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The sleep-weary eyes blinked disbelief.
A poem at dawn from rhymes of words

On what rhymes with green table light!
Nothing rhymes with a table lamp right.

Poetry of things comes from inner light,
The way it trains its light on trite things.

Blood is thicker than a sea’s waters,
In a continuation of the same helix,

An ancient memory from a desert
From waters and states of calcium.

A gratefulness of lived flesh is lost
In the confusion of faiths in bones.

(Srilankan terror attacks leading the deaths of over 320 people are probably in retaliation for the recent Christchurch shootings in New Zealand)

My boy therapist took me down .
He is Apollo for my outgrowing.

My limbs outgrow my existence,
Thanks to an Apollo who grows.

My limbs flow from static gown,
A benchmark for an outgrowing.

Apollo will be a benchmark too
For a death I wear on my chest.

Old poet saw magnetic hill chilling.
But everything is benign in flowers .

Sorry we took the old poet for port ,
And star for expensive insurance.

Star insurance is their name in sky.
Looks down benignly on old poets.

We flutter our eyes, in activity,
Rarely asking for the meaning .

Our words suffuse daydreams
Like afternoon street walking.

They trail off to the day’s edge
And we reach deadend of life.

We feel a something over hands,
Loaded down by weightlessness,
As in duvet drawn across knees.

Hands in mountains get warmer
Until fires shall die down in night.
Then, it will be a dawn’s cold ash.

(taking off on Philip Larkin’s poem Going)

Pedigree is not just dog food but station.
A little problematically, since other dogs
Have no toilet and lampposts are far off.

At Kew a dog raises brows dramatically.
Epigrams are no more sold by kilogram.
Pray tell me , whose hanger-on you are.

(referring to Pope’s epigram I am his highness’s dog at Kew…

On the space of run down cars
We devour the sights of colors.

They traveled all the way down
From a vast golden desert city.

We sit on multi-colored bench
By the traffic of colorful crowd.

Sea prepares for tomorrow.
There will be a blood moon

A carnal full moon to excite,
In an orgy of once in a blue,

As we will get too close to it,
Earth to moon, our emotion.

But crows are excited about
Dead turtles washed ashore.

We had carried our clock faces
All our lives, in body and mind.

Sun all the time rotated its face.
Its leafy hands carved our time .

Roses bloomed our office time.
The potted plants carried clock.

Now we are old and carry clock,
Day and night in our old bodies.