irate boatman

i see the lonely boatman pulling his boat
to the banks of the river
he cruised only for a shorter moment
shorter than that summer in far north

the yachter appeared exhausted
and even frustrated
while the river continued her dance
her fast flowing towards the ocean

the boatman did not begin his boating
from that little point the river began, or dropping
dangerously many suicidal heights, and suddenly
spreading thinly on grounds a boat could ground

now the retired oarsman like jonah is envious
that the river that carried him continues
without him and his tiny craft
before merging into a oneness with the wide sea

Note: Photo by Gitanjali Victor

my digital frame

from his infinite mega memory
pictures of rare beauty change constantly
in my white
four feet by four feet
digital frame fixed firmly
on my wall

and yet i rarely greet him
running away too quickly
to pick up a channel
that my worn out wallet
provide with pain
increasing unnecessary storms
within my soul

with it
i reject the poise
the pictures offer freely

wild grass

you live in the margin
and just for a season
of spring, summer and an autumn
before your death
with no thought of reincarnation

i live with you in my heart
paying attention to your imprint
frame hanging on wall in my mind
making you my classy model
while others dismiss as wild grass

i’m learning to dance
like you in the summer
with winds of gradual change
and stormy revolution
enjoying my present moment

i bend when the tempests hit
hit me hard to break me
like you, that emptiness in stock
i keep my soul empty
with no expectation to sit on a throne

yet to evolve!

my brother, older, and i
like the silent sea turtle
and that noisy prairie hen
act out our evolutions differently

his achievements in thousands
that no one knows
except in those thousands that return
to the sea to remain hidden

mine, emerging from ego
bloated to the capacity of bursting
is that one, the single egg
i announce close to thousand times

bigger dream

the single bed that sleeps my stiff
is warm under my double blanket
and my body tries to curl
as if it has now returned to my mother’s womb

(even as my hand withdraws in
after pushing the clock’s button in
not so slowly like a snail that pulls in)

disobeying the chiropractor
and my other learned doctor
who had seen my aging indoors
the degeneration in my bone
that requires a careful
straightening even in slumbering!

and under that coverlet
my fingers cover my ears, at
the speed of a supersonic jet
that in the secret space of my heart
the call to wellness will not be felt

inside the mantle, at the end, i kill a bigger dream
a vision, like that of lincoln, king, and now, obama
that needs to be dreamed
outside the bedspread, away from a cozy bed!