All that ascends
Above is bird
And wish

All that
Lies below is
Just fish

Do you think
Then it would
Be garish

To suggest for
Silly rhyme’s
Sake - in a swish -

Something bizarre, lost
(Dead, never found again) at
Sea, and out-land-ish?

Truths are so bare
They would rather wear
The fur of skin

It is the sun of summer
That bids them shed
Their clothing and the seed

To lay bare its heart
In the sun to become
A plant begetting flowers and fruit

May be when I
Speak of our love, one day
I will speak of evolution

Do bear with me a minute
I may have lost you
Among all the metaphor

When bidding you in a poem
Thinking, perhaps it
Is only there you live

i was once a small
boy with just the sky
overlooking me - one
day then, through
looking and looking,
dreaming and dreaming,
like a listless cloud i
drifted and became
my life overlooking me

till i knew and learnt
and had a word and
a name for each street,
ahead, and before -
hadn’t life too - before
she spread them out
for me - known them
first in words? i mused…

it was then i became
as two mirrors facing
each other, as sky
and a lake - and light,
pure light dancing in
between - two eternities
begetting flowers, stars,
life and death among
them - and poems,
which in this eternal
game of recollecting
and forgetting alternately
serve as songs, then
requiems, graveyards,
and epitaphs…

yet, some nights do
find me awake, and
in the hieroglyphics
of the night sky, i read:
“perhaps…”

PS Reading Neruda sanctioned my writing to be like this.

The rose
Of my waiting
Still grows
On the bed
Of my tears

Come,
Betake
Of the fragrance

Relieve me
Of the load
Of my breath

Love is
A dreaming death 

A poem is a lake
A dream, you look in
For long, sitting by

Do not fear,
And wash your face
In the water

I once had a
Long fear if it
Was I that when

Emerged from the
Dark sea
Had looked up and willed

The mountain to be
Now, it has been some time
And I fear no more

I have learnt to love you
In a simple way
And just be

I

yeah, its an urn
which burns
from where I churn

a delightful,
sweet smelling
poem

for you
the right recipe
you see

sugar, and salt
all mix
in a poem

II

as I sit
at my desk
and write

the rain knocks
at the window
like an old friend

who lost his face
i say, wait awhile
i will let you in

let me just finish
this poem.
the trembling night

afraid
lit her moon
in the heart

of the wick’s flame
a blue planet
burns

the bottle of ink
like a deep dark well
the door

ahead of me keeps
out a hell
a paradise

that hums within
is the one sound
i strain to hear

Was it in
A fable
That the world
Was a table?

‘Twas much ‘fore
We had cable
Or telephone
Or were able

To make long distance calls

I wonder if
Columbus - was it? -
Hadn’t gone afar
Hadn’t got a fit

The world’d still be
Flat and we could sit
A chair and table
On a table and wit:

“The world is but round, my friend, unless someone falls-”

Is it me or is it
You? Which one
Is it? I guess its
Both you know.
I guess its love,
Just love, that has
Turned its heart
Inside out on the
Streets of our life
And we have begun
To throb, and flow
In its arteries. Love
It is, is it not? Let
Us make more of it,
Then, daily, more of it
Let us turn the heat
Still higher, and make
More of it, like some
People make honey
Others sugar, let us
Make love each day
Enough of it to last
Through winters and
Summers of years to
Come. Let us throw in
All the wood we can
Find - wherever - let us
Collect with both hands
And make love out of it all.