a ballet of light
weaves golden threads
across the canvas of night.

the fabric of soul and sky
elusive dancers

wonder    alive at the edge of eternity

unspoken poetry breathed in my sigh
words elusive, alive within

beauty poetry
poetry        breathed in my sigh???

words elusive

a tear that never fell
shimmering in twilight

left me searching
a shadow running from the sun

Silence is profundity
words create incongruity

You were worried about
the storm, so you
invited it in,
wanting to control the
damage through your
kindness and friendship.
But you can't.
The storm doesn't have
a conscience.
It will never be a cute
pet on your leash.

Listen here, miss crazy,
Every Breath I Take, my soul
screams, Don't Stand so Close
to Me.  I want to escape.
Maybe to an Island, where
the only contact with your
madness will be by a
Message in a Bottle.

So please, Roxanne, for the
last time, there was no
Synchronicity between us.
Haunt someone else with
your, Ghost in the Machine
the mumbo jumbo and your
Do Do Do, Da Da Da.
no longer works.

Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

I’m a Bengali in sombrero
An Indian from Kolkata
I live at a stone’s throw
From where flows the Ganga.

I speak in Bengalee
For me the sweetest language
Like the Ganga flows freely
Has Sanskrit as lineage.

Rice is my staple food
So are dal and fish
A cup of tea is too good
With two biscuits on a dish.

Around me spreads green countryside
Where grows all the foodgrain
Rivers flow wild and wide
Their banks home joy and pain.

I was born and reared in this riparian land
Where soil is tilled in peasants’ sweat
Sparkles in moon the Bay’s white sand
Weaving dreams for many a poet!

Gleeful parasites intent on obliteration
feed on the stillness.
Starlight can't warm the damp grass.
If only he had cosied up once
for one last chance
to embrace.

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.

At lunch I bought a pear,
its shape: a quiet joke.
I cut it clean and slowly,
the blade, the slice, the poke.

It tasted like a breather,
not sweet, just real and right.
Like silence in the stairwell
or breezes late at night.

The afternoon unknotted,
each task a gentler climb.
I fed the cat. I folded shirts.
You’re not here. I’m fine.

Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours pull at my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.