Making a mountain of the mote

Why wonder where we are in dust
A mote asks a wondering molehill.

Where do suns go after daily sets?
Will they never set with final thud?

We are making molehill mountain
A mountain that is dolphin’s nose.

Will mountain -nose not disappear
If a world’s sea downs its shutters?

We are entering new phase of life
And making mountain of the mote.

Fear

The feet, now empty, crawl in ants
With blood pressure in systolic low

Here is red-blue heart in a rib cage.
A rubber snake slithers on its bars,

Hearing a dancing with its no- ears.
As snakes have no ears but silence

Of the earth trembling softly to feet.
Then snake raised its hissing hood .

The ants’ crawl is but a night dream
An early dream prematurely arrived

In a noon pillow, after a heavy meal.
At night is dream of a mind in mind

Of mind that lost cells to emptiness
A fear for father in son, fear of night.

A fear of empty feet, of shuffled feet
Of empty eyes, fear of empty spaces.

Making a meaning

Inside bus, the driver sees in the
rear view mirror
And the passers-by who vaguely
whizzed past him.

It was for me to make my own
meaning for me
Synchronising my own plane of
existence with girl.

At another level a fuzzy sun set
on the still lake
As if collected lake had to speak
for the day

Without the orange sun blazing
in its other side.
We had to make meaning from
a tree by the lake.

On the sidewalk men sipped tea
from a red kiosk.
They made a personal meaning
out of the time

And information in the trod dust
of the road,
In the bricks that piled to be built
in a house wall

In the stray dogs that sat listlessly
on the road
And in the dry leaves that fell on
the parked car.

One up

I love the moment filled with bite
Of an innermost sarcasm, a rasp

A harsh disyllable from no music
Whose moment is not one, ironic

Among many but a unique effort
To stay one- up and bottom down

All those are portmanteau words
Very useful, when you are young-

Just some strange combinatorial
Whispers, a lisp from feeling lips

That is what poems are all about,
Apart from bodies in a dark night

That come later when oldie-oldie
Not to red-undermined whispers-

There is no spell-check for them.
The moment one feels so young

So full of word power and much
Sarcasm issues from a bitten lip.

No worry, lips shall be soon gone
And you will hardly feel their pain.

Dance is a thought

Our dance is our very
nature’s upshot,
A memo lane parading
our memories.

Body’s wrinkles are
dried up streams
Memories of a beauty
that flowed.

We can’t see beauty
but feel its cold
On bones scrunching
dead leaves,

Incorporating smells
of bird chicks,
And flowers face down,
& feet up.

We are birds in group
of dancers
As we claw the air like
them gracefully.

Our fingers round waists
are birds
Taking off to constantly
changing sky.

Fait accompli

A gray and sullen sky is up there
With no flying birds frozen into it.

I cannot but paint the birds back
In seeming blue sky, as tiny dots

On a painted canvas of the world.
Artist freedom is indeed at stake

And I surely want the birds there.
But I have to maintain a proximity

With truth,with the actual world’s,
In a kind of pretension of reality,

With the verisimilitude of no birds
And no sun but just white clouds.

I wonder why in the name of God
Facts always come accomplished.

White wash

We want to whitewash inner walls
Our flesh hardly warranting color.

All we needed was broom in lime.
When we apply there are tiny fish

On walls and there is a whiteness.
Lime arises out of sizzle by stone

When water enters stone innards
Since they were once fish in sea.

Flesh is colorless on white bones
Pure and white like a fish’s fossil.

We are short of calcium of bones.
It gives them pearlwhite plasticity.

Bones may break from monotony
Short of the all whitening calcium.

Whitewashed flesh on no bones
Can hardly walk a cat on the roof.

Shiva’s night

God created a mind with body
To touch the inwardness of us.

Our doubts fluttered like a bird
Just out of the nest& breathing

A Whitman’s song upon our lip
In borrowed language of mind.

Yet we stick to ancient dogmas
That had us scaling Shiva’s hill

A snow hill of an endless night
While a poison of doubt spread

In the bluest of throat, keeping
A world awake by kitschy song

And the sounds of a faint light
Over houses of burning thatch

As bodies stayed all of a piece
And it was Shiva’s night awake.

Derelict

On the upper story is telltale remainder
Of a fine smile of yesteryears , a direct

Message from Christ, a new shiny star
In plastic paper in light, gently swaying

To December wind’s Christmas carols
A fine celebration over X’mas cupcake

By rubber man now south with daughter
Grown and graceful, pretty Maria angel

A lily fragrant from monsoon’s breaking.
Our heads are derelict , carrying ruined

Walls from yesteryear flaked off by rain
Accumulated rain of bitter experiences

But the remnants still sport life-giving
Green plant shooting in derelict space.

Copying copy

Far too much into our reality,
We copy it after it slips away

While running on our spokes
Of motor cycle in eight form

In a centrifugal pull to reality.
Sheer your machine to eight

Or as a compass will appear
And the north is everywhere

Slipping away to a south lea,
Froth at stern, hills drowned,

A white bird ducking the real
Copy is not reality but vision

In white hollow of a cranium
An attempt to capture reality

With only the shell remaining
We hold on to as dying men.

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