Sunday, September 28, 2014

Adonis' songbird

Adonis is ill tonight, bleak is this music
devoid of any meaning, it is the songbird's fault
the songbird cuts her vocal cords
one by one, two for the lumps that grow on throats like cankers on trees
the third for the leftovers of her voice
she hangs them over Adonis' head, like washing  to ward off the evil eye
far from his hay-and- flower ornamented bed, she tries to restrains
the pairs that give him their blueness and gradation of yellow
Adonis is ill tonight and she pleads with her body;
pleading cranberries, pleading the river, pleading the tunes she sings
for a calmer woodland and a softer moon. Adonis may sleep well away from the wild boars.
 Her Adonis is ill for the night and she can only squeeze his hand 
and dance around the fire they light, together at many instances
Adonis is terribly ill for the night and she's already given him her voice
because she had nothing better to offer, nothing more precious to the
bright-feathered, bedside tethered songbird.

Picture credits: Peter Paul Rubens c.o. Google Art collection.

Feral Feline

A cat can spot danger at an arm's length
she can tell from afar when the world tumbles
like little stones skipping over a pond, she anticipates the fall
as she licks her paws and arches her back
waiting as the dart comes to her
comes over again
and disappears like it's never existed-
the cat knows who shoots at her with one blind eye
and turns the other towards where her black hairs land. 

Saturday, September 27, 2014

We Learn by Watching.

Be gentle. Stay calm. That's the what I learnt by watching them
watching me, as if I was an episode in a long saga.
I always had that face for the public.
A mixture of repair, disdain to my very eyes.

When he brought Cindy home, I felt my face tighten
a dancer's bun, I had seen him fail responsibly before.
When Cindy came home, he swore to watch her,
tend for her needs: wash the hair gently like it was his own.
Walk her daily. Feed her and be company. Be a world in one body.
He made manly promises that were womanly executed.
He made the same promises before, I was the main witness-
I continued to stir the daily soups in silence. I watched them, a world of their own.
I never understood Cindy's secret, his blossoming
I stirred, silence.

It was the dog show, I still recall the October chill
the chill that wrapped me in the light brown jacket
before I stepped out into the fog, he said
he hated my jacket and the way I wore my hair-
I only said he looked childish in square jackets.
A jacket insult for another, another passing note under a long margin of thoughts I complied by watching him move, inside and outside my life.


The car next to us, like her house had Jackie, Jackie of sprayed hair and short light skirts- she greeted us and led Bruno, her mutt out. Cindy howled, and ran to Bruno
He ran to Jackie. Cindy was her owner's responsibility
I restrain myself, marched light-footed.
He smiled once her way, shame on him
He barked in my face but smiled twice at her, shame on him
he smiled the third time, but it wasn't short-skirt Jackie
it was the cameraman- what does he see that I don't?
Damn Cindy and the courtesy of dogs, and dog laws and owners!
He smiled another time but I couldn't look him in the eye
this time it was Jackie and Bruno-
I stroked Cindy's hair, asked him if he needed anything-
shame on me.

I sat watching the sun across the sky,
fading in early on a fall's night and they were late that day,
but the winds, my distraction- rushed with pairs of green and red socks
the children rushed with their kites, the day rushed while I stayed inside
and across the wind and the windows
the tardiness unveiled beyond the blown curtains
the marriage of Bruno and Cindy
All dogs; copulating animals, copulating arms and legs and faces that forgot
their owners, faces that left their owners hanging in sheets
by my bedroom window,
A dog walker's evening; not a woman's delight-
We only learn, hard by peeking at the life of other people
the life we think we own
what we patch perfectly,
Be gentle. Stay calm, again. I was watching them
glancing at me, all owners and dogs.

Another poem published on Visual Verse. You can check it out here: 

Thursday, September 25, 2014

The art of mimic

I learn the art of living by mimicking
by following what others provide: an intelligent conversation, a look or
a way of life. An easy three step recipe for a dish
it is falling in the cracks that others imprint
a tracing of steps, while I discover a free way to fall
defying gravity on my own-
the key is in looking closely then sniping the bare necessities from the noise
 filter by spinning cobwebs, tight threads- whole houses out of raw patience.
It is the art of life I learn in portions like I learnt the days of the week
Sunday is for laundry then rest
Monday is for work and Thursday for thirst and party, the days into another week
along the ride, what I see becomes part of me
how close a dancer steps,
how tears form, how to break and fix-
long equations, smooth balance.
I have tasted softness on my tongue, like cotton candy
released the harder edges like boulders, whilst watching the world
go, spin in its daze, I create my own place-
for we become what we experience
we are what we see.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Fear itself

There is only a small space that lies amid fear and the jump
thin like a hair, wide like a gap of two rocks colliding  to drift apart
further away from their expected place of rest
the space is big enough for fear to open the doors and tiptoe
into the main halls of the house-
the living room, fear sits in front of the fire place
cross legged first, allowing you enough time to reason with breath
then, like a house owner it pulls out its shoes and rests its feet up high  roasting chestnuts
on the opened fire and humming Christmas melodies that cause mayhem, like the Grinch
stealing joy the way winter steals summer's lilacs
in total comfort, fear stews its food.
Like guilt, like shame, like fire consuming wood
fear stays, as fear only resides in those who live on the edge of the gap,
 before the jump like rocks that collide
only to drift apart, leaving madness to answer to the nagging questions of
the sane.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


It is common, she thought to herself
the change from her skin into a wolf's fur
underneath the silver moonlit sky, she can howl, four times 
for the different winds and elements 
everything that is under her skin is reason enough of care 
like the spots over her arms and the shadow behind her lip 
she howls again, everything that's been broken was once built
and every night that's been dark is a result of snippets of days 
and so is she, pieces from things little, things strange, things unknown
herself, howling. 


Today all is equal:
the day and the night
the sound and the sight
the dream and the fury
man and his woman
we know today all can be equal
it is the equinox of the hours, a natural call
for the leaves to fall and for the hearts to crack
gently at the coming of storm
the reception of winter.

-Photo is credit of Google search.

Swiss Chocolate

Three chocolate cubes sit on my dust filled desk
they are from Switzerland, where I've never been
I shove it away as I look at your picture, human
you are from a land where the desert runs long like veins
too bad I am from Mars, but Swiss chocolate appeals to
those who taste bitterness first.

Delay the universe

Valued is the time for the stretch
between a leg and a cover, sacred is
the freedom of a swan to take flight
heed to the water bellow her wings
that the ripples may delay the softness of the universe

Friday, September 19, 2014

so slow, so fast

Trickling, ticking, testing
Defies your sense,  stretches your body into numbers
Don’t try to touch it, don’t try to go back- it bites
Just observe as it nudges the seconds:
One after another
One after the other

Thursday, September 18, 2014


Memory is funny
ask me, I will recall  history
broken into little mini-chips
like a puzzle, a picture complete
We remember what we cannot overlook
a scent lingering, a pressed rose, a word
promises of the same result
one end and a few clues for
memory. It is funny what you can recall
when you least expect-
impatient remembrance,
is a long story like
 you and
what I now call me,
It rings in my head, words, instructions I give to you like begging
remember to call me when you fall
just moments before you break
remember to allocate me a space between the fold of your eyelid
and its opening
isn't this what romantics do? fear for the heart they discovered
walking out of their chest?
remember I am made of blood and bones too-
Do you remember the summertime?, the prime?
 I now gather the remains of broken fusions of images, ours
like the moon gathers the tide
We are what we keep
mottoes, sticks and stones, favorite thread loose blouses
and heavier things: things unspeakable, things inaccessible
we are our memories
because we now can no longer be anything else-
and as I sit and marvel
I turn to where you once sat,
asking you like the wind that bangs your eardrums
Do you remember
 the picture I gave you?
You must
because that picture I left,
is where I smiled last.

carpet pattern

pierce my lungs with a thorn's blade
my air, is the world's oxygen
hesitate, it's a fraction in movement,
a normality
color the scarves on your chest with
shades you nicked out of my head
but when you hallucinate, recall me
I'm not  another drab carpet pattern

license to breathe

Allow someone a license to breathe
to stretch from the inhalation of vanilla scented mornings
to the exhalation of a sound like the closing seconds of sunrise
allow a license to breathe
all those who lost their voices
chanting for the next sunrise

Affectionate Donation

Relief, relief
papers screaming out and I, like flower am slowly dying with grace
with time
with all that dies, leaves, pets and people
of the flood, the people of the sins and the people of the drinks
So donate for my cause
please contact your local community center, 
the one edged near the pub and out of sight of all those whole
we request donations 
a few minutes, nothing else than a friendly hello
or a two seconds text message that costs few pennies 
a question is always nice, add to that concern and care
subtract the amount of tension and distress
we request donations of affections 
to the case of one tattered heart 
affections are requested
donate today and receive what I send
your way.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

That's all for now

New news by the minute
this just in
flashing signs, blaring eyes
Headless longing
That's all for now

Not anything in particular

Grey is not a particular thing by itself
But the result of all spots of shade and light
A mule is not a creature of its own will
But a breed of a jack and a mare
There are some things, and some beings- touchable
Some untouchable
Like air, like pillow-talk
that are not anything in particular
Not definable, deeming or destined to take a form
For themselves into the vanity of other shapes
And other beings
Some thing simply do not fit in the mixture
Of particularities
not puzzling some places are misshapen and some simply lost
others lack care or genuine will, make gaps in their place
the gaps in the jigsaw are the only natural part of its
Resist the blanks and your fall will bruise
resist the color and fear your one-shaded skin
it is not an equation of perfection, the art of making life
A possibility
But it is an effort of understanding,
things that do not fit any particularity
And by this there are entities
Like me
that are nothing in particular
perhaps, a thread of all generics

Porcelain Mask

Nothing is more perfect than the face of a porcelain doll
Eyes round and gazing
Lips red and kissable
There is nothing like a doll for perfection
Slim waist, full covered lashes
A doll is yours by your touch
it is it's owners property
yours to do as you please
Shake it, break it, walk over it
Or place it in an old trunk
display it like candy to mark others jealous
All yours is what you can control-
Nothing that's lifeless is beyond you
and so is she, who lives behind the sycamore
And wails atop the river
For she, like a doll, you claim yours

What a doll, they used to tell her
And she'd wondered why
Would someone compare her to something so small
So inanimate, so plastic
But it takes her long enough to dress
and long enough to realize
behind the cold porcelain
Lies the answer.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Standing straight

Don't try to work from point A to point B 
if you still cannot stand without crutches
those who'd unassumingly stand too close, 
are shadows in disguise
wary from their pushes, sideways.
These hold your crutches 
while you access the disabled toilet
a place you've reached solely by yourself-
but they'd leave your wooden leg carved in initials
by the front door of your car- be careful with your step 
even if its a one legged hop by now-
balance on one foot is better than a curse of the
evil eye 

Procrastinating tunes

On the tape, some words and humming -the list
past midnight
these tunes
a possible reality, a possible compositio


Material is never lost
it changes form, it takes 
the shape of other items
rocks, lights, sounds.
Opening a sock drawer is her relief
a can of worms, like rush
like rain swivels round her
insignificant realities:

- a stone from Wordsworth's garden
- a pinch of dirt from Shakespeare's house
- an old pen
- an old notebook, half full, half expecting to be touched
- a lighter and a smell of someone, a man, miles away

it is all the things she finds that refrain the tune of 
 her north, the time of sailing
the time of living, 
a time when she was removed from time
from the claws of all the steps she lost and still loses
every moment she glances back when she sees terror's red eye
like a bear on a hunt for sweetness.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

turn of rain

She knows the trees start dying
like everything else, she only knows the leaves start
dying with a little mercy each day
with the change of hours the leaves just
turn void,
it is the turning of the season:
it is the turn of rain

flood, mercy

The singer at the closed rooms

He twists
and shouts
and twists
and shouts
to the rhythm of one two one
three four bars in a minute
faster than the drapes on the walls
all shutting the lights away
faster than the claps, louder even
the singer at the closed rooms knows too well
that the sound of his voice never leaps beyond the walls of the room
never leaves the beat at
the dancer's heart.

the daily situation

 slightly drifting
rolling with the time, at last
like tide, like dead, buried corals

Dedication, forbidden tears

Part of a longer work's dedication:

For strength benching
lifting weights and shedding skins
all  effective adjustments
to the broken, effective packaging of the whole.
For it was a long
candy-wrapped dream, peeling slowly
truth reflecting
truth  reflecting


Sunday, September 7, 2014

Like a badge

Poets wear their pain like a badge
seen by others, only the wearer feels
the tip of the pin near its breast
under his shirt throbbing, it is a reminder
of existence, a marker of the fight
for a slot among the normally unnatural
those who hear music and interpret it into words
those who hear words and interpret them music, lyrics and light
All one shade of mad, poets make of their pain a shape,
give it a false name, smile at it during cocktail parties
and store the sting away, for lighter days

Fished out

You tell me you do not fit
between the bubble
and the tide
that your skin stiffens under the algae,
I rub you in coral
but the sea never washes into you
You are too solid for water
and I, like you despise the scales
the shiny blades I earned without contact with air
breathing is difficult when you inhale
processed oxygen, true we've both despised the sea
all that comes from it, the broken glasses rounded to a new shape
the shark's tooth, my sunburn and the salt into
our mouths water-washing our words
we leave what we do not understand,
and now, sitting near the fireplace bathing in October's thrill
and the biting chill you tell me again
how you do not fit between the foam and the sand grain
and I nod, I'll never let you know
how the sea creeps on you,
I'll keep my thoughts to myself
A fish out of water
is dead, anyway

Saturday, September 6, 2014


Nothing justifies
like a late morning coffee
like a missed alarm beat
it is the other end of waiting, tardiness
call it lazying, call it asking for time to extend its wing
into another flight
but never stopping, never fighting
nothing justifies your letters arriving late
your answers shocking up
nothing justifies the running fingers of the clock.

Thursday, September 4, 2014


So this is
the second hundred in the turn of days
the turn of events
and the blossoming of words
how do we celebrate?
by smudging old paper
with new ink, more creation is
our celebration