Cricket stories

As sun strikes and a white wall
Stays put in shadows of hedge.

Cricket stories abound in there.
Grass replicates the past words

On bare feet to earth, cracked
Like mind in a nothing’s duress.

The body re-thinks own stories
Physical stories mired in words.

Stories are just words of things
Under long lying stones in sun.

They are crickets creaking under
Vague stones lying in the grass.

Burning white

She would come out of laziness
Wading through the moat for us

For a visual contrast for cameras.
She finds her own white boring

In a bleak brown zoo enclosure
The green water may liven it up.

We try to reason need for white
A setting apart sense, idle king’s

Sylvan fancy or his wild life love.
A white tiger might have begun

In woods not its own tigerliness
But color change for king’s eyes

Bored with golden brown coat
Burning bright in Blake’s poem.

Late poems

There it is my own mountain
With a mouth open at its top

A hole in a childhood village
Where monks lived for peace

In a hole, now in bigger hole
The late poems breath life in.

The good old poet sets about
Re-ordering pines and avoids

The clutter of the top clouds
And be free of the early rain

Drowning a pine’s loneliness
At top, late poems are about.

Mountain on finger saves us
From stone rain of angry god

As we are down in its under,
All our late poems are about.