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Better we hold on to a dear life
And it is just single fear to lose.

Be mortal coil you wear around.
It consolidates all fears into one.

We are alive at a new dawn
That new July will be on us

That there is sea out there.
The fishing season is over

With the fish already dead
In fright of men and boats.

Now the sea blushes in a moon.
Now she sips her drop of water.

What next we say in November
And we will prove our aliveness,

What it will be if body goes still
And the eyes stare a December.

(Taking off on a poem “What Next” BY FREDERICK SEIDEL)

Alice falls down rabbit hole.
Frontispiece is gone to wind,
Like teeth gap in an old face

Hissing with a winter breeze.
Worms swim rivers of books.
I let them ,with years of guilt.

The midnight’s words smell
It’s weeds from sea’s depth

Of a carcass of turtle mom,
Of thorn fish’s plastic tissue.

Open a curtain and be sea
By reach of extended eyes

Till a boat’s insignificance
With the fish wriggling in it.

Outside, the almonds dropped
Their maroon kernels eaten up

By a night’s birds and squirrels.
Child did high jump at almond.

No crows were seen in almond.
All crows have gone off to sea.

The golden grove will be scooped up
For now , while bared branches creak

Minus some old birds now chirruping
Beyond a white wall, under a blue sky.

Their cheerups are now yellow leaves
Scooped up by autumn’s old woman

She may leave autumn poems before
Too late & before she is in her winter.

Afer decline a fall follows, as if spring.
Autumn gold has to be leavened flat

By lake now dehyacinthed and birded.
The Siberia birds have started arriving.

Sea’s waves having taken a hiatus,
The sea in windows is day dream,

A temporary abeyance of a world.
Nobody is in a hurry to do a thing.

Night endures unwashed
Due overwhelming sleep
After a guest leaving last.

It is a simple poetry note
And we avoid surrealism
Abjuring any/ all violence.

Laburnums are a yellow falling,
Dogs under them poem words.
We see no leaves from flowers.

Poetry, as leaves,comes before
Ripe fruits on our absent nights,
As absence grows ripe on trees.