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This open-mouthed figure is not viral
And is not even about a Corona virus.

Bridge, there is none at the beginning
Or man looking down below in waters.

She is not the social media buzz bird,
But word puzzle to herself in squares.

A scream remains stuck at her throat
Framing sounds on imagined failures-

Why she cannot be like her peer others
And her body refuses to act like them.

Why cannot I close mouth on bridge?
She laments within no sight of bridge.

All the while words stay stuck in thoat.
There is no bridge in the forest of flats.

An open-mouthed figure is hardly viral.
An RTPCR test discloses no positivity.

(Edward Munch famous painting “The Scream” goes viral in the wake of the outbreak of the Corona Virus disease)

I would empathise with my sleeping body.
At midnight a pup howled at the blackness

As the mind was factotum for sundry work
It had an onerous job of keeping pup away.

I now had burden of mom that was absent
Who had left pups in darkness of midnight.

The mind is not mother’s keeper nor of pup.
It now seems mind is not my body’s keeper.

A midnight train is just a place
Where we stop, after the child,

A temple at the end of a travel
Quietly losing a thread of talk.

A poem is a better time- travel.
We worry about our lost child.

A temple god is a spatial form
Our idea now, a fear in a belly.

And now they have gone away
And now we turn our shadows.

Midnight is shadow of our day
Space between train and time.

Phone rings and takes us far
While a woman goes inward

On lowly rock faced with sun
Too large for her closed eyes

To contain in their blue irises
Too small for sea to embrace.

A snail gets attention nugget
Inside a little hole below walk.

Feet obtain nugget with sand
Stuck inside the shoe’s lining.

All things get a nugget or two
Including crow on sea’s edge.

The fish ,inside the struggles,
Get no attention in horizon,

Except by imagining &they are
Probably wiggling for a breath

In helpless net in the high sea.
The word high gets its nugget.

Opposite word ‘ low’ springs up
For attention in the snail’s hole.

If a snail knows the feet coming
Which premonition is question,

Distracting the mind’s attention
Leaving a moss of beauty in sky.

Distraction brings a beauty loss
As if its loss is a gain of lexicon.

Beauty is lost in the trivial game
And all you gain is word’s usage.

The nerves sit ceremoniously
In a black mourning costume

As another sun rises dutifully
On a devil- may -care ocean.

Wear your black to a surprise
But stay formal with your pain.

After formal is a contentment
Like quartz mined for a clock.

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s poem “After a great pain…)

It’s 2 ‘O clock in midnight sleep.
In a continued living, I wake up

With burst of wedding crackers
On mindfulness in the old body.

Another poet catches self alive,
In shop window & spilling bag.

It reminds she is alive & spilling.
Now here, I am alive & recalling.

We re-affirm aliveness mutually,
Nudging bodies to remain alive

With gentle reminder by spilling
Or by bursts of wedding cracker.

We have to assert our aliveness
’cause that is what the living do.

(Reminding Mary Howe’s poem “What The Living Do”)

We start off early in peacock cry
To arrive a temporary conclusion.

Microcosms now pulse in phones
On the other side of sky on rocks.

As we walk, we hear a few words,
Of potential meanings passing by.

Swimming pool faces a sky supine,
Its blue drowns the tawdry brown.

Now, carefully crafted rock hoists
A glass building with microcosms

Who are arriving their conclusions.
The conclusions are far from rarity.

Skirting fences occur a day’s roses
And the fading firangipani flowers

In process of arriving conclusions
Inside their own little microcosms.

We are peering into our microcosm
Where the edge lives around a core.

Cut the clutter to reach conclusions
All micros reach a dusty conclusion.

It’s 2 ‘O clock in midnight sleep.
In a continued living, I wake up

With burst of wedding crackers
On mindfulness in the old body.

The old poet catches self alive,
In shop window & spilling bag.

It reminds she is alive & spilling.
Now here, I am alive & recalling.

We re-affirm aliveness mutually,
Nudging bodies to remain alive

With gentle reminder by spilling
Or by bursts of wedding cracker.

We have to assert our aliveness
’cause that is what the living do.

A midnight train is just a place
Where we stop, after the child,

A temple at the end of a travel
Quietly losing a thread of talk.

A poem is a better time- travel.
We worry about our lost child.

A temple god is a spatial form
Our idea now, a fear in a belly.

And now they have gone away
And now we turn our shadows.

Midnight is shadow of our day
Space between train and time.

I would empathise with my sleeping body.
At midnight a pup howled at the blackness

As the mind was factotum for sundry work
It had an onerous job of keeping pup away.

I now had burden of mom that was absent
Who had left pups in darkness of midnight.

The mind is not mother’s keeper nor of pup.
It now seems mind is not my body’s keeper