Not many tensions,
nor any excitement
Life has ever been
a placidly flowing river!

Single and free!

Over differences,
never been any disputes
never had to consult,
nor seek consent

Single and free!

but doesn’t his house
with its cold, mildewed air
reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
a hoard of well stacked books,
exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
antique collection of curios,
ornate drapery

Yet so full of nothing!

The prim order of the house
never disturbed by naughty hands
nor shuffled by dusty feet
dirtying the Persian carpets
 or smudging the glistening floor

The well laid bed covers
never get creased
by the body’s desire
and Love’s tight embrace
and never, they bear
the fragrance of female scent!

Sometimes he would shake
from foot to crown
at a question hurled by
an unknown voice;

“Did you squander away your life?”

Then he recognizes….
he has been a lone traveler
ever walking through
a one way lane
that will wind off
with a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
a new track
branches out
he would no more be
a solitary *****!
There would be a companion
to hold hands!

Now it is too late!

Note the time
by seasonal migration
return of osprey, eagle
each feathered pearl
a moment strung
on the banded necks
of brants and loons
velvet-lined memories
gathered within
my threatened
wild spaces

raindrops find
their way home
watch them bead
on the backs
of sitting ducks
serenely surfing
sibilant waves
silkily filling
oceans within
my tumultuous
wild heart

Never did I belong in this patch
the hatch of lies and misconception
where ice covers all there ever was
where maps are painted, never was
the touch of grenades and bombs
as tombs and gravestones stomps

Never did I belong in this patch
the coded identity, the spirit implosion
where ice covers all there ever was
where the hyperbola sits ever alive
on the mouth of the North Pole
as distance lands remains unreachable

Never did I belong on this patch
the production zone of slave machines
where we labour and bore workers
where institutions are unfunctional
feeding loneliness to the masses slowly
as the truth remains covered inside ice sheets

'where night is....
an iron bench painted green.'

opal light

love burning,
narrow roads,
roadhouse blues,

flame of moon
city garden
cider roses
petals falling like
little red tides,
curling edges,
spells of flowers,

magic in the swinging
pub signs and the
avenues, the
cobbled streets
running forever,
little vacant space,
love in arms
thrown together,
clicking stilhettos
chips with wooden forks,

here the moon
runs with the clouds
carries in an empty
basket the fruit
of the day eaten
up, wild and high,

our love, where night
is a tide of black ink,
resting after a heavy
day, our love, sad
tonight, beseiged
by strong armies, almost
forsaken and
yet somehow survived,
a delicate kiss on
the landscape,
content at last,
reduced down
to street blues
a wish to wander,
the laughter of a pub.