The cricket

The cricket has just opened its window,
In my ears, to darkness on the other side.
Crickets open their sounds to our ears
And are sole windows to night sounds.

Their song imparts motion to dark sound
As happens in the leaves around a bird
That wakes up at midnight to flutter wings
And gets back to its old Siberian dreams.

Darkness is sound from a cricket’s throat
And vanishes as its throat is vanquished
By the soft light sound of the morning crow.

Advertisements

Watercolor

We came upon the waters, in themselves,
That ran deep, under rain drops on rocks
Their music falling softly on the morning
As birds ran counter to embedded trees.

It was the music of the bodies from a mind.
The leaves fell gently from rain and clouds,
Their textures collected most of the ecstacy
From a sound of meaning, their sensations
On the skin perking up as if to a first rain .

The textures of the rocks broke their skies.
The hues in them wavered as cotton- white
Corrugations ,with birds caught in the folds
Like tiny v’s from God’s free hand drawings .
Rocks merged in the sky and water flowed
Like the music of the birds caught in clouds
That were birds not yet caught in the trees.

The blue cyclone

The morning rain continues from a night
Cold coming through bird chick’s cries
And now light gently falls on wet plants
Their personalities glowing by the hour.

Our dying rose may yet wake up and go
From the company of hibiscus partying
In its wet splendor, a late night partying
After the night’s thoughts went berserk
Like a sea urchin ,in violent wind – water.

The urchin may not come this way of sky.
But his looks killed many an upright tree
Like its distant American cousin ,in coast
And brought a ship or two to sandy knees.

(Cyclone Neelam (blue), struck the Southern coast yesterday bringing about large scale devastation to the coastal areas)

Enhanced by Zemanta

Texture

This the morning has the texture of plastic
In a world of hues, of longevity, of a breath
A corrugation, a tilt to a side, a new sound
Of a world upside down, a feel of thinginess.

Shapes are chairs in their silence of sitting,
A sound of looking, a skin feel of winter air
A palm occupying wind with water in throat
A form in formlessness, a door shutting out
Winter, a butterfly failing to land on flower.

Morning is rain in its falling softly into light.
It is rain mired in the half light of open sky,
Plants in earth pots dreaming spring leaves
On branches scraping the blue off a new sky.