was long back when we last met
On the other side of infinity

My Lord!
I am beaten and betrayed every moment
But again fall in love forgetting
What happened yesterday
My father! you graced me
I could realise the futility of the game
But I am still in the game
Give me the will and strength to come out of it
From illusion to reality
From darkness to light
To be at your feet
With nothing bothering me from outside

Smruri Ranjan Mohanty©
All Copyrights Reserved.

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Perhaps.

Perhaps I never listen to you in the way you wanted me to do.
Please try to understand that the way to here is laid down by sorrow.
It’s never been easy to see how we end up and to wich and with who.
I have always lived in the moment and never looked for tomorrow.
Can’t believe how a heart can be teared apart and left, still beating and bleeding.
True, oh yes the truth is more subtle and hidden than the deepest secret in mind.
Never gave up and I, like Phoenix scorch, in the attempt to touch you in the meeting.
Perhaps I didn’t feel the same way as you but always thinking we were the same kind.

Perhaps it’s not meant to be acknowledge or even recognized as the right step.
Sometimes it feel’s as it is the task you can never win and all is to the bin.
Perhaps we forgot to talk about us and lifes anxiety and what is left when we bow our neck.
Sometimes I can’t see coz’ my world get blurred by sparkle of tears but it’s still beautiful.

Perhaps it’s all inside of me, or what’s left of what I once gave.
I tried to understand what is in it, do you remember how it used to feel?
Maybe the mind is already settle and only waiting for the deep dark grave.
My embrace is with both arms and with the care for you without any deal.
It’s been nights screaming in full pain and days of relentless howl.
Now we must raise our heads and face tomorrows lonely whisper with pride.
I grew strong by the hand you gave through the mirrow to touch my soul.
Perhaps I never told you, and always denied all of my being, in what I tried to hide.

Perhaps I really did take your presence for granted and just let time pass away.
Sometime I think if we only look back, we will find the story of us still untold.
Perhaps I never learn to understand the power left in a heart so broken.
Sometimes I see duality, like the light split up but still entangled unable to let go.

Perhaps I will one day see the point and smile a bit to the face looking back at me.
Please try to see me as you did before your requirements twisted out of sight.
I have seen past lifes regrets and now I gaze so longing across the sea.
Oh, oh yeah I know, the time never seem to be right and we end in the everlastig fight.
Like the tide we flood and we retire to leave the ground clean and to no traces of love left.
In my opinion we are leaving ourselves in the hands of Poets showing the same feeling.
It’s never been really fair coz’ we sometimes fill the wrong persons dream with our own theft.
Perhaps we are all the same and just segregate different, like the taste in how we do our whealing.

A Bend in the Road -Part 2

Part 2

When the oppressor weeps
The Führer’s tears ,
And the oppressed refuse to resist
Slavering , instead , over the oppressor’s feet
Licking his filthy stinking populist boots , or,
When the Stockholm Syndrome
takes over with a vengeance:
What do you call it ?

When the slave himself , willingly ,
Puts his neck into the noose
Himself tightens what is loose ,
Hands over the end of the rope to his master
And responds to every pull
Like a horse with a sensitive mouth
Which is still docile:
In the name of all that’s vile
What do you call it ?

When the chained human animal
Consents to being chained
And rises only when commanded
To sing only what is commanded
To think only what is commanded
When commanded :
What do you call it ?

When the victims themselves
Are unwilling to set themselves free
To recognise their allies and seek help
But are focussed only on the master
Who whips them or fondles them at will:
This riot of pig swill
What do you call it ?

When the slaves themselves
hand the whip to the slave driver
Again and again and yet again
Getting whipped closer to the bone
Every time , yet do not even try
To resist ; cannot even think of resisting :
What do you call it ?

When brainwashed humans
Bite their benefactors
Kill their kinsmen
Lynch their lovers
All in a hazy daze
Or a dazy haze :
What do you call it?

Blind brain- dead slaves
Ready to die for their flogger
Willing , able , and happy
To lynch and kill for him
Abuse , rape, torture in his name
Their powerless fellow victims :
What do you call it ?

Murderous morons
Unable and unwilling
To create , adapt , and use
The right tools to set themselves
On the right path
Digging themselves deep
Into their own graves :
What do you call it ?

The Road ?
My Road ?
Or the High Road ?

Bend in the Road ?
Mend in the Mode ?
Rend with the Goad ?

Send in Code .
Name the Node.
Nail the Load .

I feel guilty

SOMETHING I LOOK AT-28
BY-SMRUTI RANJAN MOHANY

I feel guilty when i do not listen to conscience
and act as per whims
i feel guilty when something wrong happens
for which the reason is me

I feel guilty when
i avoid duty deliberately
and remain engrossed in my life and its beauty
i feel guilty when i lavishly spend
while my immediate neighbour
is in dire need of it

I feel guilty when i put a mask
make thousands of compromises
die and reincarnate time and again
to live life the most ignoble way

I feel guilty when i am not true to myself
see and tolerate injustice
keep mum and enjoy
the comforts of life as i wish

I see
innocence suffers
justice denied
i feel guilty when i behave as if
i know anything
and find excuses for
my dignified silence

Sunsets and shines
life goes on
but i carry the burden of guilt
all along
being too sober and gentle
i expect others to raise their voice
and bring that better tomorrow
which is none of my concern

Copyright@Smruti Ranjan Mohanty