i

half-hexagonal shape
of collected stones
walling the shore

flapless flight, a
white-belied eagle
spread against hill  

brass lock gate,
a dark morning
to high tide din

gulls fish diving
arrows at twilight,
star-mobbed night

ii

waves swish above,
whip us a few feet,
push, crash, beat

perched on a rock,
soft airborne feet
part water again

an early morning
climb up a cliff,
as far as eyes

can see, the
endless hazy
ruptures of sea

iii

little fire with
wet matchsticks,
coconut husk,

scrap wood,
twigs, winter
grass residue

a confetti of
tales at tea,
she, he, me

quieter in our
rooms at dusk,
again adrift

iv

I sum up my
habits, their
relentless

obstinate
shore lash,
wasted years

here, once
aside from
the crowd

consider
my islands,
my inner seas

v  

how demonic
to confront
oneself, for

once, let it be,
a calmness
settles like

residue, and
though youth
fades every

moment, I may
yet foray again,
again to meet

myself on a
salt breeze morn,
the tide, the beach

We are but two roses in the same vase
sharing the same water
same light,
but our leaves never again touching.
You've grown colder
we've grown apart
separated yet together dying.

Tell me, why do we, roses, die so easily?

Our scents fading,
but our thorns getting sharper
in a world where all the flowers bloom
we are the ones to be wilting.

Tell me, why does the moonlight darken our colours?

I know
I will love you with all my thorns
and with my fading shades
until the last petal will fall
until the sun upon me
will stop shining.

*Tell me, why is there blood on your thorns
and why is my heart leaking?

how brave words melt...
habit, convention,
bind us, eventually

how birds waver
at the sight of an
open cage, numb

life, joy, waste,
so often decided at
the blink of an eye

as to banish the
fear of water, one
has to inevitably

dive

woman

you are
dazzle,

powdered
stomp of
colours,

mist dew
bright of
song,

melody
of a hum
when you
speak,

clear eyes
sparkle on
the surface,
delicate,
serene,

today you
said softly,

budge a little
in the path of  
an evening sun,
it gets into my eyes,

you shall be
the death of me,

should I be left
with words and
rhyme,

these stiff
laces of device
I call poems,

of what use
are they,

you will
not be
here,

my heart
gnaws,
twists,

caught
in perils
of desire

oh garbage
words,
you are a
beggar's
lament

be away,
let me
gaze at
her while
time benignly
spins a top,

soon it
is bound
to topple

this alphabet
string,
pearl scatter
of a necklace,

be away,
verse,

futility,

to live in
a papered
world when
loveliness
shrivels
to another
lost moment,

be away,
illusion

let me see
it as it is

her yellow
dress,

gathering
light,
her terse
shades,

her yellow
dress  

let
dreams
tarry a
little,

speckled,
hypnotized,
sunshine,  

her
yellow
dress

shall be
the death
of me

have sieved the
ruins of discarded
things,

sometimes finding
in an old magazine,
women looking
through you
with ageless eyes

block square keys of
a typewriter,
cardboard covers
of fragile messages,
images of shattering
glass,
empty bottles of
RAT POISON,

‘Kamasutra for beginners'
‘The lonely wife’
other clandestine
books, sometimes,
extracted from some
secret wardrobe chamber,
wrapped in brown paper

school notebooks with
red tick-marks, blots, rights,
wrongs, devastating
stories of marks, homework,
a light bulb that still works,
the legs of a chair,
toy horses, toy cars,
scratched plastic

gaping holes in mugs,
buckets, fake notes
from a crumpled game
of monopoly,
a chewed dog's collar,
a heavy rusted *****,
every night in my dreams,
they come hopping over a barn,
now you know,
that I do not count sheep

I so love this leisurely life,
hence the disdain for
marriage and wife

but if such calamity were
to befall and I find myself
hungry, sweaty, tired

in a dining hall, while
the guests have a ball,
let it be then, that my

pretty partner has gaol
bird thoughts, who doesn't
stand compromised, sad

imposed nonsense of
any sort, when I take
her hand, ask her if we

can flee, she wouldn't
care a hoot and simply
heed the call, I am

looking for a runaway
then, not a wife, one
who loves the trees,

breeze, road bends,
adventures, loves to
take solitary walks and

may be meet her husband
sometimes, just because
she feels the need, I am

not looking at all, for a
society-accepting, drab,
tradition-obeying being,

I am not looking for a
wife, after all, because I
so love this leisurely life

we could be lovers instead

here's to
streams travels wheel trees

here's to
kettle fumes dunes blues

here's to
hammocks ruffled hair loose clothes

here's to the free ebb

how it descends
parachuting an
expansive heart,
soft whose arrows are...

to get drenched
is our choice, not
the sky's victory
or defeat; bliss...

a bridge betwixt
ether, earth, of a
peacock's throat,
dripping song...