When the harvest was over,
                 grain and chaff separated,
the birds congregated
                 around the barn had flown to lands distant,
the grains even from the last of stalks
                  were sun dried and filled in granaries,
it's time to set aside all other things
                 to take up the one passionate thing.

From it's true inspiration, beauty's intoxication,
                    poetry begins it's wild run, no holds barred,
the other lives of him as a man about town,
                   lover, son, father , partner of a woman,
a singer of the soul's wanderings,
                   a seeker of truth, at last takes an ecstatic turn.

The many lives he lead, the rough riding days
                         on the road, seep in to the words he collect,
now writing poetry becomes more than a game
                         of chess, an equation that balances life and death
that allows  a peep, in to the abode of immortals.
                             poet looks at life, still a changing  apparition,
                mysterious one with an enigmatic expression
on it's face and ask,"Show me all you can,
                           it would make my day, what else one can demand?"

At it's ecstatic heights,  life is
a splendid display of ballet moves.
I watch you fly high precariously,
stopping a  beat of my enamored heart
with  an astounding move speaking beauty
and dexterously land statuesque,
in a graceful  arabesque stance.
Defying gravity with amazing ease
you create beauty none ever dreamed,
so kaleidoscopic, appreciating it means
touching the eternal with one's being
in a fleeting moment, get transported.
For that, one needs a mind as sharp as
razor's edge and constantly pirouetting
360 degrees embracing  you at the
speed of light, before you turn to a
lightening flash,of different wavelength,
all over again and begin the next cycle.

The bee I did like,  buzzed around me in circles,
with a nice tune, and  tried her best to impress,
as I wasn't a flower, just bloomed and could'n't offer
nectar even if I wanted ,because I have exhausted all by now,
such devotion, I guessed is because of misplaced affection
or result of some confusion, so  I prepared
to say good bye to her.

                         but I did underestimate a  bee's frustration
she  came direct to me and stung with all her vengeance
left a thorn in flesh that spoke of unfulfilled desires in general,
But the pain I thought, I deserve though could plead
not guilty in any court. Oh! her sweet vengeance is an enigma,
let her feel good about it, leave me to  nurse my paining spot,
no more  friends with bees as the season of flowers come to a close.

There was a river, near  my village home
a perennial silver memory of my childhood
in which my mind  still in hallucinations swims,
a life line once ,no more exists,  because of our sins
alas no one recognized her might,when she was
alive and full, roared  tigress like through ravines.

From above the hills, a girdle of gleaming silver
comely like a village belle on her way to the market,
in that jungle village they never noticed her charm
or the amble through rocky paths and an occasional prance

From the hill roaring aloud she jumped down,
ran through the sand bed in mirth, on  both sides
coconut groves and rice fields performed welcome dance,
but times changed, they daily removed sand in truck loads
as we watched in pain  the river turned to a mere rivulet
one day the river became a myth, a tearful story to tell.

There was a river once for our childhood whims to swim
for beauty in the form of lush green to come, stay near the stream
a river of plenty that we thought was ours  for all the times to come
it's now a distant memory, seems like an unreal  sad dream.