Sit by me

Your moonlit form in shadows 

tinged every poem written in prose

memories of all my good times, 

all open spaces, all dearest faces

and now you are here

and now I hold your hand, 

no rimeless fear mars

now this timeless rebirth

of our beloved evening star

yes, when the morning arrives 

No shadows will breathe 

and neither Venus, nor the moon

nor I will run once again 

in search of your precious,

scented breath, in a random  

page filled with delicious words

And then you write in many tongues of 

history, of war and of human desire, of

what needs to be said and said over again

to be known, to be loved is be reborn again

 

WHY THE TORTOISE GOT ITS SHELL

Since the time a mountain 

was eased on to

my philanthropic back,

I turned a nomad

home is where I am alive,

and so I carry my heart, my beak, 

eyes, innards, skin and soul,

so no hope, nor fears are left behind 

Home is somewhere to hide 

my bruised fingers 

from when I touched the fire 

of your cardinal desire 

A legacy that will live on in

brooches and necklaces, 

combs, hairpins, frames for eyeglasses

delicate works of bekko art;

A sour old man’s curse, this home, mine 

to wear as a wedding present that never arrived, 

weighing down on my need to roam, 

to not run in the race, oh to be a nomad!

Mount Fuji

Do you know of gods churning an ancient white ocean,

burying couldrons of grief-tinged devotion

beneath this giant of a peakless mountain

Do you know of days burning with reason nor rhyme

or of those that truly know the poetry of time

Did you you hear those lies that mothers sing of folklores, sweet loves and springtime 

One such tale they wove of him, the god who was born  

when that unlikely couple met at a promiscuous dawn

Tender earth made love to the mystical sky

And they said he was born tiny, a tad too shy

Along came grief, vanity or jealous might

he grew by the day and through the night 

His heart opened a longing hole heavenwards

And his arms spilled over the earth downwards 

Perhaps he yearned to make a home for three, 

In misty cloud-cysts, but them two, never free

His unborn brothers lie buried round his girth 

Who saw his birth, who knew this worth

He Fujisan, sings their songs from autumn's lengthy tomes

He Fujisan weaves clouds on his untracked mighty stones 

And down below we weave our punctured lives 

into blurred portraits, into false tales of truthful strifes

Fujisan, do you live in those stories of daily deaths

Of your mother's infinite thirst, her never ending quest?

p.s:Another piece of unused writing recycled. Was trying to merge the Indian myth of churning of the ocean by gods using the mount meru with myths I heard of Mount Fuji. Forgive me please for inaccuracies

(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo)

Again

Another truth, an alternate view 

An epiphany to save your life

A new abacus to count blessings

This ancient way to hold your breath

That drive to practise, to compete, to win 

Again this world will sell us 

Magic, hope and dissent to dissipate 

the nature, nay, the very soul of fear  

How many tedtalks does it take 

to know, what’s known is known too late

(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo)

Indira you’re going to be here tomorrow

Wondering if it was still worth,

those coffees and bridges over rain 

Breathless moons, silly limericks 

Sudden urge to hold on and not

to ever let go of he, who 

melted all too soon into the crowd 

But what of those afternoons

that linger as fragrant dried roses

somewhere in his everyday words

You will still be tomorrow, Indira 

here to count moles on his beloved

half-forgotten face

(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo)

Staying Sane

Twenty one reasons to remain 

attractive at forty two, two 

Children, a home in all shades of blue

Cars, cards, cuddles and the sweet pain 

of knowing that each night at nine, we kiss

& tiny, timid polka dots light up the sky

Perfect porcelain angels look on, do not fly

handing out stabbing aches called bliss  

I wonder if you know that I am sane now

Attractive at forty two, two lifetimes 

into these Marie-kondo shelves, glorious primes 

Rid of your insane breath, sober and how

(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo)

Chinnu, before you taught me to love

I was to teach you the ways of this world 

How does one conjure jungles and jinns,  

When to let rainbows pour onto lilac walls

Where can you skip, hop and land in moody monsoon’s muddy puddles 

Who to cling on to when bubbles, balloons, all the bells and all the balls are gone 

Why do stars twinkle and not ceiling lights, 

Which sand knob on the beach turns the snow-white sliver moon on

I look up all night for the best ways to 

teach, Google, YouTube, Gurus, Gods,

But no books

No books taught me how to braid 

peacock feathers, yards of jasmines, into tender coconut fronds, 

And Siri paints a myriad pandemics 

on a mute pink rash on your freckled arm

Strangers, and their dangerous gaits, Mothers say, I should 

teach you of the world at large;

But for one more day, another hour, dear daughter, 

Here, learn to hold my hand and reach for the ocean waves in those monsoon puddles 

Learn, if you must that before thunder, there is light

And that after darkness, there is always light 

Before you leave me empty hearted

Drained and spent, here 

and now there is so much 

to learn, so much to teach, so many

earthen lamps to light 

(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo)