Category: Uncategorized

Where is that turtle new dead
In a yesterday of busy crows?

The sea has eaten up its edge
Along with a yesterday of walk.

The sea gobbles up our facts,
Our stories are in its eternity.

Butterfly fluttered up north
Upsetting carts in highway.

Trees breath on the beach,
Free standing and uptight.

Dark crows in them go on
A daily business on beach.

Silver fish would eat body’s words
After the body choked on its dust.

They would swim a print and dust
And bring to books your final dust.

A silence is golden but the speech
Often is silver on the book’s spine.

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.
A moon waxed and waned fortnightly.

(A children’s fortnightly magazine called The Moon)

Speech is about bodies that they
Are like old clothes to be cast off .

Man’s god drives red chariot bus
To land of the dead ,old and new.

We hear his speech about bodies.
Body is dust and death a speech.

They make beginnings and I supply the story.
All stories are same, the way they draw out

From a cave, through the wooded passages
To the depths of trees, where the drums beat

To reach crescendo and fire burns the night
As the stars disappear slowly in the grey sky

Making way for new story, a new beginning,
Until the stories will disappear with the teller.

Irish poet Derek Mahon, who reminded us that everything was going to be all right, died on October 1 ,2020 at the age of 78*.

All was fine and nothing to worry,
Till 78 he would remind us timely.

But now ,we no longer hold poet
Accountable for a memory lapse.

To fail to remind this, after death,
Is due to omission from to do list.

Reading Derek Mahon’s poem Everything is going to be alright

The dogs have a duty to do for night.
They are of night, when not chasing

Shadows of cars with silks in luxury
Turning at the street corner at dusk.

You can guess the time of the night
By the depth barks pierce the night.

Wood is butter,to the knife and the hacksaw.
But liquor is quicker, on body, behold and lo.

Beauty is not always deadwood imitating life.
Beauty lies in a shack, a thatch and on bench

Frothing in brown at the top, to flies buzzing
Around eyes ,the world having lost its outline.

Actually all our births are accidents
Highly fatal ,being causative factors,

Midwife being the proximate cause,
Dad’s lonely nights mainly to blame.

Births are accidents of lonely nights
And directly responsible for deaths.