Poetry

Poetry writes you well

Seasonally gifting shoelaces to tie,

Friendly,

The falsity of this twisted head.


In little pages poetry arrives

In lesser folds poetry folds

Into your youful towels.


Poetry gets scooped up

The smallest of your combs

Wipes off well in the pages

Where poetry rests.



How easy then, for poets

To become friends.

To A Cat

Now and then ,
between the finest unfolding of a day,
I meet the cat ;


In the shadow of the trees,
Flare of the sun,
Or the secretive parting of brown leaves.

Somewhere after succeeding a few fish bones
Then encumbered in the carcass of white soil
I find it absorbed in his self ,
With his heart ruminating
Like a bee.

Yet ,continually he scrapes his claws against the gulmohar tree
Pursuing the sun all day.

Now I see him,
Then it is lost somewhere.

In the softening evening sun, crimsoned he plays
Caressing his white paws
Fisting the night in tiny blobs
Then diffusing them all over this infinity.

Liquid Times

I




my significance was in clouds

In living relics of human footsteps

My significance

Embodied wholly in newly harvested crops

In the peeping endless meadows by the throughway sides, and

In playgrounds.

My significance was in

today.

My significance was only

In blood bathed hecatombs.



II



Across the multitudinous ,

the sun comes out



Littering on walls

Of schools shut.



Littering on

earth scraping ploughs.



Littering on the runaway kid's

Blood draped school uniform.



III



Strange evening settles down.

Softening sun spreads over meadows

Alights in the backyard,

Piercing the parted leaves.

Only a lone crow sits

By the mourning house.

Scared to caw.

Lest ,the wailing mother wakes up

Who now sleeps,

fatigued in mourning

Over the son she just lost.