Pour another one

The first leaf blows on the pavement.

The sun tilts a little in the sky.

An official makes a statement.

People sleeping in the open die.

Somewhere the heat’s still incandescent.

Deadly shells and grenades still fly.

A supplier firm eyes the net percent.

People at sea cross to drown and die.

The world is just one continent.

The razor wires are sharp and high.

The public elect their government.

People, breathless at borders, die.

Serene

Yellow the dried leaf in fall

yellow the hibiscus blooms in spring

golden serene the sun this dawn

and serene again at the ending

nothing serene when your come in

I have just learnt better control

the wild pulses of heart and skin

in all seasons: both spring and fall.

Pale

Image courtesy Rashmi Bhatnagar

the year has suddenly paled to november

the sun wears comical visors to the front
the palm wearies of the weight of her fruits
shakes down the dates, red and oblong

 

evenings drop in on silken feet, rake their fingers

through the last strands of golden hair
nights harden but can’t nail their hearts
I’ll spear mine though with pigeon-throat songs

 

the sacred figs sharpen their leaves and remember

to observe ancient ratios of points to lengths
autumn colour grass somewhere in richlands
itches in yellow splashes on the ground

 

the seagull unravels a wave, and pretender

horizons masked in grey scarves of time
roll in, roll in and then recede and go home
I’ll  go find mine in a verse of woodwind sounds.



Shared at dVerse

The anniversary post that isn't

The time when unknown trees

muscle their way into  top-of-mind
I dream of chinars*
flaming in the high winds
and a fast narrow stream somewhere
slowing down inch by cooling inch
it’s a separate matter that I’ve
never been to Kashmir
or anywhere in the high
latitudes during
the leaf-loss season.

 

I forget anniversaries

of minor events
each event flames once
and drops
red trajectories cut and dried
sun-crinkled on the grey sidewalk.
Time runs out a little faster than before.

 

 

*Oriental plane, maple like leaves.

Accidental solitude

I wake up early

when the pink paws
of light scrabble
at the windows

 

and your arm

is seaweed deep
around me
and I heave
the weight of
ancient, ancient lovesleep

 

rise slowly

a single small bubble
breaks the surface
weightless

 

the day mixes

its own scents
in hurried strokes
milk delivery,
newsprint kept
fresh, the medium
untainted by
the bombs and blood
it must carry,

 

get quick rich coffee

stale food somewhere
in the corner
of the sink
maybe the bin
needs a clean

 

the island in the kitchen

swiped of all presence

 

the light washes the road

like a cat with a
pink clean tongue

 

leaf coloured

winds sweep in
and lunge
at fallen litter
yesterday’s brown
paper packet

 

a scrap of chiffony

plastic waves
a flag
against the
chicken mesh
wire fence

 

and flowers

of Shiuli
with their
small pinwheel
faces and cheeky
monkey orange
bottoms thrust
up in the air

 

surround each tree

in its own white
blossom island

 

who said I am not

an island?

 



Linked to MeetingTheBar@dVerse