Cherry Blossom in Summer

There is this tree,
outside the window
drinking from the earth
water pulsing through
Its veins - rushing to feed
winged blossoms of silky gauze.

They keep time, to the
music of the wind -
the divine Painter, fluidly
tracing their pixie dance
against the blue
gossamer sky.

Lighting up corners of my
soul - nooks where
love cannot reach
These winged blossoms
against the gossamer sky
They keep time to the summer breeze

And they speak...
They speak, to me.

Book

If I were an unstained book,
without looped squiggles and
ungainly blots of ink,
would you still read me?

Flip through my pages,
pausing to read your favourite lines
again

and run your fingers over stains
of time- the vicious imprint
of a tea cup,

a dried tear, a preserved petal,
or an outdated tract
in my leaves.

Pick me up, torn and aged
and Read me, I
have stories to tell

of battles fought and wars
Lost.

Pick me up and Read me
my pages are blank, ready,
for another story

A melody, smooth and molten,
melts in my head
lapping at the edges of memories
I'd rather forget.

It strings a chain of thoughts
and lets it hang in the breeze,
where they drop off one by one,
like dead, withered leaves.

Time moves in geometric progression, perceptually.
a fickle lover, a friend, an adversary.
an intangible fibril, causer of affinity
with what was, what is, and what will be.

rain

Pattering drops don’t quieten
the melody of mirth
Monsoon’s chill does not
wither the mountain blooms.

Earth’s little crevices
invaded and flooded;
Awkward little streams
angered to a frenzy,

Shield of a rock, shelter
of a tree; but it drips and slides
over the brow and around the
feet.

rain.

The last note of a love song
a tear at the parting sigh.
A swansong at the fall of dusk,
is a goodbye

Gently the brush wipes the claw
Camouflaging, perfecting it to blend
into the urban woods.

Wild locks are pressed into submission
Singed and rolled, tossed and curled
Ironed and brushed.

The glass is welcomed. The prisoner
holds the joyous captives. They smile and laugh,
bat lashes; clatter by in fragrant clouds

Craving is planted. The sisterhood is
ready.

Flick of a grimy careless hand,
Lit this spark
It waned and waxed
Flickered and burnt
A black sooty halo
On the pane of a window
Through which sunlight
dropped, now and then.

Liquid brown lava smoldered
In two shallow basins
Above them, eagles flew.
Watching in solitude,
I wondered if i should worship
Or run. with the
Nonchalance of a pagan

round and round the pools i ran,
Till I fell in them.
Emerged scorched, burnt
And purged. Yet again.

I have seen eyes that wait for death-
that rosy horizon which faith
has made beautiful.
Countless footsteps in a desert
for a journey without
the Tabernacle, still hoping
for another Shiloh;
a hope that lingers
despite time, despite love.
with Broken wings they want to fly
the old blood does Not
flow in these veins;
the denied Eden morphs into
a doubtful question.

a black fountain pen

Like a black fountain pen
With streamlined nib
Glinting silver when
A ray
Catches it, through
a desolate window,
so are the lines
it writes

Same as the pen, it
is sometimes beautiful,
catching a careless
reader’s fancy
But mostly forgotten.
For who uses a
black fountain pen
these days?