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.
We have no humming birds
But we do have their cousin,
Our own sun bird in balcony.
One who is brained enough
To try to build season’s nest
On the hanging internet wire.
But cetainly we cannot have
A feathered guest in balcony
A sun bird on the clothesline,
Like our underwear hanging.
You see we are awaiting
Still, to be wonder-struck
By innocence profound
To bloom at fresh dawn.
The parijats are making
In ancient dew’s falling
From the dark night sky,
Their feet to fall upside.
Their innocence will fall
From an astonished sky.
The night is so chockablock
With its embarrassing riches
With no one to see blushes
What redden its dark visage
When you make holes in it.
But not when you remember
Another night of big holes
As bird from her own hole
Cried out over housetops
And night grew red in face.
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.
After when there are rain pearls
By sun quick to weeping leaves,
Spit makes a web to catch world
And a world is caught helplessly.
Now where is waking brown pill
And where are its long fine legs
Mixed up in heaps of dry leaves
Sticks and twigs on garden floor?
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.