White cotton grass

That was the white cotton grass which grew out of nothingness

and now salvage nature of its doings in the wilderness

I must profess the beer is not the solution to

balmy but cold nights of the tundra where I imagine to be

a sip of Heineken is a long lost battle of taste

where the sweet-maker says the taste is for the challenge

And I walk back besides a mongrel in the tropics

and life hastens like a recoil of a bullet shot in

the anticipation of the dew that lingers on like a white curtain

which when unveiled shows me a cabin of a room left by itself

and to me to smile on the journeys the men undertake

only to discover the white cotton grass of nothingness

Extending into each direction as if lost on its way

it tells the journeying men no way is untraversed.


A man marries a tree

In the dead of the frigid wind

nothing blows not even the cold leaves

of the sunken tree who had a spirit

feminine in the stark night

nothing could be seen

but his voice who had married the tree

beneath it was the treasure of life’ savings

where he had invested his fine fortune

to love the spirit who arose with the sun

and set on spotting the new moon

and empty hand stretched from the bark

they say the moon once had crimson light

when the tree was a full grown woman

and now nothing grows

not even the cold of December rain

and the man marries the tree

The soulful men

Life is boring,

Love is demanding,

There are shadows on the tin wall,

these are the souls of the faceless men,

Who need not love nor live,

like the men who work in factories,

with favorite actresses strewn to thier shoulders,

nonetheless they love,

they demand besides food, sex,

the souls of these men I saw on the tin wall,

hardly waking or sleep,

but nontheless irony of the blood,

they run on water alone as if half living,

on the mercy of the rain,

they feed on the first shower

Samadhi- The meditation

There he sat in oneness with the cosmos

Eyes closed, in lotus position he sat cradling the universe

memory and desire stilled the compass of love

which pointed in east-west and the conundrum of the west

he put to the east, looking for questions dissolving into the abyss

of time and space, time-space dissolving into the true being

His sense of awakening and awareness as weakening

Free floating in the constellations he as a soul nothing

but himself without a space suit feeling the ever stretching space

and as a chanceless in the samadhi, eternally connected to

the music of spheres wringing in the air and calling upon

the name of love and vanishing ego leaves behind nothingness

and the stillness of being.

A momento

I have a rhythm that blinds
the light falling from the sun
cut off into half like the melon
that I had put aside with pride
I would feed her with delight
and carefully nudge the body entwined
in a whisper,I hush the room
and bending upon the shadows
is the sunlight fixated upon the marble
stones where is the God? then
In a loose heaven off the north pole
on the dawning haze that I
open the door into a blazing day
hardly rubbished by time.
My time has been mend by the clock
on the wall. Here is the bend in
time and space and the empty room
is the place where all meet to forget
A tango!

what is love?

Two souls wait for each other like hunchback of Notre Dame wait for the evening gloam

Each bitting the web of time in its own way to merge love and beauty alike in equal measure

Morroco was a distant shore in those days where a painter would learn thousand stars stripped on to the canvas

And a muse of Montreal dreams chase the evening clouds out into the dusty roads till soaking wet in rain

What is love then? To pent up in rain, or stars, or dusty roads or each other then

to wait for nothing in the mildew thoughts of the mountains, to give away a part of oneself as the one soul speaks up

the silence in wooing the other for nothingness!

Desolate table

It is freezing for big freeze is the loose fate of all the cosmos

Its weeping like a maudlin cat having lost the summer for nothing

I am writing on a desolate table with the TV sports on

Its Copernican dream tearing itself apart for Mathematics is too strong

The love of a woman is the forlorn silence that I beg to differ rather than

Agree with the God’s words for the eve was left out in the cold

On a dreary April morning when the lock clicked with the fortune

Of a Spiderman out to bend the destiny with the web and wipe out itself

Its the desolate table with stakes on of a failure of the cascading skies

To unwind for one kiss is the dream of a gypsy woman out in the folds

Of Child’s destiny to turn the fruit rather sweet than to snatch from

The gaping mouths of a twenty and score being fed for nothing

While I on a desolate table continue my yarn of a story on and on.