You know they say Accounts is boring
Full of rules and such.
But I see in it a beauty,
One that I miss so much.

Accounting is an art,
Not to be framed or praised.
You will never find it hung in galleries,
And most will not be amazed.

It has in its insipid placidity
A calmness, stillness of being
It prizes precision, stoic obedience
And an unquestioning routine.

In its so called predictability
Many are led to be jaded
To do something the same way over and over
They find that the  novelty has faded.

But to me it is a land
Where man rules with his mind and his hand
Where everything has a place to be
And a counter- part to keep it company.

I miss so much the process
Of allocating what needs to be.
I ache sometimes for that closure
The drawing of double lines, you see.

Because amidst the raging chaos
Of our bubbling minds
Accounts demands discipline
And control of some kind.

I don’t find this stifling
I find in it a peace
A closure most of life doesn’t offer
And with its balance sheets, a release.

It’s nice to make sense for a change
Of our haphazard world
Where everything belongs somewhere
And nothing is left unheard.

Accounts, you are well adjusted
Perhaps too much to a fault
People are tired of your perfection
The balance you bring, the halt.

But I in my maze of a mind
Love to do a few sums
That start of like puzzles
But end up being fun

Mostly because there are answers
That are arguably right
This absoluteness maybe a construct
But I’m willing to suspend my insight

And go along with something
For once that keeps me on track
Accounts you are meditation
You demand concentration that most people lack.

Poetry is applauded
Poetry is acclaimed
But in the real world, it is you who are useful
Although you don’t have any fame.

You are also a quiet achiever
That doesn’t boast of your strengths
Rarely a loud inspiration
That does not go to great extents.

You are not melodramatic
Nor do you lure peoples with guise
What you see is what you get.
No gimmicks and no lies.

You teach me of a denied truth
That reality is boring.
Your philosophy is order and balance
Your karmic world sends me soaring.

Past tense feels funny on you.

The days you feel you could never ‘live’ with my messy laziness,
That you just, can’t, live, with my drama,or routines or planning,
That you don’t want to always explain, apologize or understand,
Remember –
You don’t have to ‘live’ with me.


But If you are to live with someone like me….
She will learn to be tidy for you,
To tone down the drama, to be flexible with routines,
To read your unsaid words, your apologetic body language....

But on her off days, when she just wants to be messy,
to wait in bed, To shout nonsensical things, to demand dates and time,
Keeps heeding for a better reply, and just. Does. Not. Hear. you….
On those days, know, that she tries.

There will be off days an on days,
your turn, and hers
Don’t forget that the process of evening things out
Is a process.

Repetition of events is a strain,
But would you be satisfied with a perfect equilibrium
With no more to go?

Across the sea
safe in a case
was brought to me
a trinket.
a silver thread
enwrought with
starlets
of pretty pink and silver

it liked my tan
and formed a decorative band
around my ankle

a suitable occasion
and my anklet embraced
its moment of recognition.

we abandoned our plans
and headed for the polluted shores
our feet in first
then our knees
the sea water lapped and lapped
at once i felt
a significant snap!
i picked it up
and hid it in my blackening bag.

that night i celebrated without my anklet
my chain was loose
my foot was free
I crossed boundaries into deeper sands
sands that sank
conveniently forgetting
my glimmering chain
shut up in my blackening bag

my free foot sank and sank
the harder i climbed the deeper it bore
until i was completely engulfed
suffocating

the air is clear now
no grains of sand to grind my skin
i found my anklet
my broken anklet
and latched it on
with a safety pin.

When the paint runs out
You dab dab and blotch
From what remains,
To even out the blatant gaps

You try to substitute
To frugally use, reuse
Just
to keep the painting intact

when the worn out brush
can no longer preserve
what was,
or keep designing
what is to be


it recedes to rest
an thus,
The fading begins.


At first it’s a tinge lighter
Just a little less brighter


But then shades begin to wary
Significantly, from what they were.
Paleness maybe be boring
But boring doesn’t hurt.

This new insipidity,
Soothes the ruptured nerves.

Or so the brush tells itself
To lie in its inactive state
To escape into false contentment
Is easier
Than to be a brush without the paint.

My anguish finds its way onto paper,
Like ants to dribbles of honey.
No pauses. No thought,
but an intrinsic pull
of pain onto paper
palpable.
Nothing to lose for all is lost.

My happiness is cautious.
It’s meditative and still.
It spills not out
Nor seeps through a crevice.
It searches long and hard for words
And I fear to speak it
For fear of it being lost.
It hides in its recluse seclusion.
I have everything to lose for all is found.

My words do not lend themselves
As easily unto happiness
As it does to anguish.
My pain is verbose,
My happiness; silent.

I’ll be brief. I’ll be bold
No pain
For so much poetry to unfold.

With you no anxiety
With you I have no fear
I’m happy to write bad poems
If it means you will be near.

With you I struggle for metaphors
With you I struggle for fluidity.
No flood gate break of emotions
No conflict or enmity.

No pain. No piercing poetry
No pain can sometimes mean
No art
I'd trade my entire vocabulary
To keep you in my heart.

You make me write bad poems
Never gave me reason for pills
I'd trade my art for a happy heart
One with minimal ills.

Thank you for not giving me
A reason to write and write.
Except in that to acknowledge
Your importance and your light.