A Love Poem

The Sin

A gathering storm,

Of her pitiless faults,

Words, actions, thoughts,

In deed no absolution.


The Guilt

A weary affliction,

This weight of wrong,

The assault unnamed,

No trial for conviction.


The melancholy moon let out a sigh,

And spoke thus to the night,

 “Oh what a fright, the child’s deed

And dread. She lives a humorless breath,

Scorned by love for her numb despair.”


The night agreed and shook its mane,

Let loose a dash of stars that said,

 “Child let go, you are small yet,

You do not see, nor do possess

The wit and fury that love craves.”


The Judgement

Love has gone and so must you,

Heathen child of Sin and Guilt,

Walk in silence and pray to none

Godless, you must walk alone.


The Reward

Silken treasures begotten of love, now

Wrapped in lace of misery and despise,

The child walked away to starless skies,

Faithless, delivered her soul to truth.






The Wall, the Play, the Text, and Death

A wall collapsed and buried two
Bodies short, not quite human yet
A homely menace  lay in wait
Unannounced upon childish play

Names identified deployed the dead
To an unseen corner of the local press
The text implied an unreasonable end
But the story runs on in spite of itself

Motherly wails and paternal glares
Synesthetic results of printed trace
The fall of a wall: a fragile debt
Of dignity denied to bodies that fled

Now the messenger remains yet at play
An old cut-out upon its abject display
Per chance seized my time and relayed
This strange tale of untimely sway

Silent Sorrow

I stand by and watch
As pieces of a fragile mind
Wither, crumble, and fall
If my outstretched palms
Could catch the pieces
I would scatter them
In the winds and rivers
And the ground of final calm
Would rise to meet the return
Of dust and ash in sweet erasure.


The late afternoon hour whispers of the incipient oldness in this house. As the sun pronounces its final descent my heart is taken hostage by a creeping dread. I lie in my bed listening to the sounds drifting in from the hazy paths behind the house. These sounds upset the dense stillness inside connived by things and sentiments that demand to be left alone. A chill runs down my spine. I want to immerse myself in the silence of Death and never climb back out again. But I am also intrigued by the sounds of Life that are beckoning me to look outside. In a moment this choice will become irrelevant. In a moment the dim latticed light of the setting sun on my bedroom wall will pass into darkness. In a moment the stillness inside will implode and the sounds from outside will cease. But this knowledge of the moment’s inevitable passing only intensifies my struggle.  For I must necessarily choose and what I choose will occupy me eternally. Even after the moment has elapsed, it will subsist within me as my burden. The clock ticks nervously, the curtains ruffle soundlessly, the refrigerator drones mercilessly, the coffee mug sits silently. I am as motionless as this assemblage of things. Is this my choice then? To lose myself in the imperceptibly slow unraveling of time? Suddenly, children’s laughter sneaks in from outside, a motorbike roars, the sun sets and the gate to this relic of timelessness opens up, letting time itself in. The moment has disappeared. And so has the odd confrontation of old irreconcilable spirits. Till another late afternoon.


The prayer wheel that sits at the edge of the world has only one companion: the steady rhythm of a bell that sounds at every turn of the wheel. The turn that becomes the chime. The chime that sounds the turn…There is a third though. The Totality that makes the wheel turn and the bell chime.

It is the singularity called wind. All the moving forces in the world abandon their carefully measured trajectories to converge here, before plunging into the void. The final obstacle in the final movement, this ancient monument. The wheel, the bell, and the wind. And yet now a fourth. A disruption.

It is I.  Subject and gaze. Erase! Erase!


Papered Soul

A wrinkled mass of flesh extricated
From the pain of another whole,
Foul it cried for rightly had senses judged,
Its unwitting assimilation into a ruse.
And birth was pronounced not by the cries,
But lines on a paper to be held for truth,
For structured life is only thus certified,
Signed and stamped though barely afoot.

The mass grew and saw childhood through,
Along the way, graded chiding a few,
Red blots on its attempt to knowledge,
To speak of the merit thus assumed.
And in time was worth apportioned,
Internally begotten yet externally imposed,
The degree of effort, limited in value and use,
On paper performed, laminated and put to show.

When love came calling for the mass now human,
It was signed and certified and only hence verified,
A union forged out of contractual institution,
To manipulate togetherness via civic codes.
And when death did do this union part,
The body and absence yet prisoner held,
To the period inscribed on the paper,
That pronounced the final fate.

And what to be said of all that passed,
Between one papered event and the next,
Life held hostage to the whims and flows,
Of notes that held the boldest claims.
Happiness and comfort in measured portions,
Contingent on stocks of flimsy paper,
Ah, let no will be wholly forfeited,
To such dank paths within papered enclosures.


He Says She Says

He launched an offensive.
“You never did trust me to begin with.”

Sigh! Of course it was her mistake.

He softened the edges.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out.”

What? A bold claim to deceit!

He tried to play it cool.
“You made it hard for me to breathe.”

So why did he not simply leave?

Now he plays it sweet.
“There’s no one else for me.”

She nods, all a matter of time.

He says, she fights. He denies, she cries. He is offended, she is angry. Such is the Reality of a Lie.