Modern

Gardening 


How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer

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Groundwork 


There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               

                              

      
I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

              
                
Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 

Modern delights

In the long long night

The haunting keeps me awake,

The oomph of the chopping boards,

The laughter galloping down the street,

I pause

I listen

I am abysmal,

Sweeping myself  under the rugs,

A sniveling little way to sum-up

The under-laid mourning

Of the stars that are willing to drop off my head

Lest I listen

And address them as myself.

 

There is a hidden core that you cannot see,

doesn’t mean it won’t touch your face,

from whom

it will always withdraw.

 

Abandoned Planet

Pack me up in a suitcase

I can’t stand standing still

 

But you see, it is because we went off to this faraway place

Where these curious people plug themselves to white boards,

And are always sleeping

Into small cold suitcases.

 

A warm breeze flows along the twilight moon

And the streets gleam with fresh-rain floods

The crackling fires of passion is burning away the town

But people find it clumsy to wake up.

 

So I am a lone traveller

Wondering the tales they spin inside the boxes

Are they travelling to Jupiter,

Or perhaps a neighbouring barn?

 

Now

What is it?

A river flowing above my ears

My eyes

My nose

And suppose I am too to travel by suitcases.

 

Pack me up in a suitcase

I can’t stand standing still.