There it is again, flecks of fresh
brown earth flying up from out of
my lawn, several new dirt mounds
signaling their return, our battle
for this turf will now recommence.
We have ten acres, why must they
pick my garden to make their
subterranean homes?
I rub them out and more ****
gophers replace the departed
ones. They tweak my nose and
toy with me as if I were the
mouse and they the cat. But
they are grievously mistaken.
If it is war they want, it is war
they will get. Let the battle
commence.

I hear your wails;
I add my sorrow
To the howling winds.

There wasn't supposed to be a clock shop there.

Deep inside the lane and away from the bustle
the door quietly opened to the world of time.

World of Time, yes, that was the name of the shop
though it resembled more a curio shop
with the man at the counter as antique
as the time long flown away.

I want a clock to gift to somebody,
said I, amid the chiming and ticking
that if listened to for long, I was sure
would lull even the alert into sleep.

Thanks for stepping in, said the man,
with a hint of smile passing across his face,
nobody cares for time anymore, it's banished,
but for the connoisseurs still enchanted by
the melodious rhyme of swinging pendulum,
a midnight music, half listened in dream.

There's the clock chiming hourly music,
the man pointed, big but worth having,
obviously a misfit in the shrinking space,
but I say, don't compress all into small,
like say, he smiled, love and heart.

He set the music on
and slowly everything melted
from before my eyes...

I was carried home from the pavement
and some days later I returned.

World of Time, an old man recollected,
was wound up long time back.

i read the poems
(perhaps not poems)
maybe, perhaps?

they are crying their hearts out
reaching

for that feeling
innate
and pristine

a howl for love

sadness

faith and joy

those tortured *******
their words trumpet,

"I am here!"

all too human
and i will not read you
anymore
this nascent melody
of us tortured souls.