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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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.