Wonder if water formed in the snowed hills
Is ephemeral or the waters in a tanker here
Over which women fight their loud throats.

All ephemeral things are to reach their seas ,
From the hills and/or inside the water tanker
With the water spilling from top like voices.

Their bodies thirst for water from snow hills
And  water tankers, their ephemeral voices
Tearing the quiet of a morning walk to park.

Up and down

They screwed you up ,in priest-like rite
But you screwed someone up yourself.

Everyone screws someone somewhere.
Somebody gets screwed up and down.

Some body  screwed down some body
Blaming its syndrome on a pale moon.

Some body else screwed some one up
With the light missing in lifelong eyes.

This screwing up thing is playing out
Of original sin and goes on endlessly.


(Reading Philip Larkins’ “This be the verse”)

Perfect circle



A geometrical and metallurgical fellow,
John is more a moving foot to other foot
Leaning virtuously to other fixed foot,
A perfect circle to make before a close.

When John is done he is not overdone.
No one sighs like cyclone in Bengal sea
Nor floods in an upper Gangetic valley.
No one in fact notices passing of John.

(taking off on John Donne’s poem A valediction forbidding mourning)

Old and wise



We take a little boy and his stuffed tiger
To wise potty , to clamp  a nose on stink.

The tiger is stuffed inside its tiger body
Where it is all together empty of space .

This one had private views about aliens,
The green ones with antennae on head.

They were made public, but only to boys
Who believed in mankind’s original sin.

The stuffed tiger is now old and empty
And taxidermist is presently not vacant.

We are old and handicapped, w.c.-wise,
Whenever our tigers are not by our side.


(Calvin has Hobbes ,a stuffed tiger to everyone except boys who believe in mankind’s original sin. To those who are old and w.c.wise Hobbes is vacant and empty of space)

Off the tangent


In our words , sun comes home purple
Since someone has spooked it already.
A purple is a fine alternative to orange.

You ask why we are fixated on purple.
Since explosions occur off the tangent
And a resultant blood is quite colorful.

A purple blood is no thicker than water.
From sunsets of poets to their sunsets
Blood drips from a nondescript bomb.

Mirror of sleep


We saw God sleeping on the layers of time,
In a stone dead sleep, till priest would come.
God was stone sleeping in a mirror of sleep.

God was monkey amid stones, a painted hill,
A hill boulder’s red ache dripping with paint
And our foreheads would drip with red dots.

Our bodies went stone with  souls petrified.
All things were in big boulders in hills where
God sleeps sleep missing in tired old bodies.


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