The rain stopped in the morning

The morning begins with rain bird
Cuckoo trying to sing for more rain
Wet rain on morning roads bringing
A few fallen leaves, mirrors of puddles
A dead night’s moths lying sprawled
On the window sills remembering
Brief lives of fewer regrets, forgotten
Death events, a sun looking away.

Birds are up and about, competing
In their throaty songs with crickets
The last vestiges of a just closed night.
They go into a huddle, their music
Touching the hem of the sky loftily
In silks treasured in blushing clouds.

Now there is silence in white clouds
The sun gently peeping out making
Clouds blush more, for alleged failure.
There is no rain and a sun goes crimson
For much promise , little performance .
Thunder went quickly dead, lightning
All a swagger, nothing much to show
Only a few chalk lines behind the hills.

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Dark creepers,white flowers

 

Muted conversations are heard in the street
In the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.
Women squat on the steps of their houses
To discuss  kids, husbands and neighbors.
Their memories go back to other evenings
Of kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors,
Of the  pretty floral designs before houses
Other women made in rice powder and color.
The incense smoke from  four-armed gods
Enters the streets, reaches up to the tall trees
And electric wires, goes up in silken  swirls.
As darkness sets tiny white flowers break out
From loving mother creepers on the houses
Like the stars we  see burst on our roof at night.

The lost house

A lost  house talks quietly to the lake
In a tender  morning light of its birds
Birds that are in no hurry for shadows
Of a camera not opening quite to trees
But  its shadows tail  buildings fallen
Headlong into a morning lake of gold

The lake laps up against a parapet wall
Of nobody  leaning against it for  view.
Absences are ghosts with no prior bodies
Absences that could have turned men
If  the house had stood erect to the lake
The lake for company on moonlit nights
With a  moon falling across the parapet
To the ripples of a soft  wind in the lake

The lake’s trees make a luminous frame
To the shadows of birds, the buildings
Fallen into its  shimmer,  a  moonlight
Of the previous night still  cherished
By the lost house as a tender memory
Of leaves fallen to the moon of the lake,
Not its absences near the parapet wall.