Undone

Dead birds, my Lord -
crooked hyphens down the road -
I drive down his poem and find
The Joke.

Blurs between my lashes,
tears that consummate nothing -
I read to myself
a broken wreath, a hurried breath -
crooked hyphens down the road,
an ode
to death.

Crisp like a script,
the wisp on his face -
I read him between the blurs -
and the poem,
a twist in the tale.

Smeared around the eyes,
the black lyric belies
its make -
every word towers a sunflower,
eclipsing the sun,
that is our love.

Between the hyphens
are our 'beyond the horizons',
but -

He Walks on the Banks

He walks on the banks of a book
and gauges her shallowness -
kept from her flow and stalling all music,
he sits his eyes on the surface
and dreams of a thirst he doesn't feel.

The river gravitates to dark recesses 
and shrinks into a memory of life -
he drinks this memory and dreams of desire.

And Tonight

And tonight he would take a poem to bed -
remove his glasses and let her be blurred -
he'd trace her with his fingers and she'd shed 
her form, her meanings, all titles conferred.

And tonight he would read her with his lip,
turning her being into a warm whisper.
And tonight he would all the darkness sip,
leading himself to the light that is her.

The wind will be hitting the windows and
Time would stand holding a golden lantern -
and tonight he would his existence hand
to a poem to forget himself and learn.

And tonight he would take a poem to bed,
listen as he speaks the forever unsaid.

Hymn, Him

Hymn, him -
a brocade of dryness
on lips hit with a song
that sunk into the gut,
wasn't sung.

A river of light
leapt into life,
coiled a snake
around my eyes -
I read the hymn,
him.

An anklet, a sore -
he held me an oar;
my trance, a spoonful
of music and pain.
Every time I part the waters,
I remember him.

Scrape me into sand,
drape the wind around me -
aboard the air, I'd recite
him.

A Taller Shadow

Drenched in the dryness
of autumn leaves,
consumed by the crackling
of their silence underneath -
a faithless fable, a fence,
I am led to nothing
but 'nothing'.

What do I miss?
Where do I go?
I've always been the wire
they tow.

Barren, brown, the bounty of woe - 
I've always been the line
they tow.

A sea of stems that beckons 
neither life nor death -
my breath is short, I grow

a taller shadow.

A Night Without Stars

Bland recipe,
a night without stars -
my fate dangles in a gray cobweb;
the wind beyond the bars,
bloats its grayness,
emaciates it -
nothing twinkles,
nothing spars 
with what is sparse...
A night without stars,
a night without stars.

Toxic

An exotic toxic,
he slips like midnight blue
down the coarse throat
of a virgin night.

He taints her rawness
with a meaning he later disowns -
all she remembers are broken chords,
shocked strings of music
and his seething blues,
that are now hers.

She weaves then 
an unending garland -
the flowers fade into a morning.

The Dream Was About Us

The moon was a bomb that did not explode,
the night was a smoke cloud that I exhaled.
The dream was about us, and I was told
that we were still in a love that had failed.

You left some stars for the morning birds
to nibble at when the pink had paled.
And I drew a trail of pretty words,
for you to follow whenever you wailed.

I heard your thoughts trot towards the dark pit;
I smelt your deadness on a dress that sailed
a shroud on my soul, a flag that hit
the winds as they gasped and the love they failed.

The dream was about us, and I was told
that we were still in a love we couldn't hold.

You Are Seeing It

Darling, I bank on the gold in your heart
and I sail on the light that you reflect.
Baby, award me a meaning, I'd start
being it.

Meaning.

Darling, I sink in the absence of time 
and I roll on the sleeves of this breeze.
I feel so much in love I think that I'm
being it.

You're seeing it.

Darling, I slip into a hiccup that
drowns every echo of our past.
Baby, throw me a memory, I'd catch -
bring it!

Let's sing it.

There's the maple that has our names etched
on it,
and there's a footprint that says we'd
done it.

Darling, I bank on the momentary eternity -
I love you and you

are seeing it.

Are seeing it.

A Child I Could Abandon

I wanted a child I could abandon,
a flame I could freeze into a dried leaf...
light I could strip off my skin and run
like a stream of pain in a sea of grief?

I wanted to follow a star I could
forget when my eyes gave in to sleep -
I wanted to spill echoes in a wood,
then drown it into a silence deep.

I wished to write off the cancer of love
a beat at a time or a lazy slip
down the murky alley of thoughts, above
the hell of my purple, shivering lip.

The needle of existence was hollow -
it pursued a soul it could not swallow.

Hit and How

Listening to you from the sad vantage
of an age, of an age, of an age ...

How taken you had seemed one evening -
there wasn't any space for two to sit.
The bench was littered and the birds twittered;
a loose thread on my sleeve, I tried to fit
in the space, a universe, our shortest time -
and then you turned and said, said it:

that the light on my face and the fire
in your palm were the miracle,
and that we were to part until it hit 
me equally.

Sweetheart, I could overcome that turn -
you did not sit and I kept shrinking,
thinking in my heart that you were just
a candle I wouldn't choose.

Ever.

Paper Planes

These paper planes unfold
into letters that were never sent:
every morning my unruly eyes 
before your downcast ones -
"Good morning...", I whispered and you 
only nodded to the spill of pearls
around you, and as I turned
you looked at my shrinking form,
scribbling an unending word
on your pad.

What Does This Heart Orbit?

What does this heart orbit?
What does it want for it?

I never knew that Autumn
was a poem about sorrow -
it set my heart racing
and so I went for it.

A feather fell on a drum
and snowflakes filled my heart -
music had been listening,
that silence fell for it.

Many miles into the race,
my heartbeats slipped and
shed the time about them,
got caught in the orbit.

All of Twelve

All of twelve -
uncorrupted, unformed,
she stands on tiptoe
and pushes against
the gates of Time.

Her skirt whirls -
she's a curly thought;
she is heard singing
by those who know (it).

Time's rendered 
but a tremble -
her feet are rhythm bound.

Who knows what she'd grow to be -
a sonnet, a ballad, verse profound?

Concrete

Labyrinthine,
the sky is debris and clouds -
a concrete greyness, life
shrouds
this being -

a being that had once
rebelled and donned a belt of stars -
shorn today of reasons
to sing -

dwells a death
in a merciless womb -

they'll do him a tomb,
concrete.

The Stone Bridge

I arch when touched
by a river -
a stone bridge, I cringe,
shiver -

the brook's music,
and I am riddled with beats -

to live a flute
and yet endeavour
flatness!

The monotony of
being walked upon!

I do not die.
They die.

Towards the Senseless End

A lifelong trek
to nothing but
a frozen waterfall -

time languishes,
a dog's joke
in a murky pool -

and rocks
and caves
and a shadow that craves -

it felt like a wheel
had been sliding down a rope -

that Time was the thin rope
and the gaunt wheel, hope!

Still

A dawn is born to the window sill -
white facade, it lets the colour fill,
fill the empty can - a poet's room
wakes up, surprised: there's life still
slipping like sweat on the leash of Time -
dread and bread, the 'need' to tread...
steps, poems, the water of mirth
to wash off a dreamless, drowsy earth -
she picks on a button that says 'A';
she keys in a name to the day...
dawn, and birth, and a rhyme on Time -
a window that always meant to spread,
spread its colour - the need to tread...
she bottles it up, corks the white -
her lips are white, the screen is white;
'A' is black and the day... the day?

Surprised, there's life still...
'slipping like sweat on the leash of Time'.

This

The ache, the burn -
my marvellous poem -
you take, yet yearn
for another home -
what do I call this fear?
Despair?

You heart, you court
my blues and my beams;
you part a boat,
away from my dreams -
what do I call this fire?
Desire?

The one, the sum -
the meaning of life -
you're gone, you come,
memories arrive -
what do I call this?
All this ...

The ache, the make
of a love that is -
what do I call,
call, call all this!
This ...

Boat in a Plate

He put the boat in a plate,
devoured its folds.

His cigarette, an oar, he
rowed across the smoke,
rolled towards her
papery whiteness.

He let the smoke inflate
his existence; choked
another oar between his fingers.

The boat within the circle,
away from the river of smoke,
lingered a captive of fate.

Boat in a plate.

Sparks, Scars

Our silences, like sparks -
they illuminate tenderness
we've preserved deep,
deep inside our hearts.
Like the sun dizzying the edges
of an old sculpture,
like the night replacing all colours,
like a bird's wings,
brushing deadness away from skies -
his eyes
touch me, and I,
turn a wave.

My evening, the mistress of gold,
trembles at the thought
of having been told
that scars (stars) will replace her jewels.

Fence

I eye this fence at night:

darkness billows, runs past it.

I think of wearing a word

and crossing over the fence -

quitting for an hourglass' worth of time

the world of pretense.

Blue, the banks; red, the brook -

beyond the fence I only look -

look at the barrenness that may

bloom me and itself

once I cross the fence

for a tiny hourglass' measure of time?

I seed wait into the window pane -

nothing blooms.

Darkness wags a tail,

unwelcome, yet so inside

my side of the fence.

The Temple at the Shore

"Could the sun be a summit kindled
by the wild fires in a sculptor's hands?"
Thoughtful, I stood at the temple dwindled
by the majesty of those rocks and sands -
rocks that had melted in the face of art,
sands that had risen from the ocean's heart.

A temple at the shore, waking white tides;
raking sapphires off the glossy skies!
Silence at the altar, shadows at sides -
could the shrine be more than met the eyes?
I stood at the altar swindled of belief -
the temple was souls cast into relief.

This wonder bestirred a walk to the sun -
wanting, I shed myself at the reef.
Soul found sanctuary in the horizon;
body at the altar, a shrinking leaf.
Salvation, the ascent to the peak of thought -
the sun, a summit kindled by art.

Freeing a Kite

Shortening pencils, lengthening the night -
I scrawl your name like I'm freeing a kite.

I close my eyes and am born in yours -
the tattered clouds conjure a light.

You graze a gaze on the fields of my face -
I loaf a grain in your delight.

Withered straws, we bloom new selves
when walked upon by the other's sight.

We, who never own that we own,
are inflamed tides that shores blight.

Shortening pencils, lengthening the night -
I scrawl your name like I'm freeing a kite.

Black

Before I learned circles were vicious,
long before my time turned malicious,
I had seen and known a benevolent soul,
within this pit, this bottomless hole -
I dwelt a wave of music; my hands clean;
I didn't perceive all that was but unseen.

Like a postponement of conscience,
like an ever - oscillating innocence,
I was strummed into a tune I didn't hear.
But now, sadly, everything is clear -
there's a tunnel that runs ahead of vision
and you're contained against your derision.

Your seeing the snake does not help at all;
you are caught forever in the free fall.
You run, you stop - the spiral continues;
the daze sickens and yet more life ensues.
What’s worse is that you look for a way back
into blindness, innocence, the colour 'black'.

His Eyes Gasped

I was just beside him when his eyes gasped -
an afraid acceptance of love at last?
Unmoved, yet perceiving the tender clasp
of his gaze and my being, and our needs vast.

I arched a bloom when he looted my colours
and then in pain he turned; his eyes gasped.
Unsaid words, toppling over the covers,
I heard everything and nothing asked.

And then he chose to tell me what went wrong
with the air that held me, the quiet that rasped.
And I heard it all - this that blurred our song -
and I lived it all while his eyes gasped!

I was just beside him when his eyes gasped -
his afraid acceptance of love at last.

Pride

My pride I prize -
this, that scales my spine
then ebbs into the eyes,
is the soul's firework,
a celebration that would do.

I eat up all boxes.
Toxic, they call me.
My tears, Antarctic termites -
I'm the beat of winter.

There's a dearth of death, in here.
Ribs snake a scape; create
shapes; and the careless dance
is an existence, a celebration,
a treat, a toast raised
but in surprise.

I am. I am not.
And yet my wrists are kissed
by lips that could be mine.

And pride. The spine.

Excavate Passions

Excavate passions, dig out the old name -
a dusty beauty, music - thirsty sound,
let her memory clink in your heart, claim
all space; every emotion astound.

Let her have that one moment once again
where she had had you drown, a photograph -
captured in her light, all you could remain
was a stillness that always seemed to laugh.

Dig out the lyre that lulled you into life.
Oh, look at her a seasoned ecstasy!
Tonight be draped in the nudes that ran rife
in her little world, your dreams' embassy.

Let her carry you to the other side;
let the pure of your passion defeat pride.

No Masterpiece

My poem's not a masterpiece -
read; do not ask for peace.

I'm a handicap, handle me -
too much of a fire, candle me?

Try me on your voice -
maybe I'm a song of choice.

Let me ring in your ears;
let it bring you tears.

Only do not reduce me to a God!
Love me, worshipping is odd.

Erruer?

And I'm wanting to walk
on the purest snow -
is that where I've erred?
For wherever I go,
there's dirt.

And oh,
the night chokes the moon;
lesser of it do I spoon - 
the moon in my silver eyes.

And I keep the clocks
that had stopped
sometime ago.
Is that where I've erred?
Wanna know.

Where the grass was crushed,
off-shot mistrust -
is that where I erred?
I only needed to walk
on something untouched.

A blank sheet,
all to myself
and I'll write undeterred.
Do not tell me
that I have erred.

I Twinkle A Jade

Tulips ocean my heart; I twinkle a jade -
cancerous, the memories we never made.

Reality's whirlpool caught another road;
I slip on slopes of Time and hours, evade.

Your thoughts own my lips; I smile to self -
militant, the joy 'bout me; why, I was betrayed!

My laughter's a gale colouring our silence;
you preyed upon a heart that never played.

This being yours, this forgetfulness!
I'm happy tonight; another death, delayed!

Chasing Feathers

Since when have you been chasing feathers, heart?
I watch you tear hollow hoops, steer stages
into myths; I eye you vie for the dart
that is destined for circles and cages.

Here, I look at you from this higher plane -
a spectre unravelling Time's coarse snares;
I see you impel fires; dream, spin, spur rain.
What not have you been doing all these years!

Since when have you been evading weathers, heart?
I see you invent minutes, forget seconds;
I watch you tackle deaths, your births abort;
and I look at you target dead ends.

Be lead not by will, wisdom or your wings -
fall, but a prey to invisible winds.

Eyes are the Gaps

Your eyes have been drinking all the fissures

that taint our story of love, maim the field

of warmth; and break the circuitous leisure

into hours of disbelief, doubt, pity,

feigned indifference. You even give in

to desires you do not really have -

taking the shape of a body, trying

to emerge a form... It is nothing but

the failure of wax to die a meaning.

Eyes are the gaps, my love; seeing is judging.

Give up your mind and find the nothing that

has always perfused love - you will be free,

even of me.

A Lot More Than Silence

I'm leavin' you these columns
where phantoms fume -
I'm leavin' you autumns
that scents consume -
I'm leavin' you the ghosts
that poetries stray -
I'm leavin' you coasts:
foam blighting the bay -
I'm leavin' you azure
mating with grey.

Grey.

I've smudged the old paintings
with my beautiful eyes.
I have longed to hear the first cries
of our love
as it is held against the bosom
of time.

Look, I shan't contain within me
the galaxies you talked of -
I'm leavin' you words
from the time you walked off.

I'm leavin' you the truth
I couldn't dismantle.
Lips, fingertips and clips.

I'm leavin' you torn sheets
and curly thoughts -
I'm leavin' you my defeats
and secret plots -
I'm leavin' you trampled innocence -
I'm leavin' you a garden
and the torture of a fence -
Soften, harden,
melt, regret, love, despise -
I'm leavin' you a lot more than silence.

The Unwritten

The pen twirls, slips into a trance:
new routine, unleashing black ribbons
onto the white reams -

Letters throb
in the crumpled hearts of paper.
Unsung melodies, beaten blue,
die deaths anew.

Lips look for words
that would be kissed
when we meet.

Eyes ink the face -
a letter never put to paper.

Shh.

The better word occurred a dream
and I longed at dawn to rethink
its meaning. And whether I
could invent a meaning
for a sound that
said 'Shh'.

Fire from Rubbing the Stone

Let us empty our sacks of choke tonight -

drain the heart; let rhymes flood spaces we own.

And knit then my breaths to your flute; ignite

music that's life; fire from rubbing the stone.

Inspiration. Our new moment.

Let us black this happiness.

Some new couplets

furrowing the grounds of destiny!

Unruly, my breaths from our last last night

are now wanting your tame game once again.

It's time for forgetting about time, come!

Let us empty our sacks of choke tonight.

Trickle

Trickle.
Stain waywardly
my new robe of patience;
become a possibility.
Tickle.

From Behind the Bushes

From behind the bushes, a lake
steals me. A steely gaze,
haste; the taste of poetry -
I'm read, turned red.

What prowess, your stillness,
quietude! A sparkling blade,
you shear me nude.
You watch from behind the bushes -
rude!

Still stalker, snake -
from behind the bushes, a lake
deals me a poem.
Unchaste!

Pink dawns and grey wait -
who knows the weight
of a lake?

The definite indefinite,
your deafening silence
and the blue behind the bushes -
always watching,
wallowing in my redness,
you shower deadness
and a vision bring:
love's coffin in the offing.

Blue and Cold

The dawn's a corpse, reeking of memory -
blue and cold, it stutters with the crisp leaves,
suicidal at the hands of reverie.

Nothing dies; nothing abandons the yoke -
blue and cold, time leads new discovery -
uncoiling every time the same joke.

And where are we to head for every
road is blue and cold and so old, old, old!
Lost sense is heard a croak, but savoury.

Holy

What am I? Just one of your strings.
One of the many things
you tickle into life.

So gratifying,
losing myself to your fingers;
getting caught into a sway -
living, mellowing and dying,
all in a musical moment!

This being an instrument to love!
The drape of every meaning on me
is nothing but the sacred lisle
of love.

Play me.

Holy.

Dead Wings

All the flowers were but birds with dead wings -
betrothed to the ground, flaunting the green cords
that rendered them legitimate and true -
they were to be seen, objects and subjects.

What was the sky to them - a disruption?
Erupting red like the fires that wed them;
carrying the weight of dew drops upon them -
they knew that one cannot marry the sky.

So they looked up to the bland nothingness
and in it they saw themselves getting stirred.
They invented their trance and smiled awhile:
to be contained in the dervish's circle!
One last act of their infidelity.

Ikebana

Love has branched, an unruly poem -

the moon has dwindled in its clutch.

Soggy, cracked, it hijacks our eyes -

yellow leaves, we're carried

to its hollowness.

There's a storm, a storm,

swiping the time away,

sweeping us like dust

into the aperture of our Universe,

the moon.

Are we going to settle two gypsies,

laurelling the wind

with our being?

Cut, bent, tilted and torn,

coloured, looted, wilted, shorn,

will we be shamed (tamed) into beauty?

Our souls are being pared

by the spades of separation -

maybe we are to meet in transit?

Two stems singing a design,

too simple to be true.

A Chance Pilgrim

I have been a chance pilgrim -
swapping stories with destiny
to be led to you.

Never halting
at your sacred threshold,
never needing to consume.

Never trying to remember,
I walk across this town
where you dwell.

I have no souvenirs,
but my happiness has stayed.
I have been a chance pilgrim.

Lately

Do you know I've been drinking lately -
pouring into the window, a black street,
gulping with my eyes mansions stately;
sipping all your sins, swallowing concrete?

You know, I'm drowsy with discovery -
finding you everywhere in the nothing.
Do you know I don't hope recovery
undoes your beautiful spell into something?

What sickness is life, what bestowal, death?
What saturation, never having owned
your lover; drinking but an absent breath?
The moans of your silence have had me stoned.

Tone - deaf, this heart of darkness only stings,
stings as it sings us, two separate strings.