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Lord Krishna In 1992
Lord Krishna loved curd and butter.
I too find them irresistible --
preserved, pasteurized, and packed better.
He promoted war that had many killed.
Promoting self will always kill
goodness. Success is warmth blowing cold.
He pinched clothes to tease a sight.
My pinch is often gullible --
sinking deeper than mere sight has sought.
He juggled truth, so truth may live.
For me it is a daily drill --
transposing masks with selfish love.
Immortal words He spoke in Battle din.
Life, in words suitable --
my poetry: resting in its Godly den.
His deeds, your deeds, my deeds -- are one.
Seeing us in all is really fun.
Poetry Is A Gravure Print
Singled incidents photographed
Then etched as a half-tone landscape --
Are like excavations with cells
Of myriad thickness, size, and shape.
Flood-gates then open. Words, like ink,
Create congestion to escape
Non-existence. Few discover
Meaning, and the rest simply gape --
Creativity doctors all
But those that express the landscape --
With the roll of time, poetry
Seeks impression as concrete shape
That links time with body odours.
Critics call it love or a rape.
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