Fan whirls a shadow in his eyes.
Mom passes as whiff of breeze.
Through empty window’s glass
Is a strip of a sky hanging blue.
The fan stops on a flood of rain.
There is rain inside baby’s eyes
The eyes are full of baby sleep.
They cry their rainfall on sleep.
Her silence connects us with her
While we move upon it in room
After room ,like wave after wave
Like sea that repeats its motions.
In room or by sea, slow and soft
Silence hits my shore like waves.
(reading On a Columnar Self by Emily Dickinson)
Everyone’s kitchen is green,
With pan black as the night.
Taste a bond of alive things.
On sea the creature is green
Like overnight moss on rock
But a creature is soon dead,
Dead and washed on beach.
Taste a bond of dead things
Of live crows with dead fish.
(reading a beautiful poem Cutting Greens by Lucille Clifton)
She has many stories to recount
From corners of long drawn life,
Guessing listeners’ words on lips
As if audience is staging mimes.
At ninety, her body is carved out
Like a tired old moon after night.
At midnight my moon was blood
Over my sleep in cold moonlight.
Sure it cannot be blood and gore
But a mom’s shadow of embrace
When I was away sleeping in bed
To dream of a pretty vestal moon.
Surely it was not a stain of blood
On innocent bystander virgin sky.
Keep beauty with you by a sea,
Growing old by old lighthouse.
The sun grows but is youthful
Behind the striped lighthouse.
Shell man refuses to grow old.
His shells are dead and clatter.
A ship in high seas grows old
Waiting to dock in port berth.
You will no more be stranded
And no more stroking the cat.
Cat has an empty sky to scrape.
Your pink rose will not worry
About the sky that is no more.
There will be no more dream.
The sky no more hangs on sea
Like birds suspended in flight.
(after reading a moving poem The End by Mark Strand)