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.


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.

First line

Somehow this abrupt first line
I have pulled out of a hospital,

A white one in a body incident,
Its nurse’s frightful conclusion

Leading to the tearful farewell
To a shadow of physical world

As it threatened to be shadow.
A first line need not be a body

Nor world’s shadows to speak.
The body creates own shadow

Its launchpad for future poem.
A shadow is substantive poem .

Bodies go but shadow remains.
A first line is a shadow of a last.


Merely ,a special character
To access money meaning

Part of my God,who incites
Poetry from the rocky hills.

A rice giver ,it raises prices
Like it gives well paid jobs.

This mean thing raises fear
Approaching average lives

What makes an expectancy.
Chances are train will pass

Drowning the percentages,
Means fifty -fifty possibility

Poem of prose ,black verse
An after -blank expectancy.


We beat our common stones
We jointly and severally own.

Our laundry’s washing spirits
Are at all time perked up like

Goosebumps on a temporary
Excitement, recent feel-good.

A rhythm of beat is the thing.
Detergents are free & mixed.

They smell of a fresh lemon
Taken off their trees to hang

On a sun’s drying clothesline.
We have left all the currency

To remain in the shirt pocket.
That is for their nice laundry.

We keep caring our hang-ups
We always exhibit on sleeves.

We will give them a nice beat
Once they are off dirty selves.


We look into your eyes bored
Where we often see ourselves

Entirely emptied of meanings.
We flutter our eyes in activity

Barely, asking for a meaning .
Our eyes flutter as butterflies.

Your words trigger daydreams
As in an afternoon street walk

Till they trail off to day’s edge
And we reach dead end in life.

Sniffing love

Child of the universe you discovered
Desiderata in early hour but late like

Polonius behind a silk curtain for life.
Child of universe ,you are no more.

Borrowing dulls edge of husbandry
Of your wife with a Gucci handbag.

Child of universe, you are no more,
No less than crooked dog tail wags

Sniffing the walker’s pantlegs down
Searching for its desiderata in love.

(Following Max Ehrman’s popular poem Desiderata)