As if the waiting is over

This commotion never ceases,
In the almond tree’s branches

As if there is a distant gunshot
To fire crows sleeping in them

As they caw round and round
As if the waiting is finally over.

As crows are waiting for dead
But the fish seem on vacation

Waiting for little pieces of luck
To rise from sea’s inner depths

There is commotion all under
As if the waiting is finally over.

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Silence connects

Her long silence in a poem spoke
From columnar space in history

Her silence connects us with her
While we move upon it, in room

After room ,like wave after wave
Like sea that repeats its motions.

In room or by sea, slow and soft
Silence hits my shore like waves.

(On reading On a Columnar Self by Emily Dickinson)

Ache on leash

A man with his unkempt beard
On a bus shelter’s bench is ache.

You can see the ache pulsating.
A wind comes from south west

And brings memory of an ache.
All you have is a vapor on face.

Africa type man walks his dog,
Dog sniffing pavement on leash

There is ache on the dog’s face
And on the Africa face at leash.

Everyone has his ache on leash.
Everyone has vapor on his face.

Planning for tomorrow

A woman in the waves of that day
Shall drown less and scream less,
As other women will click her pic.

Turtle will not wash ashore dead
For hopeful crows of a new dawn
Since this is not the turtle season.

We are planning for a tomorrow
For a tomorrow for crows to caw.
Of course , death has final word.

(Reading On Death, Without Exaggeration – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska)

Cocking a snook at life

What if you fail partial, cocking
A snook at life demanding flesh

In entirety, blood by spoonfuls
A bone smelling at the bottom.

Let life fail , irony play out less
Spoonful less bleeding, a bone

Less smelling, a path less silent
On a grave stone, a cricket less

Creaking, a verse less shrieking.
You are even with it at the end.

Elbows and feet

In the nearness of dream is  bus in dust
A driver’s elbow outside a bus window.
Dream is of an elbow , not whole driver

A dust in which all buses shall disappear.
Today in the news was not a whole boy
But foot that had missed a running bus.

The dust swirls, being a regret no longer
About the route no 7 but a dust swirling
Where we all disappear, elbows and feet.

Simulacrum

In a rhythm, please speak up now with us,
As rain- moths are pulling out their music

From puffed up cheeks and painted hearts.
The cuckoo sings a rain song from a gnarl.

Crack a burst sound from the almond shell
Of morning hid in kernel on night’s branch

The tip of tongue testifying its early rising.
As adrenaline had wildly gone up the night.

Girls hold your skirts to swirl as earth-balls
Kick a blue of an airy balloon to yellow sun

The sun has tied the earth to move round it
Let it be your fate to move in simulacrum.