District of Discord

                                 Picture Courtesy: Google

A choir of crows
poised in black,
cawing carols-

cawing, as the
sun stares in awe.

Caw-caw-caw-
an aubade.

The temple's mad,
its bells buzz,
ding-ding-ding.
Ting-tong,
goes a gong
at school.

Smirks the kirk,
"Is that a song?"

The mosque,
has a masque-
but later...

Honk-honk,
the horn-
alarms the morn,
"It's all gone wrong!"

Footsteps now,
up and down.
The sun frowns,
"It's all gone wrong."

A heart coos
to another heart
in vain.
The crows in black
come back
and caw
their refrain.

Dead

                                                 Picture: Google

I picture you a prism,
splitting your
white peace
into a spectrum
of grays.

Why must you
dawdle in the air,
dear, dear
rainbow?

Eagles glide low
near, so near
this stratum,
nudging you
my dear-
you do not budge.

Why must you
be unfair,
to these that elbow
you?

You do not budge,
my dear.

Beyond Isms

                                                Picture: Me

And on an afternoon like this,
a moment ruined
by the rain, would have 
simply asked someone,
"What is the purpose of life?"

The union of
Earth and Sky 
would have happened-
a mild reflection
in a small puddle
and immeasurable love.

The arrow of surrender
would have struck a heart
and a dream would have
osmosed into
'letting go'.

The grave of some eye
would have been adorned by
plastic flowers of patience.

A tear would have dropped
on someone's lips,
proud of its own flavour.

Time is impotent, you know.
It realizes our fantasies;
they come true,
dreams like 'You'.

What is reality, I ask,
a popsicle?

Who should I give up,
You?
Hah!

Fishbowl

                                               Picture Courtesy: Google

You put me into
a fishbowl-
gold dust, was I
your gold fish?

Sham or not,
this world
where I swam
and was served
crumbs-
sham or not,
it contained me.
And I
still am-

still am there
unnerved,
numb.
The fishbowl-

is a puddle,
a model
of clay;

a riddle
you liked
to play.

Her

            Picture: Lady Hamilton as Circe by George Romney

Those are foolish things,

by god-

Bloated lies

that froth in a mouth-

fish preying on fish.

She left it ajar,

the door to

her mind-

it creaks

like a toad behind

her.

Tick-tick, the clock,

the door’s unlocked-
Life won't knock.

Death will find

her.

Mocks her,

the aunt-

loose woman.

Mother knows.

She’s trying

to blind

her.

It’s Physical

                                         Picture Courtesy: Google

Key it in-

strife, ecstasy,

life,

squeezed into

a vocabulary.

Animal passions

reduced

to tap-tap-

No, not a dance-

a mishap.

Tap-tap-tap, I go.

How have you been?

Key in

hope, strife, ecstasy,

life-

Because souls aren't pawns
and hearts do not invade.
Because bygones are bygones
and tomorrow a new shade.
Because blossoms await dawns
for all the black to fade…

It’s physical-

this tapping

to the tune of myth.

Key in.

Sin.

Like Love

                      Picture: Google, own handiwork.

Metal letters,

sonorous shapes,

sour sounds-

Silver.

A spider dangling

heavy, o'er the neck.

Scrapes the nape,

a snake.

Sacred bond,

a shape.

Fetters.

Metal letters.

Sin.

A synonym,

insincerity-

Sound, shape.