The first crush she had
was unluckily me.

From beyond the specs
her eyes were sad
yet silently pleading
someone found them sweet too.

Braving all her shyness
she penned me three sentences
jotted with immature hands
dipped in the fountain of romance:

How are you. I'm fine. Love you.

That night I took them to the streetlight
and read like a whole long story.

I never replied.

I only wished
she read it right
at the turn of page.

Don’t come to the cemetery at night, Peter Xalxo would say
if you are so inclined, make your visits in the day
for often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.

I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
and they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
when the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!

Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
and at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.

He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
but come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
for I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
the tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!

All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect surely some impact
they colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.

Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
to my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
when there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.

I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
this ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
run home and never come back his voice in whisper talked
some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.

That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
he was such a good man and a great friend to miss
but God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.

She wakes me up deep in the night.

I understand you, she smiles
snuggling into me, her nose,
pressed cotton soft on my cheek

I have no strength, I cry
not one, for you

I love your weakness
love you for your weakness
her breath wafts into mine

and the boy stuck in his age
floats in the web
of the girl forever
forgiving.

Where are you Devi ?

Up in the Kailasha
in the arms of Mahadeva
snowclad silent in meditation
while down below in their settlement
humans in the belief you've come down
adorn you with flowers with their hands
and with those same hands **** own blood
rob own kin debauch mothers and sisters
crowd your place of worship with no piety
but for selfies with your image on the background
for Devi unbeknownst to even you
you're no more the Shakti
the prowess against the Evil
but a commerce, a commodity
in the hands of men of 21st century
who know to worship only money.

Most of the people hate isolation
only a few taking it as blessing
and such is the one I'm talking about.

What if the familiar have shunned me,
he would say, the world is now mine,
to the strangers I bare my heart,
as they do to me, a complete stranger,
in the once and possibly the only meet
between people otherwise divided
exchanging thoughts and contacts
sure no call would ever follow
but happy in the chance encounter.

He thus meets a melange of people,
the man whose wife fled with her lover,
the woman whose husband deserted her
but she still wears red in his name,
the son abandoned in childhood
the old woman disowned by son.

He takes all their sadness into him
and feels his own greatly diminished
thankful that fate hasn't been as harsh
or how he would have coped with
the misfortunes that befelled those strangers.

He bows his head, for in the isolation,
he knew how it hurts to be deprived of
what was obviously legitimate.

The old blanket is so hard to discard

dramas have unfolded in its folds
upheavals of winter's orogeny
trills of two birds in ecstatic thrill
to the rest in the ripened knowledge

we have made a home
we have earned it.

In the still of night
under the old blanket
the tales are relived
without a touch
a word..

The old blanket is so hard to discard.

She smiled to the proposal.

I marked on paper the site
where screeching gulls
would shut out our voice
and her toes white as rice
curl in the touch of waves
waiting a freakish wind
pushing mine into hers
passing seconds to eternity.

She felt vaguely beautiful
when my shoulder held the earth
shaped like her head.

Do you still love me?
my silence questioned,
but she said nothing.

I thought I heard,
Yes.

The temple rises
high above the humid earth.

The sun looking through the playful clouds
colors the terracotta in the golden hue
of God's emotions
long forgotten by the travellers
down on his earthly abode.

From over the bridge
the sky curved into the river
and the winds from the distant hills
carved a smile on his face.

So here he was, at last, all by himself
played upon by a feeling
of being not shadowed anymore
but by the one his very own.

light as the bird, came to his mind,
and making sure no one was around,
he spoke aloud
I'm light as the bird.

Yet a shadow was preying upon him,
an unease, a discomfort, a disequilibrium,
as he heard within, his son saying,

Baba, you need to take a break,
to be with yourself, to be away from us,
to soothe the frayed nerves..

So I have been set free, he thought,
but are the birds really as free
as they appear to be?

So here he was, but his mind was drifting,
and he was calculating like a child.

how many feet below is the river,
would the fall hurt, or would one have to wait,
for the impact with the rushing surface
before the final touch by the boulders?

I shouldn't be perilously close, he stepped back,
muttering three incoherent words..
components of love.

Back to the Rest House,
he was packing his bag.

He was not sure, if his reappearance,
at so short a notice,
would at all be, a pleasant surprise.

Grinning wide by the riverside
two bubbly girls click shots
between them whisper confide
share the secret thoughts!

The giggly cutes they walk like dance
caught in a sunlit pause
not mind the boys stealing glance
seems not worth a cause!

Their cells follow where they go
the lens beamed right on face
one more please and then one more
frames add up happiness!

I was watching the sun go down
pretty much in a fix
light was getting dullish brown
would turn darkish by six!

The urge was great surged the will
it grabbed the whole of mind
to have a photo me standing still
with the river flowing behind!

The butterfly girls in the sun's last kiss
they readily said o yes
each of them took a shot apiece
my joy you can easily guess!

When the moon retires running her length
the river lies a fishbone on the white plate
feebly breathing like the slosh from oars,
the shadow digs a hole in the bush.

The faintest chill rattles don't escape
and the chatters dull as broken notes,
the shadow picks up from the mist
with the intent of an absorbed dreamer.

The gold diggers in that forbidden land
filter their preys keen to fill some more
from the mines lining the grey riverbank
with each reap a little closer to attainment.

The precise compass weighs the measure
tightening the muscles into a symphony
for that climb onto the ****** in one spring
before stealing the stilled, deep into silence.

It showed on their face.

The rides were fun
but they were breathless.

From the cable car
the sky seemed not that far
and to the wind it was unfair
to have two men without much hair.

Rain had brought color to soft eyes
huddling and cuddling at free wills
but sought shelter these two guys
from the teen lovers' merry squeals.

They rushed to be in time for the first row
childishly enthralled by the 3D show
dipping the whole of their emotion
in the history of origin and evolution.

The day had been too soon done
when in the melted afternoon sun
the two forgot all the worries
in the romance of rediscoveries.

The road was all mud
she slipped with the drizzle
and you couldn't tell
the color she wore
but her big awed eyes
colored the land in all colors
making her lose breath
gazing at every little thing
till over the noise of lightning
boomed her father's voice
be fast girl before the rain is harder
when she would run for his hand
and slip again and again
counting fun at every fall
her eyes a glowing island
from the mud scarred face.

Once in the market
the man gave her a good wash
little knowing she was drenched
with all the dreams
eyes could ever see.

To this body
Death does as it should,
Consigns the shell
To the firewood
And sets the spirit free.

Close to the fire
the heat singes me.

I know it's only the prelude
to the fiery furnace
licking my skin with flaming tongues
reducing me to powdered ashes
disappearing and in no time fading
what was me but in an instant
dusts in urns and upon wall
and years after maybe one's
untimely rains of dusty memories.

The space I have
needs someone to fill up
and found none so far.

I cursed the man for invading
into the May notes of casuarinas
on a space all my own
before the sun was alluringly soft
on the tender hearts by the sea
finding love in whispered notes
sheltered by the swaying trees.

Found many and none
and their vacuous echoes
question where I failed
or was there precious silence
speaking it wasn't a void
that I ravaged into sands
of futile recollections and laments.

The mercury was falling
over the man as I left him
and soon the creed of hope
would break in like evernew waves
around a vacuum of empty space.

Resting the mind is not easy
it dances like a sparrow
and speaks like a babbler
seeking the minutest grain
from the jungle of weeds
tweeting what it has to say
from one perch to the other
in all weather.

Then the aching wings falling slow
by the cold north wind
find no worth in the haste
seek a rest
perching upon some heart.

When unbroken silence is all it has
the mind rests easy in peace.

The cloth bazaar was quietly breathing rest.

I was scanning rows of hangers for summer shorts
picking up here and there
dresses without skeletons
smiling in the revelation
why skeletons don't need shorts.

I found a poem in one of those hangers
**** with no words
begging me to drape it with some
enough to make it one summer shorts.

Something welled up in my eyes
bare as the poem and as true
and thinking of it
I bought summer shorts
not one but two.

His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew

he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.

Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,

was for rest the man hard pressed?

Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?

as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone

one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?

My waking time
in the narrowest part of the creek
chases spots in the shadows
a streak between bushes
thirsty tongue lapping green opal
cautious cotton on the fallen leaves
the priceless prowler in the morn mist
or in the dusk
the graceful glory
in the hinterland of my heart.

Bamboo groves sing the symphony of winds
in their crackling I hear my heart
on the red lone summer road.

The village woman passes with her cow
she has no time for poetry
yet her radiance fills me to beg life
more..

O Death be a while away
I've taken root on this land.

I'm as lonely as a station at night.

The december mist and the moon
peaking high over the iron fence
dulled the low volt into weird halo.

But like bats I reap the rewards of night.

The buzz of the crickets rose in crescendo
from the undergrowths around the track
sounding as unreal as the silent platform
abruptly cropping up on nowhere land
doubtful if ever a train would notice it.

Days are dull actings dancing to strings
yielding nothing to let you know you.
I'm in full vision before the lightless mirror
opening up alone but with the many faces
the dreary day ruthlessly hid from me.

The mist was engulfing the iron railings
and when a distant engine whistled
there was no track or platform
but only the lone flyer hung on the moon
like a bat glued to the scent of night.

His last piece of work I touch everyday
and feel not the water but sadness
flowing from the faucet.

From the sound of the sink
I hear him say
didn't I do a good job?
not once broke down
but think of her
she's broken down
the faucet has withstood
she hasn't
there I did a bad job
letting water flow down
the broken valves of her heart.

My clock never told the time
and looked silently glum

lost its ticking rhyme
with the pendulum
uprooted to be muted
hands dismantled
so you can guess
it made no progress
sitting pretty still
as I went about on my will
set my own pace
not bothering about the dial's arc
but scheduled my work
according to my when
till declared insane
and sent to asylum.

Since I've been sitting pretty glum
like the dead pendulum.

You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.

Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.

They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.

The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.

Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.

To this day I don't believe what I heard.

None was ever ferried back by the boatman.

Remember brother we didn't play with toys
we were two little toy soldiers
on two sides of the cold war
crawling on elbows and knees
in the backyard with a blackberry tree
firing at each other with invisible guns
our mouths echoing the rat-tat of bullets
and it was not blood that soaked us
but drops of heavily falling rains
upon soil long parched by the heat
exuding smell of love all over the wind
when the two would roll over each other
escaping from a war with no real enemies
pleading i'm wounded, don't shoot me.

We don't play wars any more brother
the cold war is long over
and we stopped being not enemies.

Don't ever get down at Remount Road
on the train's brief pause.

Once I couldn't resist
when through the window
I can't say what beckoned me.

The sky after a drizzle was awashed blue
and its miniature carvings on the puddles
sprung from my steps like thousand dreams.

There on the unshaded platform
were faces as puzzled as mine.

I didn't intend to detrain here, I spoke,
we didn't too, the voices echoed
but it felt so like the place
we wanted to be but missed.

Walk me barefoot on the sodden earth,
a girl offered her hand,
recount to me the unfinished stories,
make me a home.

I won't miss this time,
I was crying.

I have recounted the story to many
but they all have eyed me
like I am mad.

They only repeat there's no Remount Road
on this route.

Not the attraction a boy of ten
has for his peers
he was not even among
the intimate friends
yet a kind of lust I felt
when he was around
a flutter and denser breath
and in his absence
paling of all else.

That early seeding
was a hushed gust
blowing awhile in the ravine of
deep south.

Pretty girls emerged from the dust
and the first man in me
grew out of first love.

A good man is soon out of company.

The woman he lives with
believes he is a fool
and having seen no sign of his cure
she feels insecure.

He is weak and so acts good,
she rues in bitter mood.

Goodness buys him no good place anywhere.

People interpret his grace his kindness
as his meekness.

He leaves his seat for others
but is never offered a seat
with sellers he is nice
but parts paying the worst price
being never vocal with claim
favors seldom find his name.

Yet in goodness only
his heart loves to dwell
and on the humble bed
he sleeps well.

No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!

When the yellow day coppers to dusk
I paint my weary eyes dreams.

They nudely wade the crabhole muds
for marks of the great marksman
climb up the chunks going into tides
tiptoe through the needle roots
sniff a wind that smells of stripes
thrilled
death if comes
would be a momentary stir
a dangling cloth
resting on the trail of blood, marking,
someone ventured.