The Gifting

Mayna, playing in the courtyard
Another butterfly choosy in her 
affections, her laughter glittering
like lights for the Mother Goddess.
I am sure, when she grows up
She will grow up to be an activist
Or may be even an artist
Who knows, with all the
dark shadows that shall soon
present themselves.
But that is all much later.
For now, the future shall remain
serrated on her thighs,
Her dear flesh twinkling like
newborn stars under my aching nails.

Molten Sculptures.

Every night is another separation
In the lovers' world.

Each opens the same door
and move as laden clouds
into separate worlds.
Memories freeze purple
in their earthly veins; rainy dreams
soak unslept nights into;

Sculptures of being;
Sculptures of leaving.

Every morning as they wake up,
Inside every lover there's a
Velvety casket
One buried deep within the sinews,

In another earth.

One from which someone
Always screams
"I loved you, I loved you"

And thus it is, with every night
and every day.
The lover exists but in the twilight.


Art : sculpture by Andrew Rogers; Many Lives.

No one rings the bell

No one rings the bell
At the sad house.
No kids to resonate
Within the broken panes
And desolate shards.
The green path remains , myopic
and listening as far the horizonal walls.
Vibrant blushes of mistletoe
Hug it hard ; none to kiss them
None to burn it and smoke ;
Though the scent of burnt Bibles
linger.
The temple bells do not reach here
The tall, disappointed mango trees
Eat them up.
As are the deep calls of azan`,
Absorbed by the hungry moss.
The only visitors come, wearing black,
Holding on tight to their handfuls of earth
Later, they slither away into rainbow colours
And far ; never to return, followed by the
tittering wind and the smirking sun.
Only the huntsman, searching for tombs ;
Him, with a rose at his arrow tip
Sees the river beyond,silent and waiting
Holding melting Stories, and rain murmurs inside
Seas, her breath that rises in girlish curls.
And
A tiny salmon,
Struggling against her frozen sheets.

Some metaphysical s-craps.

Leaving morsels
by the wayside
for the starving little puppy,
'Pepper' ; as was his hunger
As his tiny tail stroked
Majestic pictures onto the cold
easel of the winter night
I walked back,
Wondering
How my red bra would look like
To a hungry root of a dying tree
Reaching out as if to mother
To me, six feet under.
Would I bloom on a bough weeks later?
Or would it be just a momentary '' bow ''?

Waking up.

The two mirrors
in the room were
talking
when I woke up.

One , on how the morning wind
Changed to waves and reminded
her of a sea she once had a glimpse of,
at a beach side factory 
where she was made ;
the only memory she could filter
before silver nitrate glassed over.
the Other, pompously muttered on
the quality of the pinkish sun
and its many photogenic possibilities
only males (among them) could see.
the Floor, as usual was busy clicking
pictures of the Neem's graceful silhouettes
Emptiness fell with the first yawn.
The first shadow fell, like wet darkness
And everything else went back to sleep.