Bells and whistles

Early morning,trash van walks on
Followed by a woman’s note book.

An old poet walks by who thinks
No end of a good old poet’s nose.

Old nose empathises with woman
Who accompanies the notebook

There are trash men out to get at
Old poet’s early yearning poetry.

Trash smells bad at end of noses.
Poet who walks by asks not why

But for whom the trash bell tolls-
For old poet and for early poems.

Old poet can’t whistle his breeze
As he makes noses at trash vans.

Blue particulars

Our barest essentials are nuts
Before we bite bolt from blue.

Now we turn blue in our faces
When faced with  particulars.

We shall turn blue like the sky
Not a fluorescence of Krishna

In the blues of a peeved lover
Her eyes closed with his flute.

Our blue particulars will join
The blue vagueness of a sky.

Triangle

It was not this , nor even that
Says the triangle of envelope

Surrounding pencil’s memory.
Triangle tapers life to a death

As it is not this nor even that.
We arrive at “this” by triangle.

But there are gorgeous things
Outside triangle petering off.

Body is our triangle,not ‘this”.
But a poet’s closing triangle.

(remembering Emily Dickinson’s envelope poem “It was not Death ,for I stood up..” that seems to adopt a Hindu way of arriving at truth by “Not this,Not this”-a process of elimination)

Location at page 680

By a stroke of luck, I am struck
In the same lips I laughed with

And now I stay open mouthed
Like the book I forgot to close.

My book is still at location 680
Now, would I like to go there ?

Then a book is laughing mad,
And duration closes my birth.

Walls of history

We make our neighbor pay
And we are walling him out,
Walling ourselves slowly in.

Walls are where forts were
Before the invader but now
Their bricks sport banyans.

Now we wait for our crows
To land on glass spiked wall.
They deputize for our dead.

Moon walk

Forget moon, forget the need to die
To acquiesce, to surrender or to sing

To stretch throat not coming of poet
The poet’s medium of art no matter.

A poet’s existence is  mere whimper
A howl of protest just before a dawn

About a moon-walk and a dead man
Who walked on it on his strong arms.

(Tribute to Neil Armstrong the first moon-walker on his passing away )

Apartment watchman

When my son was two year old
I would push him up that road

In  creaking rusted toy tricycle.
Rows of apartments stacked by.

Now I am falling in late fifties.
My son is apartment watchman

Living in  womb of fallen night.
Here he irons shirts on bodies.

Years have ironed my body flat.
For wheelchair I have no money

To bribe the hospital ward boy.
I reach hospital in son’s tricycle.