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