My heart I give to the cloud
my eyes where the grasses quiver
my time is come to leave the high ground
be lost in the mist of the river!

From so far I have wandered
to be lost in you o river
my tears mourn the times squandered
to find you where you meander!

Now is come the time this August noon
to pierce your mystery's veil
to kiss your ripples and die in your moon
go down deep you to feel!

I give my heart to where winds the river
as I stand on your green bank's mound
where the clouds hug you grasses quiver
and soul end of journey is home bound!

As the winds break into small feathered kisses
and idly burden the heart this May day
I lament for all the long withered wishes
once whose petals bloomed on my way.

A begone time love feeling unfailingly true
a touch that left a long hovering trail
on the probing soul fertile they grew
before cruel days wore them frail.

Aspirations soared on sun blazed wings
they had to be have on awakened nights
the innocent's hunts for the most precious things
haloed in passions of untamable sights.

On feathered winds were they drifted and gone
notions of love and visions to build high
but by their fire made me a man
leaving imprints as the years went by.

she is seen to appear in moonlit nights
in her bridal dress and sparkling jewelry
though the sparkles may just be fireflies
and her bridal dress a will-o-wisp
silhouetted by the playful moon
smiling in broken ripples on her toe.

she stands on the pond's edge
gazing at the crested sparks of moon
fathoming the depth of the grey slime
where he once reached to lay in peace
and she followed through fireflies and ripples
leaving in the winds her echoes.

Nobody can understand me
can understand my malady
nor is there a foolproof therapy
a curing remedy!

You talk about helping me
try to be friendly
it seems so silly
I'm an alien to my own family!

Can lift my surround mist
no psychiatrist
they really don't get
what's wrong and medicate!

Where I stand
won't reach your helping hand

I don't understand myself.

How can you be of any help?

The poet's manuscripts
are preserved for posterity
with odd bits of his personal things
historical than literary
immortalized with passage of time
as his timeless work
perfumed in air conditioned staleness
letters sent and received
the mortal mind sending poems
desiring to be published
and outside on a falling winter day
in a dog's head
the crumbling desire
for a crumb of bread.

By the end of winter
hind the canopy of leaves
they build a chaotic nest.

She sits meditative
he stands watchful
and once only my eyes could intrude
four bluish white nuggets.

When in the first winds of summer
dance the mango buds
small wings would ache
not to fly beyond mother's love.

But she knows no time to waste
so they too on the next winter
gather twigs for a nest.

poems flow like rivers in tide
when she’s by your side
and reclines a November afternoon
on the back of the crescent moon!

you tell her stories only for her made
as the birds their weary wings spread
when her face is west borrowed red
and you grab the last flickers before they fade!

you don’t talk of love but companionship
as night wears on and comes not sleep
the mangrove smells of long dead shells
with returning tide the river swells!

beside you walks a woman in your mist of tears
a face you hadn’t seen over all these years
she’s the woman you wonder if you ever knew
a companion a lover one dream forever new!

as i drew the curtains
felt a crawl on my hand
that fell on the bed as i ******.

then saw the other of the pair.

i shoved the duo out of the bed
hoping they won't land so far
as to not find again one another.

past my initial reaction
i felt ashamed of the stupid act
and remorse,

for having wasted the time
it took them to be close.

He just dreams craves to be nothing
soars he never on ambition’s wing
a win for him is not even worth
he’s happy to be a loser from birth!

He talked so little they thought him shy
the teachers caught him looking at sky
never won a reward or a good grade
but you know of loss he isn’t afraid!

A good job wasn't meant to be his
a girl to love him lend him a kiss
the one he took fancy soon took flight
found another guy winner and bright!

He doesn’t regret not having a fat purse
his lack of aim and mediocrity’s curse
he would rather give away the game
retrieve from dust a windblown poem!

They call him a loser a defeatist a flop
a toddler lifelong while others gallop
he is contented with his chosen pace
happy to look around not run the race!

she came
when seeds were not yet sown
the sky had not ****** the river
clouds were far away from rain.

she came
when heart was mere flesh
eyes had not known rainbow
and mind was just a wayward place.

she came
when door was only wooden frame
autumn was blooming shy veiled
romance was yet to wear a name.

she returned
there was darkness gathering

love is she forever searching.

The golden tinge of the shy sun
Peeked onto her pinkness
The youthful night was full of fun
Leaving residues on her face!
Whole night the storm blew
That no cover could protect
Denser the darkness grew
Hankering for a ****** perfect!
It’s still there the bed sheet
Spotless without a stain on it
Gone is the storm with its rage
Pinkness stolen, she has come of age!

Detective Dalton is all confused about the ******.

Mr. Smith's head was bludgeoned with a heavy object
the impact reveals the vengeance of the killer
Bill the Butler had before closing for the night
heard the couple quarreling over something
Junior Smith was having a night out with his fiancée
and Daisy the daughter had retired to bed early
for she was to set out for an excursion early next day
Mary the maid had taken her leave by the evening
to attend to her husband ailing for some time.

Dalton has no clue about the ****** weapon
nor any lead to point to the possible suspect
but for a scribble on the page of an old diary
found neatly folded beside the victim's body
that reads as follows:

behind the humble mask is a ***** man
time and again he has ***** a beautiful soul
all just for the pleasure of his flesh
mauled her with his ugly tooth and claw
constantly used her to feed his lust
lost the right to live this man
and he deserves his place in hell
a mighty blow to his head
will for sure end this monster
will do that with my hand
and see his blood oozing out
to recompense for the sin
he forced on her.

The murderer has kept the name hidden in the letters,
Detective Dalton has only to find out.

They talked about him as the one
who none had ever seen smile.

You couldn't gauge
if he was happy or depressed
no emoji could describe
the repressed expression
but all said
he was dutiful.

Caring husband and father
responsible family head
silent bread earner.

His constant arrangement made sure
the home was neatly organized
not one object was out of place
and but for the children
it would have been hard to guess
if he ever met his wife privately
summing up him to be named
robot
and the belief in his name was strong.

When his wife died
he wailed so loud
it could be heard beyond town.

To the neighbors,
it was mechanical breakdown.

Windows were once green
bricks fabulous red
upon the wall daylight
glowed like newlywed!

So lovely did it stand
the toy house in the moon
did it ever happen
didn't it end too soon?

Words were fewer then
wild thoughts ran galore
of mysteries now boxed up
behind tightly shut door!

Who stole the girl cutest
was it time or a man
that left her robed whitest
spinning the widow's yarn!

What really it yields
the house that once was red
with love and bricks was built
then broke and never remade!

At one corner of the subconscious
she waits to land on my dream

this morn too she came

offering my hungry mouth
a piece of guava
part eaten it was laced with her saliva

*stoked my lust from the first bite
she never ages a bit
wished she came to me on each night
bringing youth endlessly sweet!

a tree house let's build
tucked amid the leaves

where no will is unfulfilled
for the soul to ever grieve.

up away from madding noise
create a cave of peace

where tears flow of pure joys
nothing feels amiss.

far from the rush of town
high on windy space

where blissful hearts without frown
pure love harness.

let's make that home on tree
out of reach of race

for the mind to bloom carefree
in forever happiness.

bitterly i remember
in my first simplification class
i forgot BODMAS.

boys around me
solved gleefully
while my pencil
showed no will
to budge with the clock
bent on making me a laughing stock
before my peers.

it's such times in life
when devils raid
to come to your aid.

i gave a furtive look
to the notebook
of the boy next to me
put an equal to sign
and to the sum's next line
wrote nine.

what followed i would keep to mine.

The serpentine queue refused to budge.

It were the grown-ups that were stressed
the children babbled showing no unhappiness
with the pause offering so much more to do
and nothing that useful to look forward to.

Some faces looked as though made no sense
this waiting for mundane taxing patience
but were eyes that peered staunchly keen
as if the wait's end God would be seen.

Though lumps of time allowed break from the run
not one face showed up some feeling of the fun
anxious and jittery they smoked up the place
to my mind the children were only saving grace.

I should converse more with my son
stop him recede wider from me
should lose no time to hold him strong
we haven’t exchanged much recently.

Our morning tea must find me a way
to draw him to talk and look at my eyes
seize I must some time every day
so I succeed after a few failed tries.

Our dinner shouldn’t pass silently dull
but spiced with jokes and diary of the day
must break laughter the hardening lull
and ensure on the table a longer stay.

I should converse more with my son
grab all the time could be together
days are shorter and crying to be gone
but the bond we leave must be worth a treasure.

a funny game i wanted to play with me

writing poem within mouth holding
a seed of blackberry.

the fruit was fleshy sweet
till tongue exposed its bone
staled, made it insipid,
as if, was never grown.

spit it out i could not do
that seed utterly dry
for i had given word to you
a poem to write must try.

as i thought up cutish rhyme
that must pleasure fetch
****** grew the seed with time
my mouth was messy wretch.

my tongue was thick of blue
too intense was my plight
but i had given word to you
must hold till end of write.

it's over now this awkward game
what a relief to throw it out
and never again shall i write a poem
with a blackberry seed in mouth.

The man at the studio doesn't like us

we aren't pretty as the teens
not dazzling like the newly weds
our faces are pretty grim
smiles are once a river
foreheads dry riverbeds
eyes hold no commotion
but he does it for money
and winds up quick.

We walk to the river
where under the grey February sky
she plays with our reflections
babbling and breaking us
into unreadable pieces.

Marionette spread
On her bread
Some cheese,
The evening sun was red
When flew above her head
A few wild geese!
As she looked up the sky
To see them prettily fly
Buzzed around her head,
Black honeybees!
She held her ground
Moved her hands around
But they do as they please,
These stubborn honeybees!
The smell struck their head
Fine cheese on bread
So luscious was the sight -
It whetted their appetite!
Marionette felt uneasy
The bees kept her busy
And obstructed her sight -
She was not allowed a bite!
It was getting late
The sun was about to set
It was coming to twilight,
But our poor Marionette
In her agitated state
Couldn’t enjoy the sight!
Cute little Marionette
She went down on her knees
But her evening was spoiled
By the uninvited bees!

i loved her at first sight
if you ask how
the answer is all white
not one point till now.

was i too fool a guy
did i make haste
right now can't tell you why
that boy knows the best.

that boy who held his gaze
right on her face
read there in his daze
written happiness.

if you ever find him out
you may ask him how
he loved the girl at first sight
and loving her till now.

Ms Dolittle was giving her cuppa a sip
Her beady eyes drowned in deep brood
Last night she didn’t get enough sleep
The morning found her in a grumpy mood.

She had never seen them in all her years
Though read or heard about sightings
Dismissed them as mere conjectures
The believers’ flight on fantasy wings!

It might be the moonlight playing mischief with her
The moon can fool with such eerie nightly designs
Or maybe had a peg too many she couldn’t remember
She wasn’t unaccustomed to swigs of grapevines.

Whatever, she saw it clear not imagined in her head
The silhouette of her husband on the curtained window
Something she wouldn’t wish away as merely moon-made
He stood there upright waving to her in the moon’s glow.

Ms Dolittle brave as she is didn’t swoon or pass out
Just lay there motionless without rising to the summon
It was her husband about that she had no doubt
For in a troubled voice it said, ‘Come on’.

So there he was troubled for not having her company
And it was precisely what was worrying her
She had no idea with him how she could be

*She wasn’t yet booked for traveling that far!

the July sun stabs her cheeks pink rose.

where is that wooden bridge i ask her
some way more she says some way more

she never forgets.

the bridge was half finished the last time we came
left us longing what mysteries the other side held.

i think the water has eaten it up
tides are so fatal you know

no way she says only some way more.

then it shows up

six months of wooden planks
six months of waiting
now proudly hanging on the river in spate.

let's go on the other side she cries
in wind scattered voice
her hand upon my shoulder rests.

her way she never forgets.

Wealth you don’t treasure
As you have the key
To the endless pleasure
Of waking up from your dreams
In the middle of night
And tiptoeing to where
The grass is getting its first dew
Preparing the dark liquid
To break into a grey dawn!

Wealth you don’t treasure
As you feel happy in a golden morn
Not knowing why
You get up to go and stand
Quietly beneath a tree
And let your senses brim
With all the sight and sound
Feel the leaves drop on your hair
In a silent symphony
Before they touch the ground!

Wealth you don’t treasure
As you have in good measure
Everything the wealth can’t buy
A priceless space all your own
For the most treasured dreams to be grown!

In that blindest lane
I had gone in search of a door
When on the glass pane saw written
Cadaver Store!

Stood there awhile awed
Rubbed eyes if seen it right
My sight wasn’t a bit flawed
In that hour of perfect light!

Don’t my mind fervently pleaded
Walk through that ominous door
My curiosity left it unheeded
Pushed me in Cadaver Store!

Luminous lights reflecting on mirrors
Caught me in my own stare
Bar my fear’s pulsing tremors
There wasn’t a living soul there!

Haven’t for long been needing this help?
Spoke from the glasses an unseen voice
A deserted place to meet your self
See what have made it of your own choice!

Looked back at me corpses of seasons
Laughing mocking hating on my face
For always finding enough reasons
To let them die in silent distress!

Deft hands cut precise whirrs the ceiling fan
closed eyes bar view the scene can't scan
before they reach the ground take windy spin
falling in scattered piles gathered for coffin.

Shreds of gray and black dot the white shroud
little to write about nothing to be proud
don't reduce anymore that's about fine
add not to the growing woes says hairline.

Cool the clime crawls the clock at its own pace
halts the head to think about the changing face
would it look better or yield a worse clown
ridiculed by one and all folks of the town.

Nothing can be done enough damage is done
fiercely to blow the heat waits fiery sun
over sir says barber open my eyes
the one in the mirror doesn't look any wise.

This silent question I asked
for answer endless explored
where’s love grains husked
beyond eyes quietly kept stored!

Is it on the bed we sleep
whose sheet bears marks of lust
or something that’s more deep
hidden neath her layer of crust!

What’s the place love she stores
ceaseless flowing from the start
veiled in her all daily chores
I erred to be the place called heart!

In the house it’s a small nook
here her love makes me dumb
standing mesmerized as she cooks
I wait from her hand love’s crumbs!

Merry Christmas, the voice greets me
humbug I mutter under breath
greed hatred jealousy
only things you live with.

Keep to yourself your mirth
I sullenly brood
such lies are too heavy for this earth
done this place no good.

Relations under cloud of doubt
each soul bears a grievous injury
merriment had long gone out
the greet is just empty.

It's a pity you still find it merry
with all the injustice inequity
man classified quartered
children for food bartered.

Merry doesn't the word stink
while some choose what to drink
fuss about the flavor to savor
many reach it by thirsty miles' labor.

Merry can't hide away the glum
of human habitats in dingy slums
strewn on pavements under open sky
breathing refuses left to rot and die.

Still, Merry Christmas to you*, says the voice
the time is to give and rejoice
the world though is truly what you say
You, I, We, have made it that way.

Pay no heed
To your greed
Do it once
Just to give your greatness
A chance.
Once and then once more
As never before
Defy the greed
Pay it no heed.
Here and there
A small sacrifice
Would suffice
You’re learning to share.
You’re learning to defy greed
Learning the worth of a good deed
You’ve it to take the lead
To free the world from greed.

When dark clouds diminished the day
and rain carved moon craters on the river
we were drenched beneath a tree.

Her hand upon mine was more than words could say
but made me once more a hardened believer
in love's miracle of bridging hearts quietly.

I know I invite reproach
When I speak aloud in wonder
Why boys are the first to approach
And girls are mere responders!
It’s the boy that discovers the chance
In the girl next to him in school
For a courtship and steady romance
Though the girl must play it cool!
If the girl eyes him just once
That’s enough to make him bolder
Just one look puts him in trance
Though the girl must give him cold shoulder!
The boy so oft reads the signals wrong
Cavorting buck with wildly beating heart
The girl cautious doesn’t fall in love headlong
Makes sure the boy is good to make a start!

A low monotone ‘snip snip snip'
Drooping heads as in slumber deep
The mirrors reflect telling it all
The shedded strands quietly fall.

Goes on the buzz ‘snip snip snip'
Are they awake or in deep sleep?
Getting off-loaded here's no hike
Lines of souls sit vampire-like.

No one speaks it's nobody's call
Heads mildly roll, tissues fall
Shrouded white from world disguised
The snipper's spells have them hypnotized.

The stupor breaks once ends the ride
A cruel world is waiting outside
The spell was so short, it's a pity
Time again for reality!

He drives with flair..
millionaire billionaire
and such people
on money's stack
all the time behind his back

he drives those racers and pursuers..

the chauffeur.

Under the banyan few bamboo stalls
Baskets of garden’s produce
Whiff of fresh fish from fishing trawls
Buyers the sellers amuse.

Brinjals and pumpkins papayas and gourds
Small catch from neighborly streams
With buy and sell exchange few words
Alike a sketch seen in dreams.

Small things small price wish don’t soar high
A few coins to relieve bowel’s pain
Will do enough to let the hopes fly
No need for too hard bargain.

Will be left behind not all will be sold
The fragrance of freshness will stale
They won’t rue hearts of true gold
Having learned this hard fact too well.

Some hours spent when shadows grow dark
Sun decides to recline in west
Wind up they all under moon’s arc
Happy souls homebound for rest.

Sighs the banyan long standing witness
Pains it the quietude of stars
Holds it through dark watches endless
Coming and going of pedlars.

I haven't seen her in years.

Maybe she's still there
when the tide rises
foraging in the river
dreaming in half moon
they meet their fate
floating into her net.

With the tide ebbing
maybe she's still hugging the shore
praying for a little more
till the stars blink weary
waiting for her to go home.

Is she still there
her skin smeared with mud
stalking like a night heron
silhouetted against the skylight
her feet kissing the riverbed
her bed lonely and cold.

I wonder why for me
she's so mysterious
a predator in the river
a foresaker of life
for the life of her
brewing a love
deeper than I've ever known.

In my eye's river
she's still there.

Age cannot catch up with her.

When the sun slants
on wings smelling fish
fly the cormorants
to where the home is.

Their memory is a lake
with bountiful food
bill's all the take
that makes living good.

In between the catch
when enough seems done
find a dry patch
hold the wings to sun.

If wishes were heard
it's all I would want
to be turned into a bird
and what else but cormorant!

From the mother's breast
It landed in prison
It was a different nest
For it without reason!
It had not grown wing
Sky was a distant dream
They wanted it to sing
They and their strange whim!
Controlled by alien hands
It sought the mother's warmth
Surrendering to odd demands
Hiding sorrow in a forced mirth!
There was no way it could sing
Joy was barred by walls and ceiling
It had only a fragment of sky,
a grieving heart, mournful sigh!
Then one day opened the cage
It was free from all *******
‘Is it faking death? ' said someone
Never knowing its freedom was won!

Cinnamon and black grey
breaks the summer's doze
the voice gives away
it's sitting somewhere close.

The shade of a mango tree
that rests the wings from sun
breaks the day busy
to a lonely space for one.

In its eyes black bead dark
solitude wears a skin
a sadness makes its mark
of a silent cry within.

It dips beak deep for preens
cleanse that's daily a chore
another day quick spins
shadows are longer more.

in the attic on my way to the roof
pick up the two newborn kittens

their frantic mews at this alien invasion
draw the mother who knows me well

in her owl eyes are written
though love smitten
don't cuddle them too much.

past them i move to the roof.

on the mango tree
the crow nest is empty.

was my bonding with the two chicks
for those weeks
a waste?

dusk falls with a sigh
heavy on my chest.

There was a handmade cake on my table
and a letter with immature hand:

I start with this
but know that
whenever and wherever I bake a cake
you'll be in my mind.

It tasted not that sweet
I remember
and she was never to make another
in my corners of bitter December.

I have no other Christmas memory.

There couldn't be.

I blew bubbles in the air.
They weren’t robust
Pretty soon they burst
And were no more there.
I blew them thinking
That those pearly bubbles
Would go build a link
Betwixt me and the sky
And would fly high
To trap the clouds’ rumbles!
But they never really flew
Could never reach the blue
Of them so unfair,
To be soon not there
Fast disappear
Without showing my dreams the slightest care.

She shivers as he puts his hand on her forehead.

Ma, you have a fever, he says
and pulls up her blanket.

She closes her eyes to hold back tears.

it's your touch, son, her lips hardly move,
like rain on my arid heart, long awaited,

streams of films roll in her head,
the baby, skin of her skin, blood of her blood,
the umbilical cord never separated,
severed as the baby grew up,
a man of another woman,
the expanding distance
huddling all those cuddles into memories.

It's your touch, my son, it heals.

The son rises to call a doctor.

She knows she has no fever,
only pains of sweet memories.

When the west moon tilts and goes on the wane
Becomes a dying streak on your windowpane
Your frenzied sleepless mind breaks in roaring lust
To hammer the unyielding night into powdery dust!

All else but you in slumber dwell
Your rebellious thoughts burn hunger’s fuel
To pry out from darkness fading treasures of night
Dig them intact and bring them to light!

You could buy peace and live within norms
Bathe in moon’s kiss stay away from storms
But a ****** madness in you wreaks havoc
You nurture it, allow it to run amok!

Past the ebullience of night your furies vaporize
Can’t hold back the transience, stay in poet’s disguise
The dawn would devour it for transform you it must
To conventional sanity from the garb of an iconoclast!