Short poems about a moment or an object
We climb iron upstairs to heaven,
Where matches are made in gold
Of little big boy and big little girl.
Girl of cross -eyes has pretty how
Teaching alphabet, one two three.
Kids tuck arms across little chests
To repeat numbers after teacher,
Black sheep baa on bags of wool.
Stars shine in silk of pretty show
And they’ll sow their stars in sky.
Little big man with teacher wife
Will reap joint stars up gold stair.
A vaporous sea holds breath
To fine tune his mouth organ
On effervescent whisky glass
As he makes farewell speech
Cracking a joke with laughter
To hold a moment in eternity.
Organs revolt and fail serially,
In eternity that passes quickly.
I am a mere old passing by poet
Who is a body just getting used
To grow old, to be long-winded,
To be in the roseate distraction
Of not being at all , by a big sea,
In a liquidity of disappearance,
Like he with pass in his mouth,
I once passed by, on west wind
When wind made such a pass.
Now I am passing by a big sea
To get used to not being at all,
Empty like sky, on a windy sea.
There is the whole of waterfall,
The eye doctor would proclaim.
Water dried many summers ago
In a cloud that was some cotton-
A fluff to wipe tears in the eyes
That spun to an endless bobbin
A yarn progressing story to kid
About evil black magician lives
Held in parrot in distant island.
Parrot is fragment of childhood
There must be meaning in tales.
A tale might meet a sugary end.
The mouth would turn at event.
There was anger in eyes of fire.
There is no water to quell fires.
It is a wild fire in the eye white.
This is only fragment of whole
And not the whole of fragment.
Heart attacks are birds flapping
Their silent wings in their sleep
In the darkness of tree on road
When the tree passes messages.
At three AM, it is not that night
And there will be a car or three
Now returning from their night
After their bellies hold no more.
Night marks men out from the sea.
Sea lies black and quiet, near road.
Road has an occasional “I” stutter.
Silence marks out sound from ” I”.
Sleeping mad man talks to statue,
Being soul in confusion of delight.
He was last seen walking footpath
Looking for clothes for the word “I”.
Statue lost ‘I” to night of confusion.
Beggar has army clashing by night.
The mosquitoes were enemy army
In a clash of civilizations overnight.
Mosquitoes have no souls hanging
On the bone ,when a bat kills them.
Only a buzz is heard in electric fires.
They are no dead sounds in a night.
Darkness marks out the disc moon
Like a Frisbee lost in the vague sky.
Men are lost to a night’s confusion,
Having forgot their bones on souls.
(Inspired by Rilke’s poem “People at night”)
Just being dense about blackbird!
Why thirteen , you do not ask me.
Surely, there is no thirteenth floor.
Hotel lift is clever to skip that one.
We are being merely our Wallace,
In a Vistadome train of flying sky.
These are a thirteen, not one less
Ways of looking at the blackbirds.
After the eye crops there is music
And lines follow dream in words
In a glass train to tribal blackbirds
Ones who dance dimsa for living.
(Reading a poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens
