in the memory of Ezra Pound

The ghost would calm me down for he is a preserver of true form

of the form vanished with the eloping night that I hoped to perform

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Little rainy impressions

The rain had rundown like sunshine on the Picasso

hardly leaving a memory of the foreshore in dusk

Then she sang a song of piety as a passionless star

could glimpse from within the yellow light in the ember

which turned white as white as her scarf that billowed

loose in the falling rain droplets and i measuring her thighs

resigned to reading a snoop from Life magazine then she turned away

through the rain as if she would bid adieu but she didn’t but whispered through the rain

nothing not even an impression of anyone but the dusk under the lamppost

the rain fell for the last time I hope as if Picasso has retired to the noon

A Natural thought

The nature is a bounty boundless of air, sea and water

the cosmos in frigid space is the entity that is ours

Existence exists in bob fish, or a log fowl or an animal on foot

And we the same star stuff draw pebbles  in the holes of time

breathing every moment and living dead corpse with silence within

We cope the matrix of religion as false as the opined thought

of gravity based on opium, the more you have, the more you are rooted


A Night Out

Gossiping into the midnight,

later coffee roasted to a white gleam

and had but with loafing near the woods

the darkness is dampening by the flames of the campfire

the stalking night never stops stalking, blame the sun?

for infernal fire about 8 minutes away from the earth

At last the sun rose and the foggy delight of winter

eloped into a new born day and her soft hands mellowed

with the last sip of the coffee, rest the night is over

and the aroma dies a hard at the scent of the woods

the last ounce of the blood steeped in coffee

and mixed with the scent of your forlorn hair

jump over a blue shift of the moon in your eyes

and another sip of love would drown the hearty

into a whirlpool of space and time curved over the horizon

you are near then ever but the faint hope never dies not

even the whirlwind of death that is cast as lizard on your wall




Multiverse in Kalidasa

Of all the goodies drawn from the silk route, poetics are the best

The tinged God with a flame’s glow avows to lady love, the world’s a nest

in which lives the partridge covey like men and women

all lost on the way to Multiverse, by the wick of the candle the fire is drawn

into manifold colored flame that is a spark for life

lit it ! lit it! you need to see the pavement you walk upon said the teacher

and we young and habitual wait for the poet Kalidasa to reveal the lady on the path

A currying dream

A refined dream of Freud making hair black again

of the patients with the gray hair

and the daughter licking the foot-tips of Ganges

on the narrow stairs leading to the holy-dip

Then rose the demon favoring a currying behavior

with the God who never shrugged anything till the bells rang

and the crowd dispersed to meet again on the sands

No one had a muttering of blue shadows eloping in darkness

the nun kept the words of the God to herself, Thou shall be

a partridge and an adulteress  with an A

The duress sank under the weight of a probation officer

who granted mercy in the hell to the clown

having imitated like God with a candle on his head

Till the sparrows eloped forever hearing the mobile tone

The knowledge busters

Oh moon tell me of the various amorous deeds you have seen

upon the earth among the mortals who would blasphemy the love

for eve was sidelined to the life on the earth

in whose womb the man was made till the earthly flights became a boon

for the knowledge is ever seeking adventure which we persist with today

The God had banished the man

yet he seeks the knowledge of heavens as dear as it seems

Is the knowledge the pastime of Adam’s sons all through the solar days ?

Still no lessons learned, the man wants to know why are we here ?

As a prostitute’s son would mull over the Adam’s apple

the man ponders over the apple of Eden’s loam

Tell oh moon who the lovers of knowledge were

who want to stymie the noon

and become master of the race that was born out of a doom.