Poet to my eyes, you are the sight of whitecaps
On the sea water, or the sudden turn of a bird
In flight and as the wave I roll and break,
With drowning wings that lift toward you, my sky.

Mistress to my soul, I am the nave of your holy
Cathedral.  My head is but an occluded riff,
De-noting songs you make in aisling airs of light
Polyphony, my star over-sings the windy globe,

She swallows heaven, like swallows blacken the dusk.
Shearwater bird, strip my surface with your cutting
Wings.  My waves peak to reach you starling girl.

The sloughing chill of winter dies quick in sighs
Waft asunder my little Indian summer, wake me
From sleep and I shall dream but once for your kiss.

Oh, my cherished-
If I could give you him
I'd wrap him in picnic plaid
Like the gift he should be
(I know you'd like that)
And I'd tie him to you by
his tweed and sheepish smiles,
so tight that you'd turn into
a Great Ancient Tree.

Darling, if I could
shake the demons out of your forest,
I'd holler at them in a pentatonic fury
and bend them from your nation.
(With air. Not fire)

My Siamese twin,
connected at the heart,
If I could give you the world
I'd carry it to you
like Atlas
though I'd have to work on my long distance running.
I'd do it for you.

I'd do it a hundred,
and bring you all the jam ever jellied.

Seven trillion dots.
And they say no two are the same.

Each similar.
Composed of the same substance.
All the same thing.

Like snowflakes, they say each and everyone is unique.

I don't feel unique.

I can draw.
So can anyone else.

So whats so special about me?
One little dot.
A speck.
Nothing but dust.

Like everyone else one day I will die.
My body will decay, and memories of my flesh will be forgotten.
Just like you.

Each dot is a dot.
And there is nothing special
about a dot.

Lush mango groves
where  the musky scent of mango blooms
once wafted making the
bulbuls sing in ecstasy
from morning till sundown
                  are reborn as gated communities,
                  where grim seriousness parade.

                      In sun drenched vineyards,
                      shadows of dreams,
                      wanting to dress up as IT parks, spread.
                      Bangalore barters its  medley of colors and smells
                      for prosperity in terms of greenbacks,
                      as people learn to be 'smart' players,
                                       and more and more get 'Bangalored'*
                                       from around the world.
Corn fields that danced to the tunes
of  the songs of  toiling farmers
go missing within days.
To match with the new mood,
nature, in this green paradise, till not so long ago
shamelessly wears the  unnatural with style.

I think it was the spring
before sophomore year in
high school, a prelude to the
best and worst but I missed
that footnote. The previous
night was nice where romance
had intervened if at all possible
for 14 year olds. I should have
understood that devils come
at all ages in all seasons but
the stars beckoned summer
and your parents didn't know
and this was the first time I'd
ever been so secretive. Wasn't
until now I'd realized you have
always been a limit pusher, I
didn't understand then, when
you asked to stick your hand
down my shirt. I cannot call
myself stupid for being young,
but let's call it a lapse in morality.
you frowned, pulled back and
told me there was nothing there.
It has always been the smallest
things said that have injured me
the greatest.

I am a snow-man/
a collection of
cold and beautiful
                                     c                c
                                            i              u                       a
                                                    r                m      t
                                                                          s                  n
                                                                                                       ces.