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Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
Log floating in the green stream:
jetting away in the flow,
now I'll stop in the thicket,
uncovering the cricket-song
trapped in the reed-locks.
Splash! that's a tadpole miss;
The trouts, they are laughing.
Gone! that's an angler's bait in vain.
Cranes have got their picking.
There's a hundred suns around.
This is a bubbly babbly morning.
Onward forward I flow, reed in tow.
Idyllic sunrise at some rustic stream
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
How shall I hymn you,

majestic presence? Shall I

be the wide sea, and

weep, overcome in your vastness?

or, evaporate, seeking you?
1. This is written in the style of Japanese tanka – my first attempt at that, all you experts, guide me if I’ve got something wrong there!

2. The origins of ‘contemplate’ are rooted in meditation on the sky!
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
At the newshour on the TV station,
beamed to my lounge sofa tonight,
the vignette visual of peace:
a child being rushed to triage,
all limbs bound in bandage -
now, we are safe.
Our soldiers too, from the skies.
No casualties.
Only collateral damage
signaled in the sobbing siren.
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
I pressed my ear to the ***** of the
silence before dawn.This is the hour
when birds wake up, contemplating
on what to sing. The sky's smudged
in dispersing clouds. Priests are
washing up for the morning prayer.
Tots plead to sleep more. Here I find
the blessed light that trudged past
aeons and aether, now scattering
past the screen of mists, illuminating
your face, blooming over lotus lakes.
You were up, weeping with the winds
wheezing through the streets all night.
No bells, no flowers, no incense
rosaries or hymnals, this my chapel
is the other shrine in this home.
Now I kneel hearing the throb of love.
One, nameless, the continuum that
here I call myself and there, you.
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
Slow dance of filings on parchment peace
savouring the beats, my percussion hips.
Look the rampage like other man's wife.
When the dark flag bites, hymns cease
and millennia entomb; heaped heads,
tented eaves, latest art in the desert souk.
Shik-shak-shok. The sharqi goes.
Flooring it to the rhythm of dunes, as
fires spew snow into the vale of prunes.
Chaos of magnets pirouetting a ride.
Bomb them, when nuisance gets,  some
hundred women, few thousand children,
not bad price, securing the heathen trail.
Shik-shak-shok. The sharqi goes.
Veil the faithful, jail the *****. Chaos
is hope. Kaleidoscopic, cathartic taupe.
Riding the tiger, picturing a goat.
Creative destruction: but if you ride the abyss, the end is dark.
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
I'm kneading a complex thought now:
too amorphous, this, but,
too much mush and it's mess.
Why are you smiling at me a
bunch of multi-colour bell-peppers?
No, it is not potato season.
But I'm searching for roots of
our association. I need a congealant.
You are quite a handful though.
Sweet, but not sugar kind of;
Cinnamon, may be - served best
with chocolate warm. Too strong,
alone. I will serve you some cloves -
hot, but not the chilli kind of. Chew
on it. I have a kitchensink to clear.
Attention ladies! Title is a pun on 'chicken soup for your soul'
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
I hear your footsteps on the clouds:
and I waited for you,
but you sliced the skies, and
vanished in a haze of crimson.
I am the insolent waves canoodling the weeds.
I am the rock-resolve that is dissolving
unknown to leaps. I was waiting
for you and I got drunk.
I will be everywhere, mourning in the winds
and lisping in the depths.
Though they said I shouldn't.
The chorus of gulls announces now,
that I lost you, I lost you. A whirl-storm
is rising in the desert. But that is
so far away. Evil is always far away.
I must earn my bread now, though
I am waiting for you. Half-whirl.
Half-whistle. Pestle-pounding my soul
Looking for pebbles in the flour.
http://sineinverse.wordpress.com/2014/11/12/on-loss-and-reconcilization/
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