Old man poet is sleeping benignly
Under his jasmines smelling stars .

Thank stars he is sleeping benignly.
He is fine by a pathologists report.

Old poet saw magnetic hill chilling.
But everything is benign in flowers .

Sorry we took the old poet for port ,
And a star for expensive insurance.

Star insurance is their name in sky.
Looks down benignly on old poets.

Bread in a mouth


They went in  hole ,not like Sita
Not to return only to be blamed
For the poverty not committed.
They are not wanted by history.

No one wants manhole workers.
The job is shitty and the clothes
Smell of city’s gentrified morals.
Bread in a mouth can be putrid.

(Three days ago four city workers died in a manhole they had entered for a cleanup)

Original sin


Hesitantly we mumble apologies
Even if our sin was truly original,
Our fathers ,forefathers who did .

We fling them in general direction
When crows come on walls spiked
With kaleidoscopic pieces of glass.

It is where our sun rises like usual
As some one lies in a front room,
Cold on an ice block slow melting.

We estimate the general direction
To fling apologies for our old man.
We will address ours at a due time.

Reverse engineering


As you walk on river, do not get too close
To our fragments shored up against ruins.
They are meant to be reverse engineered.

Do not tread on our charred wood pieces
And  bone’s pieces still warm from flesh,
Awaiting  reverse engineering to wholes.

When a dam releases water, it takes away
Heaps of our broken images to high seas
And all engineering gets irreversibly lost.

Gorgeous nothings



Some poetesses write their gorgeous poetries
On the back of origami style postal envelopes

That came with letters and no money wishing
A long married life with dark lawyers looming.

Busy making their envelope poems they avoid
High chairs and shaking hands over envelopes.

In gorgeous nothings,you avoid  men and law
And fold your envelopes neat in origami style.

(The poetess is Emily Dickinson)

Getting carried away


A not so shy poet would spread his dreams
Under girl’s feet , not to walk hard on them.
They have fallen on their faces like parijats.

He is pulling her legs when his dreams fall
On their white faces with the feet to the sky
Red and dead under morning walker’s feet.

He asks the lover to tread softly on dreams
Those he spreads under her dreaming feet.
He cannot resist love for hyperbole or two.



Sunday comes after Saturday night,
When wind blows, as usual in trees.

Sunday is day when we do nothing
As on all days,regret our days spent

Looking for wind in the windy plain
Only find it climbing hills sideways.

Sunday we sleep in a sun, as always
And it is our own Sunday and usual.

B&W dads


And then we see old b&w dads
Who stare from photo corners,
In rolled up shirts, sizes of sons.

Memories hit as pellets in faces.
They make us dreamy in faces,
About dads in size of our sons.

Dad froze at son’s present size
In vintage b&w college photos.
He is not even sepia like crows.

It is the words that connect us
As pebbles in our men’s faces,
And dad’s face from old space.

Words are not sepia like crows
Just pebbles dropped in faces.
They hurt us deep like pellets.



In the beautiful plagued city where I lived,
You would eat dry snacks at crematorium
And enjoy munching it over wood crackle.

You wouldn’t munch slowly on mandibles,
As mandibles burn like whispers of wood
While still not dead ones are fast moving.

Back to drinking promises on some dying,
In the ugly non plagued city where I lived
You actually celebrated death by drinking.

Death hardly whispers but beats the drum
And wet throats are moving up and down
Like mandibles on whisper poems to child.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 786 other followers