Restless and cotton-white,a cloud turns
A whiskered cat staring down from eye
Over a spiked antenna of that neighbor
A picture of a ghostly vision of a feline.
How can it disappear from a viewpoint?
It is like cloud cat jumps wall to a finish
In the bushes, at the other side of tree.
It’s eye-hole stays but the rest of a cat
Has gone cat-silent and rubber-footed .
A cloud-eye is what remains of a ghost.
We were talking about noise in city
Of motor cars with sound of horns
Buzzing about like halos of insects
On nights of rain, on road to riches.
Riches are high decibel ,your road
Leading nowhere, gold and jewels
Kept in a built-in cupboard waiting
For cat burglars to make wall holes.
If the holes are made in oval-shape
They do not look prevailing moons.
Men make holes oval ears of caves
With secret formula for the opening.
Some store wealth in a foreign vault
Where they do not make wall holes.
But at midnight you do hear noises
On wall street,from tents of occupy.
The noise is drowned out by barons
On flying machines in an empty sky.
We hope their highnesses have taken to
Shiny basalt beds under cryptic skylight
After the fanfare died down around them.
Courtiers were seen moving their hands
Up and down, as their behinds retraced
Calling themselves no-things, no-things.
(after a visit to the beautiful royal tombs of the Quli Qutub dynasty of Hyderabad)
Between rain and sun lies the sea
Now blue and all the bay to a sky.
The rain is black,soon-to-be blue,
In a sea amalgamating with a sky.
It is a marriage of dogs and foxes
But the kids are not goading rains
With light promise of chicken eggs
Or heavier ones of the duck eggs.
My deja vu begins but ends
Without my story, the body
Speaking out as if it is some
Other father’s inheriting son.
I am not my brother’s keeper.
Yet stories seem to be same.
In the end, It hardly matters,
Who narrates it, who lives it.
Music has to be somewhere
In deep sky where stars sing
Or the yellow leaves fall from,
Dropping through rarefied air.
Bodies ripen to an old music,
Spheres make into their ears.
Their years are yellow leaves.
Their fall an imminent music.
A body is claypot with holes,
Like a flute with finger holes.
Juxtapose delta with omicron
There is found poetry in body.
The body sits in night curfew
So body will exist within itself.
Lost poetry is found in a virus,
Such miracle to find in the old
To mutate to yet another strain
Until we exhaust Greek letters.
Outside the men’s window
The bogs will release fume
Which is bad and swampy
Like a lift with old fat men.
Wow, heirs love their croak.
I am frog, at so and so bog,
I say my monsoon’s croaks
And who are you ? We sing
Together our raucous song
To rub it in, about mortality.
And there were no ambulatory organs
Just tapering tail off into the lower air.
Trees wore the upper air of circulation
And snakes in rising hoods of hissing,
Skulls laughed eerily from the earth up.
Ghosts have stories to tell on shoulder
As kings listen to stories to get at truth.
The moon waxed and waned fortnightly.
(A children’s fortnightly magazine called The Moon)
It is Sunday, with sun bright and hard
And you wake up to another hard day
And sea is beautifully hard and sunny.
It was only 3 days back we had storm
In living room to push back with a foot
To a balcony and wipe its anger clean.
Luckily the woman sits on chair in ICU,
And her head is vertical along the wall
And her blood has less carbon dioxide.
Her dirty department high functioning,
She may be discharged now to home
If papers proclaim her hard and sunny.
It is Sunday with a sun bright and hard.
As to waking up to another of the days
There seems no acute shortage of days
The Morning is Just a Dream 