Short poems about a moment or an object
We come to a dear old mango tree
One does not know ,if it still exists
Waving softly, in old mind’s wind
And last of all to a swooping crow
That was stealing a carbolic soap
That fails to come to eat our rice.
From transience we have arrived
At other poems about transience.
Seems there are no other poems.
We were busy spotting in sky
Grandpa who now lives there.
It seems it was a holiday next
With stars sleeping in the hall.
They had their arms and feet
Intertwined in the deep sleep.
One heard them snore in milk.
The milk would spill sideways.
So hard to map sleeping stars,
We gave up locating grandpa.
I stand old and bald ,with no fear
Least self- conscious ,as the body
Between the bed and a tall clock.
The shadow is my body at sunset
In window for sun’s daily farewell,
Eye softly shut before daily sleep.
Window shuts my sun’s eyes softly.
A body stands fearless at a sunset
On floor dappled by ripe sunlight.
I stand upright beside a tall clock
Wedged between a sleep and time
To look sunset in the eye defiantly.
Because wherever went had blue
Walls against some head turbans
And red turbans lay in snake coils
Against blue sky we looked up to.
Not just because the sky was blue
Or the oceans stacked up to blue.
There is blue mind’s vault poetry
Before we asked why blue poetry.
Song was for a cradle’s swing
For her baby on tree’s breeze.
Mom had bricks on her head
To build a stomach’s way up.
Mom’s song was for her baby
That went winging in the tree.
Her spring blew in baby’s hair.
There was no breeze in bricks.
Bricks sang a song for breeze
That went swinging in the tree.
Bricks rocked tummy’s cradle.
Baby was the song in mummy.
I go over to a stick fence and to stare
Darkness beyond it, where it begins
With no end in sight, except cricket
Whose music only is giving it shape.
Nocturne takes into account cricket,
The dog’s howl in snout raising pain,
A pale moon at someone’s backyard
But not rope on well acting a snake.
The poet was too much upon his sun,
In his howl at sun’s flower as if it was,
Very sun striking oiled ocean surface.
Some where down a ravine is escape
Painted by cops and terrorists fleeing
From the high walls of a smug prison.
I lose the story of escape from body.
Who escapes whom, as a sun stinks?
Too much into escape we lose story.
