It is a sound that comes through a child
A child of the earth from a climbed wall,
By a tree of leaves plucked into pockets
For worship of a stone god in vermilion
And yellow softness of beginning’s god.
It is a god nestled in heap of yellow rice.
It is the women of rustling silks in an air,
Fragrant of worship flowers and flames.
It is a flame that dies in floral fragrance
But re-lives to verify a continued living.
It is better to walk against wind
And avoid sight of old destitute
And sleeping dog, next to body .
You dodge vulgar tea’s slurping
And plastic tea cup’s sprouting.
There ,sea opens to its eternity.
You hear Time’s hustling sound.
(On the other ,a blue mountain
Stands sentry at sea’s eternity)
Here moss grows like our years
On the rocks of previous nights.
You look across the rocks at sun
Just sprouted like a plastic cup.
As if sipping tea at the horizon,
The sea hurls cup ,when done.
Among the ones to think away
In a walk on beach is a carcass
That lies washed up on beach
And think only of turtle babies
Careening towards sea waters.
The carcass is of one of moms.
Not to think of crow’s gluttony
But only of red crabs in holes
Blooming as flowers on beach
But not to think of their death
In swooping beak of the eagle
Among the ones to think away
Is an old man on dancing feet
Think of velocity a tenner can
Put on his Parkinson’s swing.
The poet wore his old hat
When sea was still a baby.
He and sea wait for news.
The sea has grown to boy.
Crow sits on a rusted dish
Of Tata sky under a cloud.
‘tween news and satellite
There is crow with a news
About relatives’ comings.
Here are Facebook deaths.
Here are fake news made
In elections time of news.
Deaths are pickled news.
They can be fact checked
If you count living number.
There is a unique identity
For each of them and tag
Linked to the DNA reports.
A sea stops growing sun.
The sun stops being news
And poem for sunny day.
The world is a -changing with
Its good times back now then.
Paper cups drink a tea off sun
And lips slurp on good times.
Old woman’s wheel still spins
With a dog’s love lying by her.
A tea still slurps on newsy lips,
The times there are changing.
A poet’s wheel is still in a spin
No telling who that is naming.
A poet imagines in vacant lot,
No telling who vacates it first
A dog who sleeps with beggar
Or a beggar sleeping by kiosk,
As tea is drunk off a new sun
On morning walk’s newsy lips.
(remembering random quotes from Bob Dylan’s songs)
Words cry out thinly against sun
On coconuts ,in daily combustion
In leafy frond till leaves turn gray
And men sit under them watching
The sun go up behind the airplane
Crawling the clouds like centipede.
Airplane reaches behind building
And must have crawled into hole.
We still lack image for daily poem,
Save daily crow busy on dead fish.
Coffee round is circular print
By a morning coffee tumbler
After the sea that hurls vapor
And port the particles of coal.
A dark crow is detail that sits
On the rusted television dish,
27 dew point is a mere detail
Of more such vapor on glass
Over coffee rounds of history.
The sea is a detail on the sky
Inside window that may fall
Off hinge rusted away by sea.
Coffee round is time’s detail
On table leaving its imprint
Like walker on the sea shore.
Coal dust coalesces in detail
Of sea’s vapor by mid- noon.
A sun merges in sea’s detail.