You had been here
You had come wading to shore
Wearing a raiment of corals and sea grass
And flotsam surrendered by the sea
You had been in this valley
Where you let grow
Cathedral trees laden
With words that fall and flow
On the riverine channels of my mind
You had...
Sparta, thank youfor being my faithful friendI am not your masterYou are my teacherFor you taught me to smilewhen inexplicable sorrows came byYou are my St. Michael
when a stranger jumped in our backyardnot to pick flowersbut in our house visited.I promise not to...
How’s life, old buddy
Between seventy and eighty,
eighty and ninety
Perpetually in a hurry
Heading for the cemetery
Amid emotional poverty
Are we racing against time
Or the lack of it
As tiny seconds tick away
Tick and click
Click and tick
I miss every beat
Talk of rush hours
Caught and missed
Then missed again
Everything’s...
Were the ripples at the river Seine
My memories, your face will be broken
Into a thousand pieces, each fragment of you
Cut into countless shimmers
Dancing in incandescent light on water.
The night we sailed down the Seine,
We crossed a river of memories.
The bridges, the obelisk, palaces,...
The painting started out as one crude sketch,
lines and proportions silly. All over the scenery,
smudge of trees and houses. There was form
and there was no form. Even the wind thwarted.
Galaxies like fireflies searing into the canvas,
the firmament incandescent. And big words
won’t convince the...
Trekking the road to house of aged, those
grown feeble, fatuous to outside world.
I come as servant to bring that which is
longed for to nourish souls that thirst.
Room gets filled with hum of tasks.
one by one, they come in wheels, cane.
Lucky those who ambulate,...
In every harbor, salt clings to skin,
and mothers’ songs drift into dawn,
soft as mango fuzz,
warm as a sun-stroked shoulder.
Markets breathe with spice and voices,
stretching...
As the car was winding down Zigzag roadOne sizzling afternoonI gazed at smoke billowing, spiraling up the sky from a distant mountainGreen turning brown...
We peer furtively at smiles, bent wrists
and it smacks of mortality.
We imagine—nebulae in the irises
of a stranger, like they bear stories
waiting for the optimum...
How do you call yourselfwhen no one, not even you,listens?
Where do you find the wordswhen everything escapes yourthoughts?
What stories come to lifewhen images are...