hold still, my love!
let me freeze in time
that elusive essence
of all that you are!

let me pan from head to toe
all those fleeting memories
that envelope you like a halo!
--that heady mix of honey and cinnamon
as you say into the phone “hello!”
--that dainty dimple
and the happy curl of your ruby lips.

is it my breath that sways
those curls framing your cheeks?

for years have we shared,
for ages have we walked
the long road together,
stopping, but for mere moments,
to fight our little fights
and talk our little talks,
to press our hands together
and smile
at things small and beautiful,
at some rare memory.

hold still, don’t breathe!
don’t sway
those delicious mountains and valleys
where often our rivulets
joined in a torrent of frenzy!

where in the labyrinth
of time and space
did we first meet?
do you remember?

you are my memory
and I am yours.
but memories are ephemeral
and fleeting and deceptive.

so let me freeze them in time
before you and I
fade away.

click!

it’s morning
groggy-eyed, zombie-like,
stubbled, disheveled,
he rises.

Outside is the gleam of dew,
the scent of fresh bloom,
the chatter of birds and squirrels.
Not for him, though,
the brilliant hues of early dawn,
the bustle and cheer of the day just born.

Tarry he cant, mustn’t
shouldn’t, oughtn’t
for he has work to do.

And so he scurries about,
not much unlike a rat-at-night.
scratching the stubble out,
shocking the slumber out,
with a splash of rusty water
and scented alcohol

glassy-eyed on the clammy-cold seat,
with the daily in hand,
he lets in garbage as he lets it out.
(let’s see: “six killed, talks fail,
girl *****, man robbed,
chain snatched, stocks down, jobs lost…)

but no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t.
for he has work to do.

Not for him
to reminisce and wonder
at bright-eyed kids straining at their yokes
to remember that kind teacher
who patted his cheek
and held him to her smock
smelling strangely of
freshly ironed starch.

Nor must he think
of  progress cards and golden stars
and hobbies learnt at leisure,
of cycling in the rain,
and endless hours spent
under the mango trees
waiting for heaven’s manna,
of books devoured, adventures vicariously lived
in strange English lands
where they breakfasted on
bread and poached eggs and bacon.

Nay, tarry he cant, mustnt,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t..
for hasn’t he got work to do?

‘ Tis his lot to weave
his own web of chaos
as the road turns a
tangled mess of trails
darting here and braking there
in feverish, frenetic fits
of stopping and going
and spewing
clouds of carbon and venom
and especial epithets

no, no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t,
for he has work to do.

So what if he didn’t see
--just ahead of him on the bike,
the baby’s pink,delicate,
fingers as she clutched
her mamma tight?
--the shriveled, outstretched,
hand that cried for a morsel of mercy
since even the cataracted eye
was drained of hope?
--the strange aromas of
fresh coffee, incense, cigarettes
and some open sewer?
--the signals that said “relax,
you’ve 68,67,66” seconds to go?

Not for him to tarry—he cant,
he mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t, god forbid!
He has work to do!

Quotations to send
calls to attend, meetings to sit in,
sipping soulless coffee,
nitpicking.
accounts to tally,
targets to meet;
better still, exceed,
‘in’ trays to empty,
‘out’ trays to fill,
reports to make,
power points to present,
all before lunch
and, strangely, until after
until, outside the prison,
life has , once again, ebbed away.
one more sun has died,
or so cries the muezzin,
some distant bells pealing
in doleful agreement.
oh where has the day gone?

Stray thoughts appear
like lights switched on-
thoughts of children, wife,
neighbour
thoughts that convince
that here, indeed, is a person
with kith and kin and others to love.
But no, they must perish—the thoughts—
he must instead focus on the task at hand.

of  first weaving through
the now dark chaos
of blinding headlights
and urgent horns, darting bikes,
neon fireflies
and reaching ‘home’ where
the ***** is busy cooking
and the cubs scampering…
“hi dad ”says the kid
as he mindlessly waves
his soul numbed by
the monotony of the day just gone
and the tv that’s ever on—
and already on the report for the morrow

can he afford to tarry awhile?
to hug, hold, talk?
to share with him
a childhood anecdote?
horrors! he cant, he mustn’t,
absolutely shouldn’t oughtn’t!
for he has work to do!

And so the bedroom light’s on
until long after she’s embraced
by slumber, deep slumber—
her eyes closed
in childlike innocence.
can he watch the slow rhythm of her *****?
the languid curves?
the cozy bed
with its promise of warmth?
on the screen , scowling,
is the clutter of data
that must be processed
into bite-sized bits of
decipherable hieroglyphics—
now, not later!

Its so dark, so  still,
even the stray dog has stopped
howling its pitiful howl
one more cigarette
burnt at the altar of work
one more hour burnt at the stake
he simply cant tarry,
mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t…
he has work to do.

It’s morning.

fare thee well
oh my good ol' hawai chappal!
thy sole is free now
to roam worlds unknown
unfettered at last from feet
and straps and strings unseen...
don't let your gait slacken
in fear of some fearsome vulcan
do'nt baulk at the spectre
of, in his cauldron, giving up your sulphur
for you may yet be reborn
in an avatar as yet unknown.
a glove, a doll or an eraser
a ******, a cap or something baser.
for you, i shed a silent tear
so loyally did you serve me, my dear!

dont hate me when i'm gone
when this body has returned
to being radicals and molecules with a life their own.
when it no longer breathes,
the hairy chest heaving no more
from sighs born of sorrow and longing.
when all life has ebbed away,
when all that remains of me are memories--
mundane and poignant...

dont hold on to me
hoping for a resurrection
for i'd truly be gone
and along with me, almost all that
identified me as me...
my smile,my countenance,my words,my voice
even my warmth,my breath,my complexion,my odour.


for me, you could pen an epitaph most prosaic;
"here lies a man who was born, lived and died"
nothing more,nothing less.
yet, if you searched long enough
it is just possible that
you would find something to add--
a little pointless anecdote
or an insignificant memory
that punctuated life...

i did sin, like every man before me
and laugh like most of them
and despair and scorn and spurn
even cheat and despise and lie
but to my credit should it be said
that i did love...

but now, all of that seem pointless
for it's not merely my body that
you now consign to the holy fire.
isnt it with great relish
that these hot tongues slurp up
all of my hopes, my anguishes
and my  most secret desires?

dont, please dont hate me when i'm gone.

Wash your hands.
Pick a couple of situations.
Peel away old memories.
Cut in half; what, no seeds?
Then cut first this way
And then that.
Don’t cry, my love, its just
Some bad chemistry!
Take some hot, acrid thoughts.
Core them; throw the seeds away.
Chop chop and chop.
Take a few sprigs of happiness
Finely slice them, diagonally.
In the hot wok of life,
Toss in a smile, couple of fights,
Some heartburn, some sweat,
Stir fry.
Come, my love, let’s eat!

My cat, one day,
Discovered the mirror.
He jumped onto a table
And looked into it, sideways
And saw another reality
And was fascinated
And enchanted
And he just wouldn't let go
And again and again
Went after it.
The other cat was enchanted too
And he kept pawing at my cat
And meowing a similar meow
And he wouldn't let go either.
Though I tried telling him
That it was futile,
That his reality was different.
But my cat seemed not to agree.
Did he see something that I didn't?
He pawed at it every day
And kept pawing and meowing
Until, one day, he made it there.
Or so it seems.
For he's not here now
And neither is my dad
Nor my grandma, my little sister
And so many others
And many things, besides.
And little wisps of memories even.
They all seem to have succeeded
Like my cat.

mute, dumb, the fan whirrs
sweeping first left, then right,
all around the waiting room,
seeing all, doing nothing,
from its perch on the wall.

chairs, mostly full
with faces furrowed deep
by worry, sorrow, fear.
in one, yesterday’s newspaper,
half- unread, like yesterday’s bride.

just beyond, the triage--
with the presiding nurse
in pristine white, oozing
professional empathy
and tight-fitting oomph.

anxious eyes peering
through the slit curtain
into the emergency room…
was that my dad crying in pain
or the guy with the broken leg?

inside that curtained cubicle
men in masks
squeezing life out
like one does a near-empty
tube of toothpaste.

silent, violent, sobs
from the son and daughter.
was that their uncle
who lends them his shoulder?
maybe, just maybe, the doc was wrong?

from that perch up on the wall,
the fan keeps whirring,
seeing all, doing nothing
sweeping first left, then right
is that fan god?

inside this swirling amniotic fluid
i bob around
like words in a pool of thought
waiting for the moment of release.

outside is tumult
and the chaotic murmur of
muffled voices--some loving,
others harsh and threatening.

fostered by this lifeline
and fettered by it,
i feel cocooned here
and in equal measure, smothered.

i kick around in glee and anger,
not quite sure what is what
but as each moment passes,
my restlessness grows with me.

nurturing me with selfless love,
protecting me from the unknown,
is this nourishing womb of attachment,
this prison of my dreams...

what lies out there i know not
nor even what destiny has decreed
but what i do know for certain
is that i want to break free!

I glide past your window,
looking in.
I caress your clothes
hung out to dry.
I tickle your curls
as you walk past.
I mop up all your bouquet.
I embrace you in the early morning cold,
giving you goosebumps.
I enter you through your pores
into your very being.
Now I am you...

Talk to me, my love!
say something, anything!
The silence that enshrouds me
is an icky sticky thing.
It's woven its silken strands
tighter and tighter around me.
And inside this cocoon,
I struggle and wiggle,
wanting to hear your voice.
I hum your favourite songs
but can you hear them?
Every breath is a sigh,
every moment a longing...
My ears perk up at every muffled noise--
is that your voice?
Hurry, my love,
say something, anything!
For it wont be long
before the silken strands break
and my soul flutters far
to destinations unknown...

I have so many things to tell you
In a thousand silent words
When I finally meet you
And the coffee in its cup goes cold...

Even if I only just stroked
Your fragile delicate hand
I'd be holding you entirely
In a tight unending hug.

Oh would I gaze into your liquid eyes
Trying, in vain, to fathom them!
Would I breathe deep enough
Of your aromatic breath
And listen to those curls
Hum a happy song as they
Caress, coyly, your dimpled face!

I ask myself again and again
If we ever have met.
And I'm sure we have
Time and again
Not merely sipped from
Many a cup of coffee gone cold
But from Life itself.
Across so many light years.
Across galaxies and millennia.
And we had gone our separate ways
Until, at this very moment.
When we forget the coffee
In its cup gone cold.

Friends! Remember my camel,
that loafer with a permanent grin?
he's been a-chewing a-ruing, ruminating,
upon the yonder and beyond a-pondering

His reins hang loose, his saddle's dusty
his bit is chewn his blanket's musty
his coat's crusted with the scars of Time
he's forlorn for no real reason or rhyme
he's footloose as ever, he just has to wander
in search of all the oases of the yonder

You should see his gait as he kicks up the clods
when he plods, he plods and plods and plods
and when he saunters, it's quite a canter
he and I, we argue, disagree and banter
I think I'm his master but he thinks otherwise
I wish i could rein him in but i know it's unwise
and so i let him have his wayward ways,
together we tread this crazy maze.


(Just last week I tightened his saddle
and he took me to a land
all-green-and-no-sand
where it rained and sploshed
and we both got sloshed...
when the clouds parted and clear was the sky
he was much younger and so was I
he sprang in the air like a kid newborn
there was spring in the air, I too was airborne
the grass was washed, so was the moss
gone from his hair was all the dross
he stopped grunting, he sang instead,
full of Malayalam thoughts in his head
we went to gaze at elephants
(loved their finery but not their chained legs)
we heard drums in their elements
well into the nights we pranced
in ******* raptures we tranced
and woke up  lazy by mid-afternoons
with heads so hazy and postpartum blues)

He and I, we've had many a fight
o'er who's the one wrong and who's right
he's been calling every oasis a mirage
I say none of them's a camouflage
he's adamant that it's all an illusion
that I'm tripping and under a delusion
I say I hear him bleat like a goat,
I touch his rain-washed mangy coat
I see him, like a ship, heave and sway
I smell him from quite a mile away
yet I ask myself if all this is not Maya,
if even mirages weren't of realms higher.

In the beginning was a trill.
that didn't quite belong
to the silence enshrouding the night.

then another, as if in reply.
then a tweet, a trill, a tweet again.
a chirp this time, replied with another,
as the chorus grew.
(Arise oh Lion among men!
Perform your Divine duties!
The eastern sky has begun to blossom,
O great son of Kausalya!)

a  pair of ears,
a  pair of eyes,
then the rest of him
was born again
in the darkness

and he knew he was both
the prince and the ten-headed one
and many others besides,
witnessing his very own fantasy,
his fear, his shame,
his throbbing lust,
seemingly anachronistic
in the gray morning.
and suddenly remembering
yesterday's sums
and its remainders,
it's untotalled accounts.

he now knew
the always new harmony
of trills and tweets
from a million eons.
he'd been witness
to so much birdsong,
to countless metamorphoses;
some noisy, most silent,
like gray turning pink-orange-golden
like friend-turning-foe
dimple-turning-wrinkle...

for one more time,
he was here and now again
before fading
into the twilight haze
of a stolen snooze.

With a sudden,mighty, silent roar,
the rain ravaged the earth
in a carnal frenzy
that gushed forth in torrents.

Soaked to their bones,
the streetlights stood mute,
their blood draining
in little yellow streams
that snaked their way
into the river.

And the river?

The river, she lay splayed
in lascivious languor,
her body shuddering
at the sudden onslaught
in the dead of the night
until the rain, spent,
slid silently away
like a thief.

When the river was young,
he'd often sit on its banks of sugar sand
smoking a cigarette
lazily watching
the slow, languid, eddied
swirls that Time made
as it made its way,
rather clumsily.

Sometimes from the far bend
a tree branch would come afloating
like a bad memory,
twisting and turning in the current
with some silly bird trying to balance
and figure it out from all angles

Random voices from the far shore
cicadas chirping in the lazy afternoon
from the thick undergrowths
overhanging the flowing waters
an occasional splash by some bored fish
a silent bubble bursting
cackling waterfowls
And yet he would hear his own breath,
joining in...

The waters were slightly warm then
and gentle
and caressing
when he went for a dip
and a few strokes took him
to the little islet in the middle
and aimlessly back again
to break out in little goosebumps
from the cool breeze on his wet skin.

The river's old now
muddied, wrinkled and scarred
no more voices from the far banks
no waterfowls cackling
not even lazy cicadas
only his own breathing
heavy with the sighs
of longing.
of loss.

Every time i chase
a  thought or emotion
in its carefree fantastic flight
and try to clothe  it
with motley syllables
and myriad words
I'm not quite a poet,
No sir, not quite!
And so i cry a bit
because i know
I'm catching a butterfly
and crushing her delicate wings
and like a ******,
laughing in joy
at her anxious agony
as she flutters and dies,
petrified in the sticky amber
of my words.

If only i could sing instead,
like the cuckoo outside my window!
he never ever chases them,
he just lets them soar
on the wings of his notes
far into the inky silent night.
And those thoughts and emotions
start singing sweet songs
of love and angst and pain,
of lust and loss and longing
of betrayal and separation.

And lying in bed sleepless,
I listen.
And I cry.

When the sky burst,
sending down a hail
of cold glass marbles
pummeling the hard earth,
we were in the curio shop, my love
caressing a dusty watch,
holding an alabaster vase,
once dear to some soul departed.
we were struck by wonder then,
at the fusillade.
do you remember?

When shafts of light
pierced the tall canopies
creating dancing shadows
'pon the forest floor
and showing us
here a mushroom,
there a pinecone
we were just inside
the tiny wooden temple
but not really praying
we were struck by wonder then
at the silence, my love.
I know you remember.

When the rain stopped
and the little island
was drenched in sunlight,
we were spread out
almost exhausted
on the silver sands
looking straight up at
our own sky
wanting each other again
but that lone pesky parakeet
screeched in protest
we laughed at the interruption,
didn't we, my love?

We had to force our way
to the gurgling stream
and dip our feet in the
Ice cold waters,
sit down on the smooth rocks.
we were in company then
but the baboons
didn't really mind it
when we held each other
and kissed.
We were mildly surprised then
that they let us be,
weren't we, my love?


Here we are again
sipping tea together
blowing into the cup slightly
and breathing in
the aroma of the brew
in a daily ritual
that's shorn of all ceremony.
I am wrinkled now; so are you.
not that it matters,
either to you or to me,
as we sit here together
sipping silently.
And we smile suddenly
at a moment shared
but never really spoken of.

When i went cold turkey and quit smoking,
my wife was obviously happy and secretly
sad.
Even though my kisses didn't reek of tobacco anymore, it was as if her husband wasn't the same anymore.

Every once awhile, I'd catch her halt doing her chores and wistfully glancing my way
And i could tell she was wishing I'd light up
once again, like old times.
It broke my heart to see her so.
Because, you see, I'd quit only for her sake,
because she'd asked me to.

So one day after dinner, as used to be my wont, I lit up.
He was a Camel.
And he was grinning at me as i put him between my lips in the corner of my mouth
and i struck a match
and lit him up
and dragged him deep
into the pits of my lungs.
It appears he wasn't used to it there
in the dark dingy maze of my bronchioles
So he rushed out sputtering and coughing.

So i jumped on his ****** back
and we started sailing across the Saharan sands.
And we sailed for days on end,
him swaying this way and that,
with me doing likewise,
as if both were buffeted
by the same angry winds.
he wasn't thirsty, but i was,
until we came to this charming little oasis
with its signature palms,
a well, and belly-dancing Bedouin girls
who charmed the wits out of me
with glance-darts from their kohl-lined eyes.

One of them slaked my thirst
and then gave me a poncho
and she giggled when i draped it over myself
but by then , my Camel was gone.
and with him the desert too.
and i was back in my own house
and my wife was eyeing me strangely
she had a question to ask
but instead of being asked,
it just hung there in the air
like a smoky question mark.
so i didn't give any reply
to the smoky unasked question.
I just grinned at her
like my Camel.
and kissed her on her ruby lips.
a long amorous lingering kiss
and she was happy again.
because my kiss reeked of tobacco
like in the good ol' days.

God knows where my Camel is now
but i guess he's thinking of our trip
and grinning to himself.

Hi there, I say
to the dusty weary stranger
At the ramshackle shanty
Perched upon a precipice.
As he sips tea
Steam rises silently from the cup
He looks up
And he says Hi
Letting out some steam

Where from, I ask
Guessing he was from down south
He slurps lazily
And replies in one miserly word.
And I see I was way off the mark
My eyebrows knit in knotty defeat
My instincts have blunted
I grunt at myself

Where to, I ask
He gropes around in his shirt pocket
A cigarette appears, slightly crumpled
He lights up, squinting his eyes
The smoke is acrid
I smell it's long-forgotten male scent
He drags, the tip glows bright
He opens his mouth in a stylized 'O'
Blows rings in a fibonacci sequence
I suddenly crave tobacco
But I wait
He hasn't replied...

On the far hill I see
A tiny car
Careening off the road
Tumbling in slow motion
Ricocheting here and there
Disappearing
In a golden flash
And a plume of smoke
He drags on the *** again
Lets out a plume of smoke
And points at the far hill
And its winding road
And the plume of smoke
Rising wispily skyward

I crave a smoke all the more
I say to no one:
Play it again, Sam
Play it once, for old time's sake.
He starts whistling
A long-forgotten song
He gets up to go,
Starts trudging down the road
I pick up my satchel
And start climbing.
Ahead of me on the snaky road
There's nobody.

like a smithy's bellow
my chest blows and puffs
stoking the embers of life
which burst into flame
with every other stroke
roaring in mild anger
yet playfully dancing.

my limbs lie dead
my face too
not even a hint
of movement
to punctuate
Life

and yet im soaring
through labyrinths
gliding, sliding,
sidling, sailing
seeing all,
touching all,
living.
here and now.

and at this very point
I am.
and at the next
and the one following
in the continuum.
I see you
everywhere.
and i know you
as i know myself.

how about you
my love?
have you been
through your own labyrinths too?
soaring, sailing like me
looking for me
at every momentary stop?

I know this
and i think you do too
that somewhere
at one of those points
we meet.
and then
nothing else matters.

we'd be wide awake then, won't we?

Age crept up on him in stealth,
careful not to tread upon a dry twig
in the garden of his memories,
careful not to disturb
the butterflies, the bees,
the tiny hummingbirds and koels,
which, drunk on nectars,
in happy abandon,
sang their songs all day long.

His ears, once, were keen,
picking up every note, every tone
every trill, however shrill.
and he swayed to the music
and sashayed on occasion
as he walked through his garden
humming their songs
and caressing those flowers.

And now that the tumult of youth
had left subdued
and speed gave way to grace,
he could now detect
that his breathing was louder
than all that music,
that he heard it above all else
like a loud metronome
which only he could hear.

He'd now lie awake often,
listening to the night rain
come roaring down in fury
and leaving soon after
and then the raindrops from the roof
drumming merrily upon the puddles
and he'd also listen, above it all,
to the sound of his own breath
beating a slow rhythm.

Then, just like that,
came a day when,
all on a sudden,
the sun froze in mid air.
and so too, the butterflies
and the hummingbirds.
the flowers wilted and drooped
and silence fell upon the garden
with a terrible crash.
and above that crescendo,
he heard his own rasping breath.

he heard nothing more.

Wisps of an unfulfilled dream
Floated around in the air
Pale, gossamer, fading, formless
Like a word in its womb.

He drew a laboured breath in
But his heaving chest
Couldn't expel enough
To move the wisps away.

Tired eyes closed their lids,
Fast wearying of it all
And opened once again
Checking if they'd gone.

No, they hadn't ;indeed no
For they were playing it too,
The waiting game
To see who'd go first.

One more rasping breath
Drawn in long and laboured.
Then a grunting wheeze
And still the wisps lingered.

And so the game went on
Long into the cold night 'ntil
there was left no more,
Not a wisp, not a breath.


Anilkumar Parat

I lay sleepless again last night,
listening to the silence of the falling rain.
It was a still, steady downpour
devoid of all fire or fury,
drained of every emotion,
as if the heavens cared no more
for me or my long-dead dreams.

No Zeus, no Indra
unleashed terror,
the clouds wrestled
but made no thunder
the heavy dark sky
just sobbed silently
like a poorly paid mourner.

And yet somehow,
even those false tears
seeped down deep
way below the humus,
soaking what lay interred,
long forgotten.

When the day dawned
and the sky smiled,
I saw the magic
of fresh rain lilies,
thousands of them,
dancing in the breeze.

On their pink cheeks,
I saw yesterday's tears.

How lonely were you
in that solitary grave
atop the hill
where
the wind whistled
now and then
tousling the dry blades of grass
and moulding the rusty boulders
into eerie shapes
where
the vague echoes
from the valley
and from the hills beyond
merged into
the silence,
the stillness

After that life of love
of tumult and adulation
I bet you'd come
to love this solitude
this quiet place
to rest in peace
while the wind erased
your name from
the headstone...

Until they brought the rest,
shovelling every now and then
and chanting from the book
and then throwing
clumps of sod
disturbing you
with their muffled sobs
which the wind brought back
a century later to me, now.

Moonless inky sky
Somewhere a lonely dog howls
Batwings flutter by


Moonless inky sky
Treetop silhouettes swaying
Lonely koel calls


Moonless inky sky
Dark clouds wrestle and rumble
Lightning blinds the eye

The well in my city house
is old, decrepit and closed.
its water is black and stagnant,
its breath stale like an old man's.
like mine.
Nobody draws from it anymore
and it's ready to be interred forever
deep into the earth where it belongs
like me.

Long long ago, maybe,
it wasn't a city well.
Maybe
When it was a village well,
young girls with oiled combed plaited hair
and flower garlands sang
as they crashed a tin bucket
into the cool water
letting the bucket fill
then crashing it again
then letting it fill
then again and again
playing with the water, the well,
before drawing
And the pulley screamed in laughter
at the fun of it all.
So innocent.
And the lone bored catfish
came up from the depths
and rolled his eyes skyward
in righteous indignation
at the prankster girls
and their loud happy giggles
and their flying pigtails.

I wish i could lay my hands
on a grapnel
and dredge that well.
My village well.
For memories
For lost and forgotten things
like tin buckets
like little toys
soggy paper boats of hope
sighs of despair
lazy summer months
carefree days
long lost friendships.
I wonder though
if any grapnel can latch on
to wispy wistfulness.

I could think
of a hundred words,
to call out to you, my dear,
But not one of them
will be enough
to really tell you
how much you mean to me.

And so i call out
your name.

In it,
is the fragrance
of so many years
spent together,
of moments so precious
that they won't happen
in a million more years,
of memories that make
silly meaning to just the two of us.

In it,
is the warmth of your
slender, delicate hands
that i so love to hold and stroke
and weave my own fingers into.

In it,
the tenderness of your hug,
the oceans in your eyes
as they gaze into mine,
the silence of a thousand words
we left unspoken,
the heat and steam
of so much passion.

No word, no language, no endearing term
will quite be enough, my love,
to tell you really how much
You mean to me.

And so i call out
your name.

Scything the blazing sky
in slow deliberate circles,
he casts a gloomy shadow
like a silent looming spectre
upon the teeming hordes below
running helter skelter
in mortal fright.

He swoops down at will
picking his prey at random,
leaving the rest
who wail and lament,
if only for a few moments,
before resuming their habit
of scratching the earth
for a few worms or grain.

The pompous black crow
In his black tuxedo,
a silly top hat, shiny black shoes,
and dark shades
strutted up to me the other day,
tilted his head and asked
"Hey Mister, How do you do?"
I was new in the neighborhood
I didn't want to offend Mr Pompous,
so I replied meekly
"I'm fine, thank you, how do you do?"

Then another day  when the sky was pregnant
he came to me dressed like a spy
Eyes behind dark shades,
dark trenchcoat, collars turned up and all.
I wasn't sure if it was dark grey or black
Because i remember wondering
When dark grey became black
Anyway, he wore a hat
And he wore boots
And he strutted up to me
And asked me rather gruffly
"Hey Mister, how do you do?"
I said i was fine, thank you and how did he do
And he went away.

And then one day he came to see me again
When i was in my flooded garden
Rescuing drowning earthworms
He seemed ruffled, wet and miserable
In a dark but tattered raincoat
(Was it dark grey or black?)
And he looked at me sideways,
shook himself and asked
"Why aren't you indoors,
don't you know its gonna rain
for the next five days too
and there's a red alert?"

I said I was fine, thank you and how did he do
And besides, was his raincoat dark grey or black?
And the frogs and toads laughed in derision
And they couldn't stop laughing,
they are still laughing.

Into the crusty inkwell
of my tears,
I ****** my quill.
I probe, I scrape.
Almost frantic,
again and again,
as it comes up dry.

The quill is blunt,
its tip is in tatters.

I hear the loud ugly scratch
as it furrows the paper
in futility.
I draw a blank.

It looks like I'm done.
My words die unwritten.
My thoughts are stillborn.

Oh why can't i cry anymore?

Yesterday wept bitterly
at the threshold
when I left her,
gently prising my fingers free
of her clutching hands.

Will I see you again, she asked.
Maybe, I mumbled
and I stepped out
into the twilight.

Tomorrow stood there
waiting like a bride
shy, tremulous
drawing little rings in the sand
with her toes.

I hurried towards her.
I was aware of the sand
slippingawayfromundermyfeet
like the last grains
hurtling down the neck
of a ruthless hourglass.

Come to me, my love, I whispered
as I grabbed her hungrily.

Fly away my dear li'l butterfly
on those golden gossamer wings
May you set aglow every peak high!

Don't look back dear, don't you even try
to scan my sad face for tear's springs
Fly away my dear li'l butterfly

I won't let you see my tear-filled eye,
the deep anguish that farewell brings.
May you set aglow every peak high!

Now, dear child, let's wave a goodbye;
Go, ride every wave, break all strings
Fly away, my dear li'l butterfly

May every kid you touch also fly
with you, wonder, sprout their own wings
May you set aglow every peak high!

Your goal's set, your aim is the sky
Yon horizon's where glory springs
Fly away my dear li'l butterfly
May you set aglow every peak high!

I couldn't touch you
Even if I wanted to.
Under that curved glass lid
Maybe you were just asleep
Breathing a steady relaxed breath
After weeks of heaving and rasping
Maybe those were droplets from your nostrils
Not signs of refrigeration.
That red flag draped over you,
Cold, dead, not fluttering at all,
Seemed incongruous and pointless
Because those comrades gathered outside
Were whisking ennui away with flat jokes...

Did anyone really mourn for you brother?
Except the woman silently sobbing
In your dark bed?
Or your son and daughter
Reflecting on your sunny smile?

Or me, maybe?