Once in night , you shall wake up,
In the middle of sorrow to its end.
Drink water to go back to a poem.
The poem is now wiring endlessly.
Drink your water to its dry mouth.
The prong pierces food in wiring.
That is the meaning of the prong,
A wrong you are endlessly driving.
Truth is a lie on the bark of a tree,
Engaged by a lover of a pen-knife.
He writes undue poems on trees.
The trees withdraw in themselves
Their God light but we transgress.
Trees are clouds of our daytimes.
They rain on crows, on dead fish.
They rain on our deaths ,by lives.
The boys ate dinner in their silence.
They had passed all such incidents,
After their birth by faceless women
The dads who left them, in swaddle
As if they were flowers in their dew.
They now pray for mom’s memory,
Who had been an incident long ago
And sing a birthday song to incident.
(On visit to an orphanage)
My nights are sleep extended
By dreams running by the sea
And the sea breaks my dream
Through sleep and awakening.
Mother is my question of boys
Who pray before night’s meal
The boys who had no mothers
And are praying before dinner.
God made mamas in all rooms
Since He cannot be any where
So boys sing after a mom dead
For years in a mango at breeze.
Car door is slammed, to be opened.
Wedding lists are making, silks still
In rustling, fragrances still sleeping
Flowers ready in a fragrant thread.
Girl is woman, feel touch for touch,
Her eyes lowered, a fragrant dream.
We ate lunch in banana leaves.
A priest would invoke his soul.
Outside, the almonds dropped
Their maroon kernels eaten off
By a night’s birds and squirrels.
Child did high jump at almond.
We liked to eat rice to memory
And feed balls of rice to a crow.
No crows were seen in almond.
The crows have gone off to sea
To feed on fresh turtle’s death.
Turtles have no souls to invoke.
The money of coffee effervesces
As success spills and evaporates.
Let me have a break from coffee,
He would steam ,the coffee king.
From the rains , hills pour coffee
Under bridge towards green sea.
Coffee is the body turned a river.
A river flows to the green of sea.
(India’s coffee king Siddhartha commits suicide by jumping into a river due to financial troubles- “I have failed to create the right profitable business model despite my best efforts.”-in a letter written before his suicide)
In oil for life, he had five- karmas
Sweeping lunar craters of his face.
He would solve a trade imbalance
Shipping gold for fistful of million.
He had sent me to fragrant harbor,
In lunar smile on nineteenth floor.
His moon face smiled on everyone
A joy of life ,a sliver of moonshine.
A moon is dead , long live its smile
Till our own moon smiles and after.
(homage to a senior colleague who passed yesterday)