We are giggling girls in our backs
It is where stings should happen-
A swarm of bees no, just a single.
The bees make ruckus as beards.
They sting when they are stubble.
On backs they tingle adventures.
In poet’s myth bee brings pollen
On wee legs, what beauty spread!
A sting is worth it for immortality
It confers on backs in old poems.
Bus shelter stood with holes of eyes
Open to a sky that held possibilities
Of rows of stars on moonless nights.
The shelter did not care for bus dust
Coming from the horizon on a wind.
Right , the bus conductor would say
Glamorously, his leather square bag
Hanging loosely with ticket moneys.
What a lovely rain to drown under
What a pale sky to be afraid about.
The sky was father we feared most
He would spank ears with his rain
Legend had it of mom now in a sky
My river that rose in a flowing dam
To turn a legend as bodies flowed.
The legend turned ashes in a river.
Brother is a wind in trees
Gently passing old woods.
He had a next after years
Of his brother’s early next.
(His bulb had quite a light
Now softly passing trees.)
We are in a hurry to know
The next, curious to know.
The woman is still her bulb
With no next sign to light.
She will be happy to know
The next, curious to know.
She whispers to none but herself.
All the others have lost her trust.
Luckily , walls have ear implants.
Walls are her daylong projections
Extending from an old self to sky
Pure white,steeped in grand logic.
Her nights that are sleep in eyes
Extend to the dark science of sky
From blank wall with no pictures.
When winter wind passes window
The leafy spring is left far behind.
Poetry does not come like leaves.
We rake poetry words like years,
Yellow and few or none in snow,
When all is white as inside bone.
(William Shakespeare’s sonnet That time of year though mayst in me behold)
God says do it again at dawn
And at the recur of eventide
And a sun would do it again
For children to laugh again
As daisies will be born again
Only to die again separately
And as daisies ,all in a chain
And be born new daisies all
Daisies are as the same God
Saying the same thing again
Daisies anywhere are words,
Like words that fall the same
Words will come back again
In nights to be same poems.
Walls would stretch interminably to white sky
Hiding bush and snakes in them gently rising,
Feet shuffling to rustling sounds of dry leaves.
The squirrels built bridges for our man-gods
And earned three dark stripes on soft backs.
Strange birds sang in the sky deaths of lives.
With the distance of time our eyes slowly fell
And body hurried past closing all our spaces.
The distances are now small, a skyline close.
My weather is sun hid
in a backyard tree.
Its rain is deep in hiding
in the beach sea.
Its clouds are nightly
Moon has temporary
circles like tired eyes.
They tell you that rain
is coming anytime.
Mom now is a lake by a tree
Inspecting shadows of birds
As birds pass their shadows,
Words are shadows of birds.
My dear, take care of a face
Sitting on high strung neck
You may trip to lose a head
If there is red tinge in eyes.
Birds shit lake’s rocks white.
Lake passes their shadows.
Mothers are our words in us.
Words are our passing birds.