I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.

Needles of Yew

Lay a soft bed
Of years
Over a grave-

Green to Brown
To Yellow- a pleasing transition

Echoing

The change
Underground

Small dwelling

Flower and ****
Vying for place

Any breath could be
The last-

A sigh of deep
Contentment

I’ve been at the helm on a rudderless ship
lost in a mercurial sea of deficiency
I could fly by the sit of my pants
with a suitcase already packed
on any given day
at any given time
at any given place
I was where I wanted to be
seeing who I wanted to see
doing what I wanted to do
despite my responsibilities as a father
or having to face the daunting tasks
that appeased my current girlfriend(s).
having no structure and no plan,
life was a timeline of formidable prospects.
I rather enjoyed it
quite nicely.

I’m a Bengali in sombrero
An Indian from Kolkata
I live at a stone’s throw
From where flows the Ganga.

I speak in Bengalee
For me the sweetest language
Like the Ganga flows freely
Has Sanskrit as lineage.

Rice is my staple food
So are dal and fish
A cup of tea is too good
With two biscuits on a dish.

Around me spreads green countryside
Where grows all the foodgrain
Rivers flow wild and wide
Their banks home joy and pain.

I was born and reared in this riparian land
Where soil is tilled in peasants’ sweat
Sparkles in moon the Bay’s white sand
Weaving dreams for many a poet!

In the "loneliness",
I find connection.
In the "boredom",
I find fulfillment.
In the "silence",
I find serenity.

Why aren't you at peace?

Where you had to arrive at a time of consciousness where all you could do was observe. Flashes would come in the way of scenery, scented by earth and blue pine.
A red and yellow tree in autumn, so that it was o blaze or only appeared that way. Early autumn when the daylight hours are still long and the night just seems to take them over.
Tilting in, the sound of animals as they tried to out-race the rise of the coming moon. For a river becomes older and wiser than any owl. And the moon is there, always keeping things astir.
Your past are fires, that many others would have mistaken for demons... all the stars, so that they all must just repeat somewhere. Never being any less present until overtaken by a brighter light.

Are we truly only beauteous when we gaze upon the same?

Does a force then oust its element when estranged from former names?

What, at root, is virtue most true, if not the definitive game?