I did not know
that first poem
of this day would be
a love poem meant for thee

you coffee fed, snack too,
talking chattingly with a
woman bff, in the sunny parlor,
friend, sisterly, you smother with affection

you are a model, a star for the UN,
you care, and take care of the sad ones,
who knew but lack, the now passion of
a steady lover, you step in, a pledged step-sister

on top of the boon of companionship,
you two play and entertain and chatter~banter,
like only two women can, for hours, without end,
an amicable amazing miracle, to a man who cannot same

for a man, it is different, we love our brothers,
but silence is welcome, understood, appreciated,
we could fish contentedly side by side, guffaw, share
a philosophical nugget, a good story, a back slapping

and I down the hall hear you both, and wonder how,
just how, you two go on endlessly and never run our
of affection, and mutual attention to each others needs,
and here I am writing a love poem, kind kid,  but different,


but not really, for my heartbeats exude love
for the person you are…a truer friend no human
could ever admire more….

Wordless? Could I write a  poem with silence?
the skid-slide of the road
the burden of a sudden night on me

Sometimes, I fall asleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand
little book open... it may seem so lovely
look at her!
huddled up with her little thoughts
a true writer, that child!
but- but I preferred sleep!
sleep was pleasurable and it did not run
I preferred pleasure to poetry, madam!
please take the label back

But...
sometimes the pen runs out of ink
and the ballpen stutters
and I get teary-eyed in the dark night
I engrave the paper with the ballpen nib
trace the words out in the morning
sometimes I tear the paper with the ballpen nib
and then weep

Sometimes, like this time, the lamp dies
I press the buttons of the AC remote
every four seconds (I counted)
write in the light of its lit-up screen
Sometimes I write on my hand
and when the hand runs out, I go to the arm
I write on pants, on tissue-paper pieces
Sometimes, there is light and pen and ink and...
and you know exactly what.

I could never call myself a poet
the word stuck, a jumble-mess
of all my literary inadequacies
rolled up to hardness, taped to throat
I... I roll up like a cat or a rug
words come by on a conveyer belt
and I stamp each with 'unoriginal'
unoriginal, unoriginal
a moving queue of unoriginal
so many words! the page is empty
I become unoriginal
other times...
so little words (like this time)! the page is full
I become unoriginal
Then I get so upset, I toss poetry away
like crumpled paper, roll over on the bed
an upset lover; I keep an arm back though
for some little touch


Oh my
I think I'm going to sleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand


Or maybe...


No, put it away
we are done for the night

Long sunless winters seem
to bring out the emotional
darkness in us, as we hide
hunkered down in our dens
of personal regret and loss
this enveloping gloom guides
our thoughts, moods and pens.

Not unlike rabbits, or other
animals of the earth we await
the light and warmth of spring
with its possibility of new beginnings.