Secret withheld

Butterflies are smug.  

Fighter jets resting on a carrier.

I disturb their stupor 

Kill them all 

by simple teasing 

They are followed 

by ants 

and a swarm of flies

tempted first 

to the scattered jaggery. 

Insects were my first victims. 

Many summers later 

when I thought 

I am a grown up

They sent a young beetle after me.

A suicide bomber packed up

brain washed and all that.

He entered my ear

in a protective gear.

Chewed on the insides 

like a withheld secret. 

Hot oil and water jets 

didn't matter to  him. 

He was on a deep sea mission. 

The whole village was awake

with the screams that night. 

And its ear still rings

of the lore 

of such and such a boy.

The same

We are the same. 
Reflect the light within
A thought photosynthesis 
Spread our word pollen.

Palmistry

This is read 
from a palm,
a Sumerian tablet. 

Fate's route
a flustered map.
Legend: 
No regrets! 

The travel plan 
written in the winds.

Courage from inside 
rummages gloomy fields.

Red, bled from the dusk 
clots into the dark. 

Journey happens. 

The big picture

Life gives up claim
only to a postmortem of
I-told-you-so. 
The "so-sad"s
come across very late. 
Rain falls and winds blow 
but the suggestions stay . 
Hang about like strange shadows 
They've forgotten to leave. 
Dust and hot air come 
in between the big picture 
and my telescope. 

Rant

He cannot rant
for he is an ant
He is not a flopper
like a grasshopper

Unlike the croc
He is less with talk
His heart is elsewhere
The crocs are beware

His jumpsuit is of hare
but is a tortoise in bare
Inner peace, not very far
The tomb door always ajar

He brings to the table
always an Aesop fable

You recognize

You can recognize anger.
It is written
all over the reports.
But what about love?
No mention of it.

Stifled, yes.
That's what
one must end up as.
In death.
Not answering.
Living secretly.

Dangerous edge

Stitches come off the history text book. Pages of battle fields are ready to flee. The mighty swords are put away to rest. Winds change their direction Fill a funnel out of the rolling pages. And the bygone battles rattle up a shadow play on the walls. History written in blood soon goes out of print. Many hundred year wars, that never make it to the dangerous edge of a student's memory. But a personal battle rages on. A snail's movement on a national highway. One day there might be a cross over to some meaning.