Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Everything in place

The world is more.
More in everything
that I can think of.
More imperfect
than I can capture
in lines that fall apart.
More perfect
than the sentence
that I can banish it to.
More good exists
than what's shown.
And more bad
than what's on display.
More beautiful
than the sprightly Daffodil.
More deadly
than the giant mushroom.

The world has everything in its place.
And especially me
right here at this threshold.
Taking it all.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Thoughts on rails

Sadness engages
even the careful.
Happiness ensnares
even the unawares.
Fair. Unfair.
The train of argument goes
through the tunnels of self-doubt
and the straining light of epiphany.
Destination unknown.
Stops are many.
Some get down.
And some remain.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

A Shroud of poetry

Despite the shrouds of poetry
written for millenia
over sand and stone
parchment and paper
I can still see its raw face
clawing out of the coffin
to break my stupor.

Everyone is busy, almost worried
about this business as usual.
What size, what dimensions of a hollow pit?
That anyway doesn't guarantee containment.
And who can stop the hunger?
Of the worms that wait
like condemned prisoners
and uncomplainingly hollow out the eyes.
Or the flames with their many tongues
seen through a bleary eye, gulp the bait.

The ridges of the wrinkles
that have seen the same act
still make way for the moisture indicating life.
Life takes the same route
through the same narrow passages.

Everybody's stomach will upturn.
And everybody else will feed on it.
It is a common hunt for the living.
Who can't help but handle
by the only thing that is closer: living.

The silences will give away
to talking and bantering.
The old walls will still stand
And the special passes that are given out
expire in the wake of mourning.

And it will divide itself
into thousand ghouls
and the living will compete.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Every shade

Sadness prefers winters.
Takes these little walks
in the mossy darkness.
A cutting wind rips apart
the unscarved faces
into peels of laughter.
Distant rattles ground to a halt.
The grass is alert to the foot steps
and the dew forms like sweat
out of a patient wait.
Nothing escapes its memory.
A cage of realities.
Every particle has its place
and every shade its face.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

The Right half

The right-half of my brain
swerves too much into poetry.

The dew is a low hanging fruit
and instantly is in the cart.
Rain is always in touch.
Winter is around the corner.
Summer reaches out through the window.
Emotions run wild across the keyboard.
People in my head, crowd it with action.
Life and death have their boring tussle.
Often there are writes on writing.
Misplaced metaphors, on second thoughts
look teary eyed, while similes
break into mocking smiles.

But the calling itself stands a monolith.
I tie my talismans around it.
Continue a common superstition
and sharpen my wit
against the whetstone of a blank page.

The right-half of my brain
swerves too much into poetry.
And often after this thought
I sweat over a puzzle
to make a come back.

(This is my 400th poem. Self congratulatory in its style.)

A Mother's hands

A mother's hands are rough
from the raw material
she is offered to shape up.
There are scales of jagged skin
falling off a cliff like years.
Sacrifice that I never understood
is always present with its quietude.
Her womb extends far
embodying the continents
her children are spread.
She sees no difference
between the grownups now
and the children then.
She who tried to understand
the babble with dripping saliva.
Now listens intently over phone
what you have to tell her
about this big, big world.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Our progress

Our old negotiations have not changed.
Sadness beside happiness is cozy enough.
Uncertainty has its toothless laugh
in the middle of a truth finding apparatus.
Roots of our fears hang by
like the flowing hair of resting ghosts.
New journeys are made across
the old stretch marks of love.
Our arch rivals, ourselves, still exist.
Our limbs are lost to machines
But the skin engulfs newer flesh under its belt.
The unattended call home still unsettles us.
The search for fundamental particle doesn't end.
And stagnation has its algae in progress.