A sea erases our footprints
On nights full with  moon.

It erases suns from a dusk
And on the holes of snails.

It erases a moon and a sun
On the sky into the clouds.

It erases horizon near ship.
It erases ships in high seas.

It erases earthly memories.
It erases minds in the men.

The sea erases all our mail
Including the attachments.



The crowd is never alone
Walking itself and world

Crowd is a dawn’s images
As asynchronous sounds.

Crowd shouts like crows
At dawn, to wake up sea.

Sea in turn wakes snails
Bleary in their eye holes.

They come out and make
Tiny holes in sea’s waves

When snails turn crowds
Their holes are drowned.

Snail-holes are drowned
After crows need snails.

Sea needs no snail holes.
It is entirely need-based.

The crowd is need-based.
They are  poem’s images.

Crows drown under  sun
After sea needs no crows.

Images crowd out the sea
As the mind walks in self.


To be lost to amorphous sea
We drown a self in its waves

Of its  endless conversation
From the world’s other side.

A  young van driver asks us
What is on  sea’s other side.

We say it was our old home
And van’s that brought stuff

Of old home to a new home
For us to hear a big sea-talk

The home one comes back to
After concavity of a journey.

Small things

A close cropped novel  poet
Talked of God’s small things

Of a little girl in a white box
Staring a white church spire

Where ebony bodied worker
Whitened the November sky.

She was a tiny sunbeam lent
To us too briefly , stone says.

A pale blue dot is  dust mote
Suspended in lone sunbeam.

We live and die on it gravely,
As though we ever mattered.

(After Carl Sagan’s famous Pale Blue Dot observation and Arundhati Roy’s novel The God of Small Things)

The lake and the sea

We shall cross the roads between
Lakes dotted with fish and scales

Butchers with hanging carcasses
For Sunday’s late rising gourmet,

Trees’ shadows dallying with  lake
In its horse hoof hyacinth growth.

We will then cross all our garbage
And the putrescence of our village

Where lay an old love’s memories
And seek new road to the blue sea.

A new sea-sky will be our eternity,
Breathing the rhythm of sea-waves.


Be not born, if you can help it.
Bear no kids if you can help it.
Wear a smirk, you can help it.

Other sutra proclaims brightly-
Have many kids to beat others.
They are sutras ahead for you.

Be dead and composed always.
When belly thinks of the dead
It goes in swirls in a chemistry.

(sutras are neat Buddhist aphorisms for practicing and they also mean threads- kids are your running threads after your death in the form of a chromosomal double helix)


Poet Borges would make up
Rows of books to their roof

A content spread as fractals
In the mind’s branching eye .

No longer are rows of dusty
Books left to an imagination.

Culture is not a flora in dust
But  plastic that is immortal

Like a polythene bag rustles
To morning breeze, for ever

On the wayside acacia bush.
In private grief we replicate

Like who ever someone said
You too Brutus off the stage.

We turn fractals ,self-similar
And multiplying in our cells

We are plastic bags to wind
We are  self-serving similar

Endless repetitions of  grief
In fractals as branching tree.