Short term holes

The pigeons may have holed us
As creatures below their hole,
As they go on a love business.
We place tiny cardboard wall
Who think they need privacy
For the baby making to go on.

We hold each other in holes
While dust worms of sunlight
Stay away from skylight hole.
We hold each other in holes,
Pure short term holes limited
To a current mating season.

The old wind

There is no old wind under the door
But the old with a wind in their eyes,
Who have a wind in their old bodies.

Nights shadows are good old poems
On road with dogs under streetlights
And fleas with the wind in their eyes.

Luckily there is no wind under door
And postmen pushing tragic letters.
There are no postmen under a door.

Poloniusly speaking

Hamlet thinks whether to be or not to be.
Harrowing dulls the edge of his husbandry.
Maxims by maximus are maximum mop
And what a twist for the tongue impaired.

It is maximus practising it on a minimus.
This one is evesdropper with no animus.
And he is just collecting a death behind
Where his words have issued Poloniusly.

(Reference is to Polonius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet)

Head cloth

Voice floats in another room
As if it is the belly soft mom
And mom is afloat on its top
Wearing head cloth of night,
A night first to be alive stars
She would point with a finger.

Moms belly is a deep furrow ,
A stick coming alive on road
Tapping fearful road sounds
For the monsters on a prowl,
To scare them back to trees.

Child banyan


The villager goes up an opening in wall
And down he slides onto the other side.
Beyond the wall stand twin rock sisters
At first silent before complete strangers
But open up when the sun is really hot.

Between them,they have a child banyan
An illegitimate child from bird dropping
Recently green by the last month’s rain
As streams of silver rain slid from tops
Like new born snakes from a way bush.
We see all our older shadows sprawled,
Morning feelings for the banyan child.



I keep  pages unoccupied by thoughts,
Their spines creaking by many nights,
Their dust full of my future after-light
Like powdered clay pot I will become.

I imagine silver fish through the pages
Like my metaphor maggots for future,
Or tiny water jets from the pot’s holes,
Metaphors for a life passing my holes.



The recent ones go in teleology
To decide if old heads may talk,
Who are their baby sitters by day
Or yawning story tellers by night.

In streets they are an aggregate.
Old heads bob up ,turn sideways
As they gather their earth’s dust
For thin cover on parched faces.

The recent ones listen to uncles
And aunts under dark staircases,
The latter words invisible by day
But at times ascending by night.

Rags of words

A rag bed shall invoke pleasant
Would-have-beens, challenges
At a summit top of endeavour,
The red fluttering rag one had
Sunk in snowy conquest’s peak
On path strewn with hangings.

Such is power of rags of words
Thrown at the winds at random
That they turn acted out events
To be nostalgic about some day.

Burrs and berries

Explore mind connection with feet
He that stalked a fire of loins said
With purple light glowing of eyes,
While fire still singed an old loins.

Light may be peripatetically purple
Like blackberries you pick to stuff
Shirt pockets with squashed purple,
A few maps of stained countryside.

I personally prefer burrs of hillside
And blackberries that make maps.
They stick to your flowing clothes
But can be dislodged burr by burr
And the stains by a fast detergent.