I remember the first time
Somebody held my hand
to spell you right in fourth grade
and in a better handwriting.

She had a long braid
that dillydallied in the law of inertia
and a mad boy
instead of playing with us
kept rushing after her.

Of little things that I remember
and I share this trait with Stephen King,
Petrichor is how you're recognized widely,
but I smelt you between the cracks of my cement roof,
my sweat when started pestering me
despite your elongated water droplets
trying to win over my body

Your shyness, which shows in your hurry
to touch the ground as soon as possible
is fought back by the shine that you give
to a lush green mountain pasture
suddenly finding itself bathed after days
like boys and girls in colleges
topped by a ray of hope
to not get exposed
to the winds that might block your nose.

Rain, Bangalore makes you unbearable
so I quit my job to come back
to where you belong best, in the
sounds of my hair being stroked
and brushed by a hand, subtle,
like a woman's hand reaching
speed of light, having converted
to energy, makeshift gestures
of sorcery, on you
coming from above,
like a snap of remembrance
of a long lost key somewhere
in the heap of clothes and underwears.

But I did mistake winds
for the sound of you
in Cubbon Park

Rain, I'm so selfish
I only talk about you
when I'm with you,
Rain, perhaps next time,
instead of writing a poem
to you, I'll just listen
to the stories you silently whisper
in the sounds of squishing
of my sole against leaky shoes

I fell hand in hand
with gravity
to kiss your surface
dried to a crisp
under the summer sun

I fell hand in hand
with gravity
with the wind against my face
reminding me of
how beautiful
the autumn chill is

I fell hand in hand
with gravity
and looked around to see
others falling with me
face first aching to crash
and melt into something
beautiful

I fell hand in hand
with gravity
leaving the bland sky above
to touch something human
to feel some heat
against the coldness
that's embodied every cell
in me

I fell hand in hand
with gravity to send
an awakening chill
an awakening taste
of winter

I fell hand in hand
with gravity to bring to life
dormant senses put to sleep
by the beach and the summer
sweat

I fell hand in hand
with gravity to land
on your lips, chapped
by the past

I fell hand in hand
with gravity
to softy nestle
on your eye lashes

I fell hand in hand
with gravity
to create constellations
on the window
in front you
to follow your finger
as you trace my
next
fall

You are the cold silent breeze
I am the wild windstorm
 
You are the gentle humming of the leaves
I am the startling blare of thunder
 
You are the first ray of sunshine after a downpour
I am the piercing lightning
 
You are the fleeting floating clouds of cotton
I am the cumulonimbus cloud brewing a monsoon
 
You are the smell before and after the rain
You are the calm before and after the storm
I am the chaos in between
Enclosing me in your peaceful clasp
 
Embrace me
Tighter

The smell of a spring rain
settling on the earth
is the smell of life anew.

At the window, I sit with a book,
both cracked,
cooled by the alfresco air seeping through,
and tiny droplets glissando down the pane.

The pitter-patter of a soft rain
falling to the parched earth
is the sound of life replenished.

At the rain's offset, I leap from my chair,
exiting the front door,
to saunter through the lush green pastures
that linger outside the library's confines.

How green the trees appear, and the grass--
how rich the stalks of the trees,
their boughs with budding leaves quenched,
glistening in the sun.

I even enjoy the scent coming off the once arid pavement--
it is the smell of the earth,
freed from its impedance,
rising above the stifling asphalt.  

I smell the life that lingers beneath,
and the dull metallic tinfoil taste of the pavement
fills my open nostrils--

It is pleasant, though a little less so, than the ambrosial landscape.

I inhale ever so deeply,
relishing my favorite part of spring,
in the offset of a warm afternoon rain on a brisk day,
sauntering through the wood-laden trails on worn brick paths,

to the paved parking lot where my car awaits--
delineated in a filmy layer of mired pollen residue.
It needed a wash anyways.

The tree smells like petrichor in a forest full of lost hope and memories.
The tree tastes like old berries macerated into a thick liquid.
The tree looks like twisted branches reaching desperately towards the sky.
The tree feels like gnarled bark beneath one’s fingers
The tree sounds like a bird which sings no more.

Make-believe multiverses written in the
Rain
Petrichor
       Ichor
       Blood of (my) gods
Congeal. Thick. Rich, putrid poultry pan
                                                             ­           opticon
                                                                ­        theon
The bigger I am the smaller I am,
King of nutshells,
In ambition I beg--beggar butcher
Kingly kind **** beggar--look
In, give in, cave out implosion (my)  
God demands sacrifice; copper
liquid spills, fresh,
                                 Replace
                                               old blood
                                                                ­Regicide,
                                                     Warm
                                       running
                                 red
                         over
                Mars,
Vallies of dead bones they
Make a noise (crunch) like
Nutshells
Eggshells
                 White emaciated pale weathered withered
                 wothered wondered want I want I wont ...    

A  L I L Y  S T A N D S
In  v a n i t y  v a l l e y
G r e e n blue v i o l e t
T r e m b l i n g I--I am
Cold
       I can't feel my hands.
I rush rash rip stem
And all
Timeless life
                     Look how it not dies in my hands.
                       Look
                               I can't see
Unstuck by time trapped
In this eternity, make-believe,
Flower fickle, it is
A sentinel robbed of its post,
Eons past will pass before decay,
L I L Y ' S  F A I T H --Can't
Let go of this moment, just
Let it die in peace,
In v a n i t y  v a l l e y
Of bones dry dying...

When I wake up I see a man
Whose hands are open and eyes
Are free to wander.
He is royalty--a royal beggar,
A dry flower pierces
His heart--it rains
                               River
                                         run red
                                                      with
                                                              or­ange juice sun
Squeeze.
His hands on his sides.
On sand and seashells.
Open valley, horrible horizon.
Celestial cosmos ocean sky is
That it? Is that me?
Do I raise my hands or f
                                          a
                   ­                         l
                                      ­       l
                                              To the ground. Beg.
Where are my gods? This
Sun is too bright, I can't see.
The cold. I blow breaths of smoke.
Vapour vanish too
Cold. I can't feel my hands. Go
Back
Inside.

I have many koalifications,
Numbed by gum leaves, stupefaction,
Glazed by arid summer drought,
Real hot today, there's no doubt!
What's this? Black storm clouds?
Who said clouds were allowed?
Now there's rain a'drenching,
Oh, it's stopped, not worth mentioning,
There's a eucalyptus Petrichor,
I'll daze now, did it rain at all?

the sun sets on a horde of trees,
a flock of birds flying in one direction
then another
one another
one
another.

the screams of the forest are silent
and the chattering of the day for now
has dulled down.

in the town people sit
on benches and outside bars
toasting the day just gone and
bringing in the evening on the back of a beer.

no rain has fallen
and none is falling now
but the earth still holds that dusty scent
an inexplicable petrichor
that strikes deep into the very core of your being
as you observe
the passing of the day.

another one has gone:
another day has fallen and you are left
with one fewer soldier in your army
on the march towards death.

there aren't too many things you can say
to the people who pass by and
greet you on their way home from work
so you just exchange pleasantries
and pretend that is enough
for now.

pretend that you have not just watched
the sun melt down below the horizon
and the clouds sharpen in its orange glow
as if a great cat had ripped its claws
across the sky.

you cannot communicate this
without sounding mad
and so you smile tightly -
grittilly -
down another whisky
and that is enough
for now.

Walking in the rain...
It refreshes your mind, body and soul to the point that your barriers and walls don't exist anymore.
No one can distinguish tears streaming down your face from rain drops collecting on your cheeks.
But, it makes you remember everything you've been through,
And all the pain rushes back so that you can understand that deep down it was necessary, unknown, but in someway.
Throwing yourself to the ground.
You wish it all away.
Grip you head.
Falling...
There is no more.
Not until the smell of petrichor