Moving on

We have decided to move on
And we would move on now,

Shuffling our feet ,in rhythm.
Sea would move on in nights,

With a soft hum against rock
After the turtles turned turtle.

As the crows would move on
They stopped on their deaths,

Till bellies stopped rumbling,
And fear turned in  at throat.

Bellies would move on under.
After each grief we move on.


The girls walked past us with lemons
In their spoons embedded in mouths

With their eyeballs screwed on them
Below noses with shining gold rings.

As the skirts undulate over the knees
The Lolitas with the lemons to prove

Infallible, in the little bowls of spoons
Would march ahead ,defeat a despair

By lemons smelling good , tasted sour
But one could always make lemonade.

The moon is a big lemon for the poets
Above the firs in the snow mountains.

Moon has his own lemonade to make
In the smaller hours of a wakefulness

When they are no firs to host a moon.
The lemons of girls are good enough

For the poet’s lemonade, so infallible
From bowl of spoons as they walked.

At times, moon lemon would slip off
Behind wavering firs in the snow hill.

Inside the frame

This here thing restricts choice by keeping
Myself committed to filling of a white face

In a space frame , as spring pad for action
All through the windy chime of dark night.

I have no choice to come out of the frame.
Much like dog’s solo performance outside

Amidst Beethoven performed in the room
A poet has no choice but take bark as oboe.

I am committed to choice of a white space
For morning’s filling , in sounds of chimes.

Lucky, freedom is curtailed and I can hear
Sirens singing without running into rocks.

(Odysseus ties himself to the ship’s mast in order to hear the sirens’ song without the temptation to steer the ship to the rocks. Beethoven’s music is in reference to Billy Collins’ poem Another Reason Why I Do Not Keep A Gun)

My brevity

Moth pulses with its brevity,
Embracing its rain and light,

Like  lightning upon the sea
That appears behind a wish.

Fish eats wonder struck rod
Going its way down to earth.

Earth goes briefly out of sea
A lack of sodium discovered

Or less iron in blood flowing,
Brine flowing in ideal brevity.

Sea is brief skin of the earth
That hides people and bone.

My brevity is longer than fish
But shorter than  mountain’s.

All -things’  brevity measures
Bone and long ,against a sky.

Keeping magic open

When I close a book I open life…”
Pablo Neruda

Keep the magic open, in pages
In the smell of paper and print

And dark smell of the ancients.
Just touch a book, not to shout.

Surprise worms at their game,
Adding dusty page of your life.

Close a book to keep life open.
You close to be stuck with life

Through the despair of magic
That vanishes on each closing.

Bodies and words

Some bodies thought they were sky
Till they noticed they were walking.

They were no bodies but were words
Taking turn there or at the butcher’s

Where a goat was hanging tail down
And chickens would think and think

Till  they are free to wake sun asleep
But no mind to know they are lunch.

Bodies had words that mourned loss.
As bodies vanished , bodies grieved

Bodies are words that are just vapor.
There are other bodies, other words.

Books are some journey

Books are like old Dostoevsky
In my book case, coming alive

Long on Karamzhov passions
The exquisite insanity of man.

Its horse carriage is like boat
That takes us through stories

Death awaits end of journeys
All through a hobbled street

On nights of intense passion.
Books are just some journey.


If your shibboleth is swollen
The sound of our word lives.

She is survivor she says it all
With such an onomatopoeia,

We are now meaning a river
And mountains are our pass

She already is mountain top.
No one asks, to say the word

She who is beyond all words
Reads meaning beyond  lips.

She is already the Shibboleth
She pronounces so correctly.