The child wind is a spirit, like a fallen leaf
That rolls along towards the earth’s infinity
Riddled with false matter from its past sky.
It is no laughing matter in mom’s hand fan,
Nor in trees shaking with excess sunshine.
Shake trees , will you? asks nostalgic mom,
Her sultry despair climbing hard nut trees
Looking for child of the wind in the leaves.
Actually it is found shaking a polythene bag
In a bedraggled bush, just outside the city.
I woke up to this window glass this morning
As the tree , a tiny branch , waves on the glass
A moving shadow made by tree+wind +glass
Not a sleep dream but a waking word dream
A beauty engendered by a tree+glass+wind
Beauty came from this very tree+glass+wind+I
Who had woken up, me and words, from a body
That is a part, a string, a voice, an eye, a water
Sloshing in it, in the eyes, raindrops of color,
A fan whirring, a sound ,a beauty of mountain
A rumbling, clouds wet touching, a silver river
Just like the tree waving -a- creaking at wind
Brown dog barking at dark, snout wet and dark.
But I say, cut out this “I’ from window glass
The body that woke up at dawn to the window
Let the dream continue on the window glass.
We are looking for our stories
In the park ,under a thin tree
On green bench or thereabouts.
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
Behind , wiggling worms found
Under long lying stones in sun.
They are crickets creaking under
Vague stones lying in the grass.
just write ,it would whisper , in black
and in white,when it is still dark night.
one must take in the night,its two roses
sleeping in the night ,in waking yellow
and crimson, rising from a little earth
to higher reaches, where wind strikes
and the sun strikes a flower into being.
come to balcony opening to a street’s night
project to a street, a stream of silent men
shuffling feet in absence, in their futures
all the while a black increasing, to diffuse
beyond the apartment, beyond a gnarled tree
now in the room, before a curtain of sound
a sound of marriage strikes a stick of holes
to a music of bodies , in a night of black
as it turns orange beyond a dead- standing
tree, a wishful timber tree of old dreams,
its old birds’ dreams,staring at its stumps.
On a morning of bedewed grass
A bare walk hardly leaves notes
Only bird notes from park trees.
The grass cowers in wet silence,
But raises its heads once a while
Its wetness tingling the underfoot
A painful thorn peeps some times
From shadows hid in self-respect.
A noisy nose on the green bench
Dumps a breath of fresh dirty air
But takes much more of green air.
A broken lawn-mower lies listless
Throwing up its hands in despair
Powerless to cut grass pride to size.
Winter-cold feet barely manage
To squish in its bleary-eyed upper
Submissiveness flying away before
The water sprinkler gets them.
This is September and you mark the decline of the sun
Behind the long rows of buildings and listless trees.
From the train its decline is noticeable in arid wastes
That teem with straggling shepherds in grazing sheep.
The sun does not envelop their bodies in its silhouettes.
The orange of light shall wait at the mountain’s mouth
Beyond the spartan colors of the lake, less its shimmer
And clouds pass without event, giving rain a sabbatical.
The decline will surely be followed by an exciting fall.
Yesterday’s moon had slid behind the school
To surface today at midnight, behind the shed.
It is a struggle for the cow to reflect on events
Of the day, near the haystack, with tacky flies
Needlessly bothering its tail, while the moon
Is reflecting thoughtfully on its water trough.
The straw is all around its feet, stewed with urine
And Bengal grams tastefully added to porridge.
There at mountains all was peace and heaven.
The grass was just fine, the flies less of bother.
A red bull came with dishonorable intentions
But was promptly ignored, as if he did not exist.
The moon is now directly above the asbestos roof.
The night is quiet with the street dogs gone to sleep
And the moonlight has become brighter and cooler.
Somehow the cow is now less angry with the bull.