Poems by Dr. L. Sr. Prasad

Poems by Dr. L. Sr. Prasad


The staccato laughter of the shadows

On that fateful morning dawn,
I drank with vigour the waters of life and looked forwards on the timelne might,
The East has opened its pink red gate ushuring the one wheeled chariot
And its occupant with his millions of rays who vanquished the ruler of the night
And his army of dark mist that melted away bleeding reflections of light.

On that fateful morning,
I spilled my crimson blood on the hibisxuses and poppies in flakes,
Then the wrinkled white snow winked with its toothless red faced lakes,
In that cold freezing maze of a grotto, in the hibernaculum of catacomb makes,
There lied my shrunken thoughts coiled and uncoiled like some moulting snakes.

On that fateful afternoon,
I lost my sheen of sprouting vigour that once challenged the earth crust
And by break opening it by its germinating power, raised its head and breast.
The snows melted but the raging winds from a distant desert devoured my sap fast
Too hot and too cold is this life, my roots were shaken, i had my flowers fruits lost..

On that fateful evening,
Nearby forest fire spread eagled its blazing wings, scorched me into leafless sprite,
And my sins of youth started nibbling my roots and stem like white ants in wait,
The shrinking sun was shreiking under smoke clouds, running beyond horizon sight,
The roaring sea with waves of laughter watched his flight plight, welcomed the dark knight.

On that fateful night,
As the night progressed my stifled bark back split into smithereens umpteen
The last drop of the life sap got dried up in the hardening log wood sans green
The burning cinders threw sparks on my shrivelled body to make me one of their own,
The last fruit of my body exploded into myriad seeds that flew away in the wind screen.

On that fateful midnight,
Stars and the sulking moon sang elegies to my sad departure in secret silence,
One of my surviving seeds sailed fast into the spring meadows beyond desert fence,
The growing civilisations were fighting there in search of glory were ending in gory violence,
Their crimson blood spilled on my buried seed woke up it from sleep surveillance.

On that fateful early morning dawn,
The victor’s waterpot spilled a few drops of water in his jubilant tent,
When he left the battleground with vanquished severed head and dried blood scent,
Those few drops of water gave the seed the mysteries of history to present
And when my seed began telling that history, all the shadows of trees and mountains,
Started laughing in frenzy peels and their jaundiced look slowly merged into pink curtains;


Laura in her lovely aura!

Walking tall in that wonderful dawn,
An angel danced on her pointe like a swan!
she built an enchanting land with her magic wand,
Everywhere her smiles gave radiance to the shells on the sand!

In the Baltic sea the azure blue waves greeted her with wavy hands,
She glided on those billows with her lovely feet as oars of golden strands!
The molluscs and corals, the fish and florals waved at her in stands
While little mermaids made a march of triumph in mysterious bands!

When the white swan glided through the corridors of time in her pristine style,
Ancient cave paintings, Egyptian frescos, Indian statuettes, Greek and Roman file,
China and Japan court dancers made their appearances in dances of rituals of past!
From Italian courts to Paris opera she took us all to the evolution of ballerina, fast!

Did you learn thy art by the divine blessings of the Muse of Dance, Terpsichore?
O divine Roberta! May be Miriam, after crossing the Red sea danced on the shore!
May be you saw in your vision women welcoming David after his triumph over Goliath!
Or Salome taught you the art of seven veil dance as a penance for her misdeed and its aftermath!

O ballerina supremo! Like De Lafontaine and de Subligny you put the stage on fire!
As a solo performer you outshine Prevost, Salle, and Camargo and ignite life’s desire!



And they were sitting in the back rows with frozen tears giving deep wounds,
They were angels and time keepers in any meeting beating victory drums!
Most often the frontline soldiers go empty handed in the victory marches.
The Caesars and Alexanders ride on pomp horses and elephants with lit torches,

In a grand event where time is a precious princess a few suitors limp with ego,
Some kidnap, ransack, encroach and again complain about time lost in their go!
Some of the self-proclaimed generals demand their repeat flesh pounds,
A few lose their glue n nuts, cry foul and hoarse like children in tantrum rounds!

A poetry festival is a conglomeration of bards to mingle without leverage,
When hosts face difficulties if the guests go on rampage on individual mileage
What morals they are writing to the posterity in their blessed message?
On a borrowed stage, unless proved otherwise, everyone wears a mask of a sage!

The selfish generals soon perish with in their tombs with eroded epitome!
I believe in the soldiers and bow to them for their valour and sacrificial theme!


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