If poetry is settling,
what is a stirring spoon
in the muddied water?

There is no metaphor
that sits at the bottom of the glass
that may leap up
with a momentum of a frog
and catch you
before you swallow your indigestion once again,
and mold into
yet another insoluble

Till the new war
opens its mouth
and the mercenary irrigates the bomb,
the glass will became fertile again
with the notion of end
as with blood.

On Water Bodies

And what of the clouds
that passed by
with the wilderness of a country traveler,
that saw the life underneath them,
and said
there is a river above
as there is below.

And beyond that,
a sea.

Cold water


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for water photography surreal

There is some respite in early morning
like the deep of the night,
silence is at its tooth–
the sober cold marble.

In the eve,
the motor with its vehicles
violates the road,
with a devilish groan like an eternal fever
at a path that was shod in the stark of the noon.

Being lulled back to sleep,
and as in sleep
all the banter recedes like waves
and the mind is saved from sickness.

Abandon not, yourself
give not, your sleep
or there will be no water for your heart to hold itself to its feet.

Survival Stats


I am 50% water
And this helps me to keep it caged
If I could really see inside myself
I’ll tell you
It has roller-blades for my navy blue pupils
And a gagging mouth

But I am 50% water
I do not let it drown

It huffles and puffles like a wingless flamingo
Reaching out to the red of my mind
Failing, it smokes water rings
Fixating a storm onto the intellegentia of 50 snow leapords
Hibernating in the winds

But I am 50% water
And I am positive,

I will always be.