my song

santa claus has walked into that closed box
with no opening from inside
he is trapped and suffers much with claustrophobia

who misled him
why to him, did this happen

i wake up at five
and roll in bed till seven
sip coffee till nine
my breakfast at ten
protesting against heaven
even beyond eleven
that my life is too short

jingle bells have gone too long
too much fun and no pain
though my garment is always red
with that i also wear my white beard
pretending to be very old and wise
repeating the same christmas song

my psalm forty-two

as the cacti on my window sill
keeps turning towards the sun
the very source of her growth
to grow with bentness and flowering

my soul too yearns
for your invisible presence
to be intoxicated
and also distorted

early morning i seek your face
in the ancient word
the lees and scum
my ancestors have left behind

and as i step out of my door
i feel your formless feature
in every neighbour i encounter
or consciously ignore

settling down in the evening
confidently i say, what matters
is not my seeing, but being seen
by that one who watches my night

meaning

those events, joys and pains
that you send on my way
are designs that you, the unseen artist
scratch, sketch and etch
that i may ponder in my heart
the secret intentions of that invisible artist
but never am i permitted
to publicly interpret
to proclaim
the meaning of artistic events
making me a mute
in the very presence of your absence

marathon

i now train my self
with more shorter snooze
for the marathon sleep
that some mistakenly call death

i practice also that perfect, infinite
silence of that granite
transforming my transient soul
the red rose into a perfect fossil

that at the closing stage
i fail not to easily merge
with that deathlessness
of my death, the dreamless sleep

not magic

not a magic that i expect
you to quickly act upon
but a miracle that i yearn
in my life, you to execute

i do not ask you to change
my water into red wine
but transform my taste buds
that colourless will hint as wine

i do not ask you to multiply
my loaves, but that me
and mine never go hungry
or ever disown the weary

i do not ask you for powers
to walk on the roaring sea
but that i will have the luxury
of a friend, my woes to see

not a magic that i expect
you to quickly act upon
but a miracle that i yearn
in my life, you to execute

chopping, clipping and cutting

i perceived the rumbling of paradise
calling me to the task of chopping
branches of bigger trees, permitting
not pampas grass to scarcely survive

i heard clearly the echoing in hell
calling me to the task of clipping
wings of hawk rising higher, soaring
faltering to feed hatchling in vale

i see plainly the perpetual voice
calling me to the task of cutting
arms of archdiocese, and for knocking
down that portal to produce her stance

blocking with pride

i exchange my money
for a pricey window curtain
thinking that it will provide
a window of opportunity

for my pride to be hoisted
higher like a flag
but the curtain blocks
those pretty clouds that you send

on my way through my glassy windows
these clouds, often come
with that silver line
if they end up dark and stormy

transforming my living room
into your school, teaching me to hope
chiselling, also, my extra conceit
and now, i do not yearn

for a curtain to crane my pride
enjoying what you consign
especially your sun that sits inside
my humble span

mortality confirmed

the twin mortality i am now impregnated with
since that day i, an immigrant from mars
became the sole caretaker occupant
of this space, the best earthy soil

and more than twenty-two hundred
square foot in size and greater volume
that earlier i gladly shared, comfortably
breathing with another alien from venus

who never returned home since dining
with another martian; i have sought
my companion, for days and night in vain
until i met this little spider harmlessly

exploring my bath tub while i unloaded
much wasted grub, that excess i had
to keep me going to resist, and battle
that thought of mortality and more

but my little friend taught me that i own
not my bathing spot, and i must, hence
let him also pass through, stamping not
on his tiny soul to relase my hatred

john the baptist

john the baptist grabbed no chair to sit
nor pleased any powers, or towers of his times
he was simply a voice from the desert
the strongest reed of the prairie land

john was the music of vales and hills
that cherished not the herds of cowards
he danced not to beats of country drums
nor cared for the civilized city thumbs

john was a sensitive stethoscope
listening to heart beats of the divine
dancing in the spirits of the poor
resizing, re-levelling hill with valley

imprisoned

i am inside the prison
with four tall walls around;
scarcely some sun light penetrate
into my house, encasing of my thought

in those thin beams of light
i read the writings on the wall;
is it a bulletin board
a media for the inmate,

or, are these graffiti,
an expression of revolt,
carelessly etched and scribbled
to the blind with open eyes

that imprisons the innocent;
that i, for sure, know not
but with my training in art
and science of hermeneutics,

i scribble notes in my mind
those invisible pages
sometimes pasted together
by that oozing of my tears

making the turning too hard;
pray, patience, and prosperity,
these codes i frequently sight
on wall preying on my soul

my night journey

since my journey is through night
and i grope in darkness
while death like vipers creep all around
i look up for light from your stars

that i may see my path
i ask, from you, not for wealth
nor a shelter for me to sleep tonight
for i must journey towards that dawn

i ask you to prevent that dark cloud
clouding my mind
that courage may prevail
on my onward march

and when the passage is over
i seek not a trophy
but that extinction of the rain drop
in that ocean of your memory

my today

lonely in the mall
no! i am ready to let go
all that noise, the crowds
all walking and dancing

i want to sit quiet inside
with all that laughter around
with all those chatting, playing
buying and busying outside

singing and music
i need nothing
nothing pushes me
nothing pulls me

nothing i look for inspiration
no one, i need today
no one i will need tomorrow
yesterday was a lie; it was never

what am i

am i looking for a woman
to make love; or,
am i looking for a man
for some open ended conversation

that’s explorative
and enhance my self-importance;
(music has begun again!)
i like this spot,

comfortable seat to observe,
to note down,
that i may, later transfer
into my computer to name as poem

continuing struggle

those whom i left behind
those who deserted me
those who want to sympathise
but from a safe, good distance

they, now, try to intrude
my private space
when i secretly long
for their company

i struggle
even when i have fled
away
from all struggle

forgotten souls

the old man was reading

Alistair Urquhart’s hard cover
Forgotten Highlander
but did he sit in front of me

in the mall lounge for same reason

as my own sense of lost-ness
with that loss of love
that i will never know

only for a short time

he read and soon he is tired
shutting his book
but he opens it again

with his mouth always open

wearing two different shoes
white on one leg
but brown on the other

reminding me of my brown spouse

walking with her white lover
and if they were to sit on a couch
but not in front of me, confirming

all is not well revealed, but one
not laced to accommodate the swelling
revealing all is not well and his walker
beside confirms the un-even ground

poet’s don’t panic

grand parents, the couples together
pushing strollers
with their grandchildren on them
push my jealousy instantly higher

like uncontrolled sprinkling
of the sweet white crystals
push my blood sugar higher;
but i, a poet, don’t panic

breaking away from crowd

the young lass
perhaps, she is a teen
part of a team of half a dozen
young persons, five ladies

and a young man
slightly older than the girls
she broke away
from the crowd

and sat in front of me
with a smile on her face
prompting me, instantly healed
to smile in return

after a few minutes
she turned again towards me
when I was not noticing
(and the music stopped!)

west edmonton mall

for that eritrean huddled
with his love
nodded at me;
in response, I said:

hello, in that mall
(boasting to be the largest
in the world –
has to be in the universe!)

announcing a happy
summer sale to that shoal
that has already swallowed
the bait

dance but touch not

in a wild brook i saw those awesome fish
that i see normally only in an aquarium
as greed kicked my mind i stooped down
to net some to make my home cheaply colourful

but my quick conscience
battled with self, and battled hard
to make me enjoy that beauty
with lust less eyes
and i returned to my abode
dancing with heart full of swimming fish

crowned to witness

my gorgeous kite
that once floated above
(right on top of other kites
less colourful
and much smaller)
is stuck on the crown
of that coconut palm
with string now broken
and entertaining none
but yet witnessing in eternity
to that fragile, frail beauty
of success, short lived

taurian and capricornian

as a taurian you too make mistakes
but unlike some people
you are not afraid to admit
while others spend their energy
trying to deny they made a wrong turn

turning today, as always
you will be retracing your steps
and then getting it right

while your capricornian partner
has allowed certain issues to slide
and if she doesn’t get on top of them
that too quickly, they may become
out of control for good

unfortunately your capricornian spouse
has relied heavily on others
first, the father, then a taurian, and now
secretly, on others receiving cash and kind
to make decisions for the goat-head

* A found poem from the horoscope section of Edmonton Metro, July 15, 2010. Page 23.

three requests

grant me
the humility
that was in jesus
our ancestor
the strength to love
in all circumstances
and the wisdom
from above
to know myself

living now

before that extinction, the blowing out
nay, that final merging into that ocean
of eternal life, with that unvarying
gazing of the un-setting sun

i refuse, now, to live with lies
and too simplistic issues
choosing rather to live
with unanswered questions

refusing, vehemently, to live in the cave
of my own prejudices, or a life imposed
on me, dreaming not dreams not mine
living not codes of my ancient ancestors

resigning to grace

i am learning, so late
to resign to grace
after, with much strength
i struggled to carve my life

in pattern i thought was right
now i take, that it is safe
to let you guide both in chart
and its implant

sailing smoothly
with your winds
until at end
i reach my port

* Photograph by Gitanjali Victor.

moonbeam, a cento

moonbeams tease my soul to sing a muse
beauty from above summons my spirit to dance
i watch a bird, and pet a dog wagging his tail
soft sea’s silence, in my being, echoes a yell

against the caravan of untruth and fraud
wit in me frees self from the prison of head
there the bard sat alone in a daydream
with a future sketched in pencil of cream

many things in life that wound and hurt
but mercy, today, opened a pane for that poet
while only well burned ashes was left behind
allowing him, now, the sleep, to defend

* Photograph by Gitanjali Victor.

woman in my life

just nearer to my grave i pause
to raise the issue and to reflect
on answers registered
carefully in my mind

the question, then, is this:
do i now need a woman
in my life, that last lap to run
to sleep well before i sleep in peace

this matter my heart
has never before quested
not, at least, very consciously, granting
freely, that space for a woman in my life

* Photograph by Kendra Lee.

calming my mind

calming my mind is taming my cat
that i never had any success
every time i expect her to sit
she walks away with her meow

my mind too with peace as i shut
let’s the flood-door open
for million thoughts to flow
with mice to nibble my house

until my soul drops dead
like that tree beside the river
fell by that not so big beaver
effortlessly gnawing around

taking stock

when pain pinches

my feeble heart
that struggles to pump blood
to keep my other organs well

as my tamil mother
continuously cooked to feed
the many members in my home

i prefer to stop my walking

as she stopped, but only
for a moment, that i may take stock
and replenish my stockpile
to continue my journey

that may continue, or end
not with my counsel
but entirely at his will

silently walking with, or sitting
beside me, struggling

to recollect his absent presence

skyscrapers & bigger mosques

depression in small children
and obsession with paediatric drugs
embarrass health services
that keep busy world-wide
where people are extremely
self-centred with no time
even for leisure and push
the spousal relationships
to the backseat
making loyalty evaporate
but building, steadily, buildings
including skyscrapers
and bigger mosques
while i see and sense
with that third eye
an increasing impatience of people

newer journeys

my body, that machine
circulates fuel not so well
threatening, frequently, to stop
or, permanently shut down
certain sections
to slow down my soul
or, to suggest, with force, a path
my spirit never planned

this prompted me
to turn to a mechanic
for whom my soul is irrelevant
and who considers not the dream
that my sprit secretly dreams

adding tubes to that machine
but from within
the mechanic who touches not
any grease, nor the lubricating oil
made my soul soar higher
and higher to spaces my spirit
has never journeyed

erasing my soul

she exposed my bone and my flesh,
with muscles and fibre
and my blood and my spit
that she licked from my lips

revealing that which matters most
is not that silly little soul,
that indelible, invisible substance
that gets transposed

to that unknown place and person
from which it came
but my cock in erection and nipples,
both without bone

but in that state of arousal
that she sucked and squeezed
while she pushed mine into her depth
and her flesh into my mouth

proclaiming the new purpose
and establishing an inner peace,
though perfectly momentary
but demanding that frequently

a process by which the spirit
in her, and me fully evaporated
as worthy ancient manuscripts
now erased for new writing to emerge