Frame

I try to snug -fit two pigeons
In a poetry’s predawn frame.

I hear the early risen pigeons
Stomping their feverish feet

On  balcony’s plastic awning
Near creeper’s fragrant sleep.

Why would they be up early
With dawn yet an hour away?

Is it  a pigeon crisis looming
Or poetry’s needing  frame?

But now I hear the guter goo
Seems to sound like always.

 

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Diwali

This festival we shall crack
Loudest of all time sound.

We have ears’ cotton balls
We will bang against wall.

Paper cones shall fly, fired
By recent incendiary view.

Let home’s mosquitoes run
Like the far-off Rohingyas

In our morning newspaper,
Just above our obit column.

Some creatures scale walls
And die around tube lights.

They die not of tube’s light
But of sound on ear drums.

Birds bury kin in ceremony
In a tree’s illumined silence.

Firecrackers burst so much,
Sleep shall dissolve in night.

Pot-holes

In absence of leaf-like words,
We hit some of the pot-holes
City’s body wears for leaves.

Scooter woman falls to crane.
City eats holes in its stomach.
It has eyes of holes in a skull.

City has wind hissing in them.
Crane has eyes set in chassis.
Woman falls to pot stomach.

Road wears holes on its body
In absence of leaf-like words.
Death has eyes set in chassis.

Inside out

Now I take my room’s insides out.
I  will empty its contents in  space.

I search for my phone’s memory.
I break book case inside its glass.

Room is now a memory’s hollow.
Books are my scattered memory

Their contents spread as hollows,
Like thoughts when I am in sleep

My phone memory is expanded,
Lost infinitely in my insides out.

My books are memory’s outside
Spilled in a vast hollow of space.

The room’s hollow lies scattered
Beyond  a balcony, beyond night.

My inside is a  hollow stretching
Indefinitely outside of  my body.

Piano keys

The mom’s hand would walk through
Piano keys,slow as in snow and gale.

O you are there? She would discover
In room’s dark that folded over him.

Piano was a pale ghost in her hands.
Its music laid spectral magic on boy.

Her hands are pale ghost in his hair
As if walking slow ,in snow and gale.

(reading poem Glimpse of a Childhood by Rainer Maria Rilke)

 

Anti-clock

I am on the dead beat poet
Who ,once, was anti-clock.

He never liked clock’s face.
He would prefer a sundial.

But sundial was pro-clock
That moved with shadow

Like the sun-flower moves
A head, along with the sun.

Its  head drops at the dusk
And not even shadow left.

In park I chase my shadow
In usual anti-clock rounds.

I see other clockwise faces.
Their hands quickly climb.

The faces have an urgency
Of sun flower toward dusk.

 

Future

Bull nods enormous head
Laterally under a blue sky

Its master concludes that
Everyone’s future is  sun.

And master’s own is  sun.
Our coins will be his sun.

That famished old parrot
Brings out  future’s card.

A bull is clothed and fed.
A parrot is caged and fed

Their own beastly future
Is  words shining by sun.

A sky is blue with words.
A sky is rife with future.

Meaning

From a melancholy we move on
Into erosion as bodies drift away

The words fall apart,in meaning
Time distorts to a broken syntax.

Bodies squeal sounds of sorrow.
The words fall at time’s erosion

Scraping light dust off mankind
In particles swimming  skylight

As erosion of sun and the stars,
Their dust passing by  window.

Grass song

Bearded man is an old yank
Who gives me a grass song.

Song grows here and there
In old men and young men

And child asks what is grass
To the blue grassy sassy sky

God’s scented handkerchief
Sassily dropped on purpose.

Grass is my self’s multitudes
Like hill woman’s grass head.

Old beard is autumnal wisp,
Mine in monsoon’s wetland.

Both are multitudes in a self
Mired in sprinkler’s pant-leg

Grass is my barefoot’s tingle
Rising through old cold toes

From bitter be-dewed nights
When stars fall to their dust.

(remembering Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself)