Poetry

‘The Little Thief’ and other poems

By: Mahathi

Photo by Bhawani Shankar kumawat on Pexels.com

THE LITTLE THIEF
Don’t stop but pamper Him, that prowler sly
Toddling with grace towards your kitchen door.
Be sly like Him and His exploits espy!
That thief, the worlds don’t hate but sure adore,
Now there inside scooping butter and cheese.
But lo in fact cleansing your worldly core.
A black feline like slinks with ease, to tease
Your wobbling heed and test your waning grits,
To seize at last the milk of love as fees.
He’s Universe that runs by His grand writs,
But as a spirit resides in every heart
And into every shape He nicely fits.
He breaks your desire pot with whetted dart
Of sacred thought and loots your sin-filled bowl;
But spreads on table soon, sweet Bhakti carte.

Oh there Krishna sneaking into your soul.
Allow that little thief there freely stroll.
………………………………………..
HIS NAMES
(Rubai)
Krishna, Krishna, a showering manna from sky!
Hari, hey Govinda… a nascent Spring well nigh!
O Kesava…a floral dart kissing the heart!
Aye Gopala… a mead on lips, cool kohl to eye!

His names – a million; with borts, a bullion cart,
His faces yonder songs and feet, chaste Ganga ghats.
Ye chant His names, Hare Krishna, Hare Rama,
yeah sweet bonbons to soul, to win divine comfort.

O’ player of hearts, O slayer of demon cart…Krishna,
Murari, Madhusudana, O Gopala,
O’ mischievous urchin of blessed Brindavanam…
ye scream those names, ye dance, ye sing, ye go gaga!

Ye chant His names umpteen or brood in silent hum,
recite mantra His pious or just mumble Om, Om….
install His idol cute, adorn with flowers pied..
no goals no rules for love…He’s there always your chum.

His names are stern statutes that guide through sly
alleys of life, and sacred runes that purify
your soul and lead to ultimate archives of spirit.
Ye don’t give up His name, ye chant dulcet and high.

Hare Rama Hare Rama, Rama Rama Hare Hare
Hare Krsna, Hare Krsna, Krsba, Krsna, Hare Hare.

…………………………………….

WALL
There is no doorway….
A wall, just a wall.
It’s hard and smooth,
It’s tall, very tall touching the Sun and the moon,
And short as well at mere knee height.
It’s hot like a cauldron on fire
And chilling too like an icecube.
It’s dazzling – blinding the eyes
And comforting like cool Kohl.

I asked my Guru how to cross it.
He smiled and said
“I give you a cryptic hint…Try yourself.
The wall is both ignorance and wisdom
…And it’s not outside
but well you within!”

_________

IT IS ALL IN MIND
(Rondeau)
It’s all in mind, cowered as stifled cry…
that glowing truth peeping through veiling lie.
I’m like a ruffled rainbow, like a cloud
disjected all along the yonder ploughed
and like a wanderer blinded of nigh.

There’s something else, to muse, beyond the eye,
so blended well, like deep sorrow with sigh.
This enigma, this doubt and choking shroud,
It’s all in mind.

Alas the silver spirit, with charry dye
all ov’r is vying hard to reach the high
of cosmic hill. Can she wade through the crowd
of vain desires? Well, well, the bodes are loud…
proving all that extraneous as lie.
It’s all in mind.

…………………………………….

THE SWAN
The swan is set to fly away alone.
From earth-pilgrimage it’s time to unwind.
No memories are saved of mortal zone…
of stone or bone…nor traces left behind.

It’s just a dream…a palpable figment;
of places, people, tastes and fragrances.
Those wild eddies of love and sentiment
are straightening now on shores of dead senses.

She’s bright, as bright as the Sun with dazzle-plume
and like the first dew drop on green meadow…
lucid and clean with no gaiety or gloom…
now high, crossing the bland mundane hedgerow.

She’s back to home, an abode with no dome,
no floor, no room…but just a humming OM.

………………………………….

THE ORPHAN
That orphan loves an open opera.
A one-man play, He Himself acts and He
the audience. Umpteen times played and saw
but never tired of bland redundancy.

He likes the odds, plays Ram, the nonpareil
and Ravan too, the demon lewd. For change
plays Sita chaste, the virtues’ facsimile
as well Helen, a love and vice melange.

A spiritual orgasm, I guess, He thus
enjoys…hence often slips into a trance.
…when toys become robots to start ruckus,
the Maya veils the worlds and devils dance.

But nothing entertains, Him too for long.
The curtain falls one day with doom’s swan song.

Categories: Poetry

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