on her feet,

erase and erupt like the curves of smooth hills on his picture book.

For each stride she takes,

the pain rises and settles in his shores,

always by normal accident.

While the tempest of her lost stories

wither; languid trees shaken out of their blossoms.

Break of dawn

Beyond the cracks of nostalgia,

your poetry is a repetition of ‘I’, ‘you’ and ‘me’,

always worried, distant, anxious,

savoring on lost moments of confusion

in the distance of thoughts, deluded pleasures

bound in misfit conversations.

Here, I say that you were ‘found’

by the passage of morose fixations,

but ‘you’ can never sense or see where ‘I’ come from,

even with time,

you only repeat my convictions.

And ‘I’ seek my sanity in the profanity of words,

each syllable elongated to fit your truce.

‘I’ will cut through questions and answer with silence.



saffron sighs

On a saffron bus, in the Indian heat,

she looked back in to the road,

that dwindled into a golden camp.

Thirteen years ago dressed in a white kurti

and sucking a sweet tablet,

not in hunger but elated by the train journey.

The wheels sang on the tracks,

her maroon waist coat clung to her sticky skin,

from behind her peach frame she peeked out at the boys from Ghana,

late into the rainy night playing chess.

Those young lads and her girls had met on a trip.

She  woke drowsy from a  dream last night,

with the taste of  Punjabi food, milk coffee and vanilla ice cream.

There were Chinese letters on the side walk,

Before she leaves, she hopes you won’t desert her, 

not when the train stops or before it begins.

She will sleep by Hermann Hesse.