There is no point in counting plants on this planet if they're fully sprayed with poisonous gunk. But we don't want to notice, we don't want to know or even hear that we are consuming poison. 

No, keep it down! There is enough misery in this world already...

I often think that the way we treat these plants, is how we treat ourselves.
Meaning the tears I shed for this world, get wiped on to the ground by a cold breeze.
Warming my cheek like it does continuously with our seas.
Lord, you have me on my knees! Our plants these days, don't even look at bees, they now care more about fees and poisonous cheese!

The pain that my heart and head are fighting against. By what you have provided me with; compassion.
Other than the ones blinded due to a storm of sand; filled with dispassion.
My eyes can take it, defy every tear. Every single one is the water that the dry, oh-so-rough ground of this planet needs, to provide the opportunity for plants to live on,
to grow on, to go on.

It doesn't seem to interest our plants though.
For when we receive pollen from afar, is what we desire that those should blow back to their own greenhouses; which where bombed flat.
And as long as your peace has not returned. Healthy reasoning to you, is dead.

You want to be pollinated, so you ask the nearest butterfly, a distraction like the tikkeling of an ant.
That butterfly is a traveler, carried through the heavy wind by stories with the most beautiful colors and a wonderful scent.
As soon as the butterfly tells you how it got to your greenhouse - fled from a toad - your leaves let go and your branches feel stinged, as if it was a bee.
Only because that butterfly is a refugee.

It is looking for a greenhouse to survive catastrophe.
It is looking for a greenhouse to provide the earth with more green like you and me.
Increasing the oxygen level, so that you, I and the coming generations can enjoy living and growing on the soil that I had provided for you.

So that, we don't have to pant before catching a breath.
So that, those whose tears are turning rough ground into fertile soil, have a peaceful death.
That butterfly still works so hard, left everything behind, everyone.
Yes! You do the math!

Now if not dead, your arguments should be a lot more weaker.
Much more sleeker.
Yet, you're still telling me it's a fortune seeker.

We slump,
cracks in the cumin seed siding
outside the police station,
stale air suffocates the sun
as it sinks below
a creek and a trash heap

visa papers
clutched like the cloak of God,
a 100 rupee note crumbled in your jean pocket -
just in case.
is it a crime to expect the worst
in spite of order?

blazing dry heat smothers our lungs,
we resemble
shrunken palm leaves held only
by the stone above us.

yesterday I saw you.
today only your scent remains.
tomorrow, that too will vanish.

you said
the ache for home rumbles in your chest.
I tried to sooth it with words
in the absence of medicine
or a plane ticket.

when you left I moved,
became an immigrant
and I understood what it meant
to live without living.

I forgo the mall mehndi,
the astrologer on his maroon cushion,
order from the pani puri wala
a samosa and small talk -
for a moment
we breach liminality
but then I owe him thirty rupees
and I go alone,
sitting safe from summer heat
snack untouched.

I wait for the monsoon and hope
you will return for the mangoes,
perhaps then I can tell you
everything I meant to say
yesterday.

stood before my misty
bedroom window pane
I saw hazy scenes of future
and my gray reflected face

blotches, smudges, patches
feelings, emotions, thoughts
on that bedewed window
of a million human hearts

my bare palm feels the glass
cold indelible marks.
forms a million faces
in that frosty glass

Gazing deeply at me
from beyond the glass
the hungry and the bleeding
from a thousand miles.

My heart begins to wonder
what scenes are yet to come
beyond that misty window
as the days come and go by

Will warm rays of sunshine
ensure the mist goes dry,
or raindrops bathe the pane
and wash away it stain.

but those searching gazes,
of a million stained faces,
of bleeding feet and wishes
forever is etched in that pane

I just watched a news report:
A father and 3 year old daughter
lay dead
half-submerged in the Rio-Grande river
over which they tried to cross
from Mexico into USA,
fleeing from poverty
and violence
in their central American country of origin.

I was left wondering:
Is there something we can do
to relieve poverty
and achieve prosperity,
and stop violence
and achieve peace
in central American countries?

leave to remain
stay to move on
tear down to build
some space to call home

make new reminders
keep a fresh store
full of faint memories
with room for much more

drink to old allies
drink to forget
laugh with new friends
shake off your regret

this is tomorrow
a brand new today
this is fresh start
you're welcome to stay

I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes

OK, let's start:

A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.

Start again:

Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.

Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties

Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub

Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part

What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice

And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it

Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one

One frosty day, the
beggar begged from home,online,
Help! Send migrant home.