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.

Grandmas in clouds

Smoke happens on the street’s fires,
Near boss trees who shed their love

In leaves, scooped up by old women
For money to keep stomachs going.

The old women shall turn smoke too
When the stomachs will stop going.

Then they will go in the black clouds
And rain down on the grandchildren.

Grandchildren will point their fingers
At dark clouds looking for lost bears.

They forget to recognize grandmas
In between so many clouds of smoke.

Sun’s own day

The finger is pointed to a new flower in balcony
And thence to a rainless cloud ,a sprouting sun.

A translucent blue defers to the low-rise of gold
In the blankest sky, ever eaten by pearly clouds .

The wind plays mischief with yesterday’s flower
And flower promptly drops from helpless mom.

All this while, our sun friend would rise leisurely
On a lazy Sunday from under a sleeping blanket

Of thick and silky cotton rolls of a rainless cloud.
Sunday is his own day,not other son-of-a-gun’s.