Inner country

Our photographs are made,
In the inner country of eyes,

Where strangers share time,
Stay huddled in a tiny space.

Some are men of no bodies
But light’s shadows at dawn

Pointing their vague fingers
At strange objects in far sea.

Others live a death moment,
As dead turtles of live crows.

Some are just fishes caught
In the fisher men’s moment.

A few are silhouettes at sea
Floating into its inner heart.

Some rock on beach at dawn
Flaunting their green dress.



Turning turtle

Nausea exists outside body,
A sea rising in  yonder sky.

Nausea is  body out of sea,
A turtle for  dawn’s crows.

It is  Ridley’s turned turtle
Inside a morning- sick sea.

Nausea is crows emptying
Turtle shell of its contents.


Down at the moss-green rock,
Waves hit rock’s  somnolence.

Around a sea’s savage mouth,
Its salty froth pours in anger.

Riding  camel hump of wave,
Boat goes up and down a sky.

Men in boat turn silhouettes
Accusing fingers at a far sea.

On shore, an old light house
Goes cracked up in laughter.

The decrepit rag-picker picks
A plastic or two, from beach.

Snails are still in their sleep,
In the last night’s sand holes.

A beer bottle’s shard shines
A dawn on night’s memory.

River island

Before dam , river is black and loamy
And a snake at the curve of the body,

On shore slightly annoyed with wind
And the paper star mobbed by moths.

After dam it is a temple and pilgrims,
Ancient memories of the after-world.

A snake turns into many small snakes
And boats heave only high on people

Island is holiday from  river touched
By a wind and boats bringing motion

For people to nest in shadow houses,
Copies of concrete holes back home.