You, the fabric that covers my bones In all its tanned brown glory You, the canvas of my emotion And also its shelter. For you are the thin line, the boundary, the border Separating, protecting This convoluted rabbit hole of an inner world From the outer one. You are the curtain, the doorway, the membrane The universe must sear through Before it sears me. With all your intricate layers That you cast off and renew You are the shield All scars must get through. You are the vessel, the marionette, the coffin That encapsulates my soul in its worldly warmth, Packing supernovas and blackholes and a gooey conscious Into a five-five body for the cosmos to comprehend, The sluice gate which confines my cyclones in And lets my tsunamis slip through in solitude. You are the companion, the slave, the master Born with me, liquid milk, you are what the world touched first. You'll live through the hormonal hurricanes of my youth Till finally the liquid milk unfolds its wrinkled layer To be blown on and pulled off by the icy warm fingers of death And dissolved in the flames of earth's remembrance. You are the yielder, the rebel, the healer, Submitting your forests to razed And your land to cut or dug or burnt you Endure it all with nary a sob And yet, you are strong. You are strong, not malleable, For you never give in, my beautifully stubborn rebel you Come back, slowly, quietly Your silent rejuvenation your powerful protest. You are the transmitter, the receiver, the storer That feels the elements and etches them into itself Memories and secrets only you and I know; The raindrops that slip under the umbrella, The wind in my face on a bicycle ride, The yellow warmth of the winter sunshine, The soft dewed grass under a tree in my toes. You are what turns moment into memory. You many not be pretty, or uniform, or perfect But that is why you are human You are tangible And most importantly, You Are mine.
A new day dawning A new sunrise Is what 'hope' is to you But dawn is not what I look ahead to. For I am the Sky The ocean that's a different kind of deep Arching over this earth And day is not me. The Sun illuminates This earth. The Sun blinds out My stars. The Day blinds out my depths and my shallows, Clouds over my face and hides The inky depths of my heart And paints me a happy blue; What a nice cultured obedient sky we have here. As this blinding light dims out It takes its pretty blues and yellows with it And draws back the veil, And the secret light of the moon Lovingly caresses my whole being-- The corset was too tight here, my dear Let me breathe back the life into you. The secret light of the moon illuminates Me. Me, the blue-black darkness that is my soul, The happy pinpricks of memories that shine through this dense fabric, The tumultous sea of my thought That sometimes bursts through in the day itself Blotting out even the Sun As the clouds rush in to contain the damage. Me, the blank canvas, the stage backdrop Where all of life plays out " 'Twas a good show, Mr Shakespeare, Sir" Many thanks, thy kinds words delight my heart Let's dismantle the stage now.
I am the moon’s reflection
In a murky night puddle
Do I not want to flit among the fireflies?
But I am not the moon
(Though I could be)
Only its flattened image;
Here comes a shoe
Sending ripples through my body.
Cycling in the rain today
Instead of a thought experiment, I tried a Physics one.
For a change, it worked-
If I went a certain speed, the rain didn’t drench me.
They talk about the beauty of Physics
But you see, the rain is not beautiful
Because of physics-
Vector additions and relative velocities
Could never capture it,
A single arrow and a Greek letter
Just aren’t enough;
Because even though they’re three-dimensional,
The rain isn’t.
(No, this is not a poem
Because in my country
It’s not that simple.)
There comes a day when the pressure
Fails to be contained
When the volcano explodes
And hot lava
Flows down the hillside.
A sublime work of art
Perfect, so perfect.
Cloaked in black, like the night
My love, mahogany-brown
Every curve fitting in mine
The piece which completes my puzzle.
We don’t need violins and pianos,
My love, mahogany-brown
Symphonies play in our embraces,
And in the brushes of our fingertips.
Hollow inside but full, so full,
My love’s mahogany-brown
Richness flows into my soul,
Cathartic, lifting me from the world.
And even when my fingers are callused,
My love’s mahogany-brown
Smoothness will never roughen
Because immense purity is untouchable.
They hate the rain in London
Because it means dark, gloomy days
No sunshine, football, or picnics
And house arrest in stuffy, humid rooms.
Heartbreak’s a searing
pain with no gain but a lot
of weight from ice-cream.
“No, doc, she doesn’t have a diary
To padre, she won’t confess,
No clue as to why she’s so bleary,
I’m starting to fear she’s depressed.”