My father would say
Always pray
for a beautiful death.
He didn't know
It would sting him.
16 July 2009.
A light fall
was a great fall.
Oozing. Stitches.
Confinement.
There's a coma after mind.
Months fell into the space.
At dark dust,
A full stop
after two hiccups.
Who'd say
He would die that way?
Our choices are limited.
Only prayers could
increase some of them.

0318

Whose face is it that we long to see?
That every d(r)ied bones His healing comes.
Whose face is it for the sun to rise?
That He shines so bright even to our darkest sides.

In the midst of the dark, He strolls us out
Now, whose words is it that our raging seas calm?
In the depths of the oceans, the thunder roars
But His rod becomes the correction of the soul.

Whose words is it that we call the Breath of Life?
For we died for a moment and sins were torn.
From East to West, every transgression is gone
He says, “Behold, I am coming soon.”

Without imagination,
Living is the life of bushes!

It takes off like the balloon
That desires to touch the moon.

It flies over our heads,
And to the clouds it weds.

It passes like the swan
On water and like the van

When the roads are filled
With snow and life is killed.

It comes down like the eagle
To fall on its prey, very little.

It's love of the rain for the leaf
It's leaf for the alone and naked tree
It's tree for the old and the sheep
It's sheep for people in winter
It's winter for creatures to avoid heat
It's heat to remove moulds of snow
It's snow for the couple to love

Speaking
the truth
is a special
smartness

Circa 2016,
A missive my amigo dispatched:
I sleep to the full extent
When my wife is on leaves,
And his statement,
Out of blue,
Left me wondering
If she's a white elephant
In his well furnished life.
Last weekend,
Insomnia was under the bed,
Purring through its whiskers
Like the doorway bell
In the day,
And it's a meandering mouse,
Squeaking and gnawing
The wood of cupboard
In the next room,
And it's a rumbling, too,
Outside the window,
And mine was with her parents
First time after marriage.

No poet has ever died
of dearth of imagination

Little
Care of words
Much damage of reputation

Ideas are humble, but latecomers.

Regret is a moral boost

Darkness drapes the night
Cold and thin, with a clear sky
An advent of stars

Stars made from the dust
of bones left from the fabric
of the universe

Universe expands
Dry and brittle marrow falls
Winter pitiless

Everyone isn't in the boat of luck
Since it sails steadily, unsteadily;
Out of blue, it reaches the harbour
And that's oft finished in a jiffy,
And sometimes it continues circling
At the beginning point or in the middle
Where frustration and fear fly up
And the unlucky is at the receiving end,
While the lucky one celebrates in his cluster.