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.