Off the hook

The world is new and harsh.
Letters pile up against grandfather's name.
He stashes them away
next to the hurricane lantern.
A hook runs through them:
Daughter's troubles with the world.
Son's tryst with destiny.
Grandchildren growing up.

The keys change hands.
Rusty locks are thrown out to decay.
Worries too find their way out.

Are they really gone?
Let off the hook?

Nocturnal

The bat wings of my mind
scribble things in the dark.
All meanings hide
and the hunt is on all night.
They still see the light of the day.
My poems.
But skip breakfasts.
Have bad stomachs.
Take siestas like the elderly.
And stretch out like emperors
on the cusp of a coup.

When they do return
to their original unfinished forms
they are without their belongings.
I bear no responsiblity.
And the night barbarian starts again.

Summer shades

The shadows of tall trees cringe
Asphalt melts and flows like strong hearts
Squirrels stop all movement
A drifting cloud steps up
to save the world.
Nothing stops it.
Nothing holds it there.
Any movement now, the barks could sweat
Leaves whisper once in a while
Transmit a message to the sea
But all have to wait till orders from above
After a long wait something shifts about.
The day sheds its skin
After all it is all shade at its core.
The colors vaporized before
form a rainbow of embers.
It is a late rise for the night though
Look, the bats have arrived.
A conference in a nearby tree.
They have to save Gotham.
Everybody, brave along.

Needles of rain

Needles of rain
wipe out all our sighs.
The last exam over
cold feet become warm.
But our knees hurt
as we try to fit in
at the window.
We watch
the clouds greying over.
And a mother, under
an old-fashioned family umbrella
flexing her calf muscles
in the rushing streams.

Count them

The farm implements rest for the night
while the cattle in the next room stomp about
trying to negotiate with sleep.
But this room, around me,
is filled with people
now lying down
only to tackle the tomorrow.
Reality has its gashes on everyone here.
Violent wrinkles smile at me in a faint light.
My mind attracts a mob of thoughts,
encircles them in a halo of memory.
Suddenly around me are only bodies.
Organisms breathing in and out. 
The conscience has left them now.
Too deep a sleep for anything.

I count them, relate to them.
These threads of many stories assembled here.  

The third eye

The third eye in first person
writes about solitude
that churns the loneliest.
It pours out human suffering
far away from the epicenter.
Sitting between bounds of comfort
it coldly expounds on uncertainty.
And it's the only one that remembers
the flash mob of moths
and an occasional attack
of the garden lizard.

Elsewhere

The chances are slim
and the situation grim.
April is back.
Cruelty out of the shack.
It is afternoon.
The trees stand still
put up a brave face in the sun
while the sea prepares the breeze.
Pens slip out of sweaty palms
and write whatever pleases them.
A thumping heart leaps out,
paints its relief all across
an easy question paper.
The mirages clear out.
Evening switches on the breeze
and suddenly we are elsewhere.