Beyond the walls of sandbars and streams
waves break into silent white foams
often I've crossed them in my dreams
beckoned by the distantly looming haze.

The sky goads me to traverse the stretch
clouds hinder to ask what if rises the tide
the sea is all around in deadly embrace
her monstrous curls in hunger bared wide.

Climb the sandbars and reach her remoteness
calls the wind of the sizzling September
days as this would be gone in haste
shelled in memories to be ever remembered.

I slip into the lagoon in a drunken trance
the ripples break into a victorious song
the sea she breaks into a joyous dance
the time is here and the tides won't be long.

Over the years I stop at that point
only to board a vessel
to the other side of the river
for further journey to the sea
but for the brief period of waiting
I keep pondering about the name of the place

Harwood Point.

Who was this Harwood?
what was he doing here?
what good deed made him deserving
to name the place after him?

I am still baffled
after a quarter of a century.

Googling throws up many Harwoods
dead and distinguished
but there's no clue to connect any of them with
Harwood Point.

I imagine he was one of the administrators
who left the shore of England
to be stationed at this place a century or two ago
then a tract of almost inaccessible jungle
for surveying the prospects of trade
for the East India Company
but that leads me to further questions.

Was he a noble soul that loved the place
and came to like the people there
so much so that the natives after his departure
made his name permanently etched there?

Or was he among those typical British Officers
who vented their wrath for having been interned
to a god forsaken mangrove wilderness
treated the natives with extreme disdain
proving himself worthy of his position
and duly rewarded by his masters
by making him a part of history
ironically undefined and unrecorded.

I love to think though
on a night when the moon
made the tide rebellious
he walked into the river
and was lost for good
and to this day none knows for sure
what happened to Mr. Harwood.

She slept still on the cold bed
Her fragile frame was forever fixed
The sullen smile on her frown face
Crowned her earthly end
An emblem of victory gained in demise

The somberness of the ominous knell
Ushered in the undertaker for his task
To amass his masters latest loot
Fallen along the weary long way
A rose bruised before its bloom

The lamentations of the little lass
The groan of the grey gentleman
The solemn sympathy of a stranger
The clergy’s confession of her circumstances
All a label of a life led in liaison

The strongly sealed sepulcher
Bears the remains of her mortality
The epitaph on it concise as her life
A testament of her times to lingering legs
On rock engraved on hearts chronicled forever

The worms that merry on corpses
Shall soon party for their spoil
That skin so tender shall decay
From this world she carried eternal hope
And though she is dead she shall live.

If you ever travel under rain dotted blue
stop at the ten mile haat.

Sellers there are not smart
buyers don't ever bargain
strange is their dealing art
both parties feel having gained.

Small is all they have
except the smiles on the face
the little the garden has saved
is sold to fetch happiness.

There's no haggling on price
never mind if you don't buy
no price is needed to be nice
peace is just an easy try.

Small men with not much of need
who easily make you their part
an island that lies far from greed
enchants you wins your heart.

And it's not a story that I make
I happen to be there once a while
return with a bag of big take
from the village haat at ten mile.

I needed something profound
and you showed me a sunken ship
the depths of which I had never known
but that is so like you
shining other people's lights
for me to see the way

hands upon the door
to the cell phone store
I had an awful sore
in my heart and core

something I'm mad at
before the phone shat
something like ****
that some cat spat

so I rant at the gal
even her pal
and the guy Al
who give's a hal?

"The phone's inferior
Where's your superior?
I'll rip him a new interior!
You're all about exterior."

"Look at me when I speak.
or are you too weak?
Talking while you tweet
Look at me when you speak"

what's with this culture?
digital gone vulture
your phone like a suture
trying to mend the future

"Sorry if I got all hot.
Diplomatic I am not.
Had to rant and shout
get the dysfunction out."

"Your phone hurt my ear
The speaker on too near.
On this much I am clear
Your phone hurt my ear."

Her hand rested slight
Upon the book she'd found
Her bag across her shoulder
She was waiting for the sound
Of the door alarm at the B & N

I mean after all it was
Fifty nine volumes
On how to build a bomb
Found none to soon  
On a shelf at the B & N

Abandoned by her lover
After too many fights
That was five years ago
A lot of lonely nights
Casing the B & N

Screaming out loud
At rush hour on the train
Was not an option
Nor was *******
Snorted at the B & N


Finally people milling round
She quietly lifted the solution
To her ravaged heart
All fifty nine on revolution
S
    l
        i
           p
              p
                 e
                    d
Into her bag at the B & N



Head down and weighted down
She walked to the exit
Waiting for someone
No one to prevent it
Except security at the B & N

At last the perfect patsy
Alarm rang, the man froze
And our spurned lover
To the opportunity arose
Ran out of the B & N

Ran to the parking lot
Her VW bug
Opened the door
Threw in what she'd lugged
59 looted at the B & N

Key from the drink holder
In her shaking hand
er  rhrh  rhrh vah-room
Such a brazen plan
Perpetrated at the B & N

Her eyes glowed wicked
With rage and revenge
Someone would pay
All would attend
This crime hatched at the B & N

The deed was done
She clung to the wheel
The accelerator floored           
The tires squealed
Away, away from the B & N