on a day hanging in haze
the crow sits glum on a perch

do the flying pairs overhead
remind it of the lost mate
and in the midday lull
it feels a vacuous dullness
when even the search for food
seems purposeless?

i feel a stab of pain inside

whoever goes first is lucky
not so the one left behind

maybe the wings are now too heavy
for the bird to fly into the sky

Her feet rose and fell
between fields of paddy

the grass bowed
then looked up on her way.

If only she had wings
and the winds carried her to her sister
she could land right on the yard of her hut
and take her home by the return flight
but her mind soared no less
so before the sun favored the west
she was right by her
laughing and talking like the yore
with only a line of vermilion
that she felt had come between them.

Soon she looked around
and making sure no one was watching
brought out from her skirt a mango.

She gave it to her like
she was giving a piece of her heart
plump yellow green
with the most delicious nectar hidden within
and when she narrowed her lips
to drink from the gift
her tears poured like the summer rain
mingling with the cries of the parched earth.

On a shore where the waves embrace the sand
Lies the hug land.
“No words, please, we only hug and kiss”
is all you will find,
speaking there is only with mind!
They were not late
To know words only complicate,
Make a mess
Of what the heart says.
Rotten clichéd stale
They more often fail
To make the desired sense,
More potent is silence.
Lover, sister, brother
Each hugs the other
In this faraway retreat,
They hug anyone they meet.

He scoops sands in baskets

then balancing neatly on the shoulder
carries to where needed
through bone breaking hours.

Upon his footprints is there a name
or a home
where he goes back for the night
lands featherlight kiss on a woman
awakes her sleepy bones with her hands
forgetting his days sinking in the sands.

Within the four walls
Below a roof
Busy with play of words
The poet is aloof.

The sky is breaking low
Pitter patter rain
Capture they must the flow
Of drizzles soothing pain.

Outside on a stretch of green
Drenched to the bone
A man with cracking skin
Hoeing from morn.

The toiler is tasked to ****
Paid by the hour
Must earn the precious quid
Whatever the shower.

The poet is lost in the toil
To grow his rhyme in shower
The **** works fast the soil
Growing hope by the hour.

He comes knocking your door
Buys things you need no more
Weighs and pays for discarded load
Then goes off to another road.

For your pound he pays pence
Makes it seem in perfect sense
The deal is only if you're willing
To barter the old for new shilling.

You feel he adds some happiness
Clears the dirt creates the space
Your home was long a messy lot
With no place for new things brought.

Not all old things are like that dirt
A few are ever new are your part
He never asks them to be sold
Knowing you wouldn't for price of gold.