All-time is moments strung together
You are trapped in like the ladybugs
Trapped in the paperweight’s amber
Sitting on top of paper against wind.
We are individual ladybugs trapped
In a separate amber of the moment.
(Notes on Kurt Vonegut’s Slaughterhouse 5)
Stop in your tracks and everyone’s.
Freeze as you are, unstuck in time
Like white Himalayan snow caught
In a motionless vortex of the pines
As a sun that would unfreeze them
At next dawn, himself froze at dusk
As ball of snow that a white widow
Flung at man to freeze honeymoon.
Stop, bustling crowds in the streets
So you won’t vanish at the corners.
It was just school bus for tiny tots.
We continue to live in our planet.
Yellow bus goes by its self motion
Steered by its fatalistic bus driver,
Not a google run bus on internet
Moving on to planet in the creek.
Tiny school kids are inside the bus,
Going to rote multiplication table
And A for Apples and P for planet
And voices rise like the bees’ hum.
Yellow school bus taking children
To learn the multiplication tables
Was heading towards planet creek.
At the end was no sea of learning.
All we were doing is philosophize
For laugh over the times’ quiddity.
A driver fatalistic about school bus
Is one-up take on a school system.
The son is still making in body
In a body’s stomach growling.
Son has to crawl up to the sky
And say his mama and names
Holding his wall’s white alone.
But all the while,a night stares
Empty light stares unfinished,
At a piece of boom from night.
Into the labyrinth, let us recall
The old blind poet’s death day.
We can’t guess when the poet
Was born in imagined library,
Before blindness set on books.
A reader had a recent birthday
Surely , may have many more
If he wakes from his blindness
To live memories of birthdays,
When kids made funny sounds
On birthday’s toffees he gave
And tongues would hit roofs
Of the kid mouths that knew
No blind old poets in mazes.
Through the wide passage of time,
Aunties come to ask about uncles.
Passage is wide that wide aunties
Could easily pass and uncles sport
Hair that does not stand on moon.
Uncles are boys from old passage.
Aunties had such moonlit giggles,
They may have slipped on moons.
Whatever I say, now I forget
What I contained in the past.
I forget all my old certitudes.
I forget I was ever the same
Bumbling contradicting self
A little too small for old self
So I say your coffee or mine.
And I forget I was too small
For any major contradiction.
As always, a little too small
For saying, what I say a big
That I am a little too small .
But that is what all our truth is.
Truth is rice eating yearly crows
That understand only Sanskrit,
That is the tongue of the dead.
We build bridges with the dead
The way a bodiless truth works .
Truth is learning our colleagues
No more eat rice off the plates.
Many moons ago the moon and sun
Were small kids playing on sky-roof.
An old hag of grandma forgot they
Were playing on roof, since the sky
Was just this high ,anyone climbed.
A low hung sky pestered her back
As the old hag was sweeping earth.
In irritation, she pushed the sky up.
And the poor boys ,sun and moon
Could not climb down ,poor boys.
And we keep threading poetry
Like the inside out of a pocket
In our trousers from washing
With the remains of old flower.
We are mining our childhood
From what remains of a body.
We dig deeper in our washing
And find undiscovered holes.
We have just discovered wind
Hissing as in a mountain pass.