Job satisfaction


A lone mountain breaker chips away.
He has the whole mountain to break

But only a few years on a bare head.
A hammer sounds like  squirrel cry.

If only a canvas bent on his old head
Has less holes letting in blazing sun

Beating his bare naked head by day.
If only he has more years on a head

He can chip away a whole mountain
With a fully assured job satisfaction .

Hill thief


Petrichor is the lovely earth smell
From a new rain on a pot of plant.

Chor is Indian thief , Petri a stone
And I am petrified by a new word.

I have seen the thief of entire hill
Chipping a hill off stone by stone.

Hills are unmade as home stones,
Their body pieces graveling roads.

In their new functions hills keep
Our smoking trains from falling.

Earth smells less lovely from rain
When we are a thief of entire hill.

Fox hole


That was old poet’s fox slowly
Entering the hole of the head.

Cunning fox is slow on a snow
Leaves footprints in soft snow.

There are no stars in window.
Fox knows why they are gone.

A poet is certainly left behind.
It is now a new old poet’s fox

Cunning ever in  head’s hole,
Fox burrowed ,a poem made.

(Remembering Ted Hughes’ poem “The Thought Fox” about poetic inspiration)

Money is mental


Money would seem piece of fiction
We thought we could weave nicely

In space of time reference, London-
Interbank referred when banks rise.

Money becomes liquid smooth flow
In abstract thoughts of the physical.

The same thing fetching two loaves
Is now a few millions, in the minds

Of men who move out the thought.
It is all a mental thing ,not a metal.

We are all forward and   sell bodies
Those that live in the fiction’s pulp.

Bodies are real but minds are fiction
Sold by the millions on paperbacks.

Early poets

Like early poets we are a bit hurt
By the monumental indifference
Of stars burning there to us here.

But the poets,now late, care little
About the stars around or us down.
They are burning in indifference.

The burning is going on nonstop
Leaving no residue or emptiness.
Nobody gives a damn to missing.

(On reading W.H.Auden’s poem The More Loving One)