Making love in the air

In the smoky mountains
Fireflies flicker less light,
More and more  a smoke.

They can’t stay in motion
Having lost lights in tails
To oncoming headlights.

Being in motion with light
Flickering in tails is tough
While making love in air.



I have to acknowledge them
Through doors and windows

The smaller ones than usual
Who have taken birth in lake.

Lake is festering and algaed,
Smiling at the repeated suns

And shore trees giving place
To dead meat and fish scales.

Mosquitoes are a new guest
On our landscape, in our lift

In a darkness of our corners
In the nook of conversations.

Mosquitoes make our place
A defining landscape of life

A passing landscape like rain
That alternates with the sun.

Rust in peace

Now we see a blood moon corrodes
On our roof and rust falls to clouds.

In the bloody confusion rain forgets
To fall on the city’s parched tongue.

All our farmers are up on the trees,
Their tongues tasting tree’s cold air.

It seems they are entirely corroded.
All things corrode and even moon

We had seen in childhood coconut.
The moon is made of a fragile iron

That rusts of too much rain clouds.
Rust in peace, we utter in requiem.

Waiting for rain

We have felt the heat in green trees
And roof’s asbestos sheets and light

That would abolish the dark corners
Sending roaches to deeper recesses.

The heat came all the way from hills
Touching the bushes with the lizards

In torpor , stomachs dazed like stone.
The birds slept their summer siestas.

Waters everywhere wore warm heart,
With love in waves to overwhelm us

And choke our bodies with tiny vapor
Sucked from limited bogs and ponds.

The sea stopped growling at midnight
And sending soft feelers to an inland

To fill its loveless vacuums to the sky
And bring down waves of rain from it.

Heat wave

Everyone was down and under,
Not their fault the waters went.
The sun would come too close

To the bodies in pure dry love .
He sucked bogs ,high and dry.
They who did not hide in holes

Tasted love burning and pure.
The water went like in old bog.
Some just croaked as old frogs.

The tiny frogs left low and dry.
A burning love came in waves
As though it was a sea of love.

Death would come in waves too.
There was no cotton in the sky.
Words went dry on poet throat.