Remember they're monsters

Not just in theory, but really

It's no longer about the evidence

(If it ever was...)

But a call to collusion

They want you silent

Unless you recite after them

So they can write papers

On pipe dreams

We climb the Koro hill.

Forty years and still ascending
gives a good feel.

We stand under a Madhuca tree
blossoming in March heat and rain.

From the hilltop
the valley down below
looks dreamy grey.

We've greyed and graded
past full bloom.

In the wafting fragrance of Madhuca
we pray to hold on
for some more.

Somewhere between words and a phrase
And images that waltz on a page
Naked or masked, with a ** and a hum
Read me in the lines of a poem.

Curled up with flair in cursive ink
Or in italics that make one think  
In bold scribble of soulful blues
Meet me in a syllable of haiku.

In sounds and rhyme, in free flowing feet
In rolled up, crumpled paper sheets
On kissed ends or in couplets terse -
Trace me in a little verse.

Midst damp and broken metaphors
In sentences loud or hushed whispers
Hidden behind some quaint smilie
Find me in poetry.

Poesy — a world large enough to hold
Sordid moments in its fold
Sweetness of life and broken hearts
Harsh reality and runaway art.

Lately I've been feeling
Disconnected from the world
It seems such a dreadful place
It feels far away from home

So I come to my safe haven
Read and write for hours
Write and read some more
And I know I'm not alone

For I get to see each of you
The outcasts, the weirdos
The misfits, the poets...
But above all, the kind

My little beacons of hope...
My people

The brilliance of the
ladybug landing on
my white coffee cup
as the wind blows through
the bedroom window
I think of ee cummings
and Buffalo Bill,
Mom, Dad, and the
rest of the dead.
The computer calls to me.
But I won't answer.
It's the Sabbath, and the
rest will do us all some
good.