To E…….


I cannot climb the Matterhorn again
My heart is no Whymper now. My wounded heart
Recovered on time to bite an apple with my own teeth.
And she keeps the doctor away.

And she reads Heidi as she goes to bed
And tells me she wants to see where the Shephard girl
Grew, the land of St Bernard dogs and Alp horns
And I tell her next year, my love.

I have a wreath in my midst though, one of friendship.
An offer as honest as the healed wounds in my heart
And all I ask for is a conversation or maybe a verse…..
History will always be a part of me, my friend.

And there are no flames in me. Just the curiosity
As how your orbitals run around you. Whether
You finished your Ph.D. thesis and how is that little
Princess growing in your shadow……

Maybe one day, we will meet in the shadow of the Alps.
Maybe we can introduce our life accomplices
And not be strangers any more. I am only fond of
A reality that I’m fearful for – that we will die as strangers
When we once lit up each-others worlds in landslides of e-mails
And the occasional photograph and letter.

I promise you, I don’t carry Tobelorone dreams anymore.
Just a man who longs to know the whereabouts of your heart.
The places you navigate, even travel
To let your heart tick, even palpitate
In the cadences only mirth can usher in.

Star-crossed friends is one of my greatest fears…..
And all I ask for is a rendez-vous, not on Verona’s balcony
Or beneath Eiffel tower, just in a sleepy little office town
In Heidi’s land….

Just tell me, can I dream
Of saying “hello” to you in my broken French?



Little green fingers, not chipotle or jalapeno
Just one name “Chilies”, an oxymoron of sorts

They can be found in cucumber and tomato salads
As chopped or sliced green wonders

Or near a basket of pappadam, where darkened red
Crackers can be seen embellishing the culinary full moons

They only accessorize without holding center stage
Littering the corners of banquets and buffets

Bequeathing scorching hot adventures into a universe
Few can survive. A strain of boldness as brave as

The knights of Camelot. And Scoville is show-ville of little explosions
Ticking time bombs of lethally spiced capsaicin….

Capsicum is always a little foray into a bright red world
Where only the courageous-at-heart survive

Bravery is letting your tongue glide through
A circle of fire, and burn marks on receptor ends

Are a taste few south Asians can ever resist. And fire
Tasters just hold a little rod of burning red pepper

Inside their mouth cavity and let fireworks
Dazzle on meadows of sensation. Fire eaters

Are like dragons firing with their mouth’s closed.
They are nuclear explosion into pure gratification.

And indulgence is a little fruit that masquerades
As the maiden Cinderella of true spiciness

And her inbred flavor is as lingering and transparent
As a slipper made of glass.



We are all fools who grow old and senile
Inside cyber houses with a name and a face

We are “like”-minded creatures who practice
Liking without an ounce of love in us

“Like” is a profile picture on that piece of land
A popularity stake we all love and cherish

Happiness is the only glue between like-minded people
Like is an acknowledgement and not an appreciation

And drinking partners are found for the rolling times
Drinking from a little glass, making merry by custom

And I, like an idiot, thought friendship was drinking together
Rockland and imported spirits reminiscing old times

And not an epiphany on how it was only a slow demise
In revolutions of absinthe. Sipping death by arsenic.

The Caged Bird



We are perfect pagans, we look at a bird
In a cage, with beautiful plumage
And look the other way. It seems we don’t see
The cage. Only a bird as ugly as a devil worshipper
In a black garment, a corvid of an unknown
Degree of grotesque stitch.

We are oblivious of care. Empathy is as far
As the stars, as little as a little speckles in the night sky.
We don’t see nebulas become supernovas.
The life of a star in beneath us. We are the superlatives
Of apathy, smoking cigars on armchairs.
Judgement is our tongue of choice.

Love is as strange as a dead valley
The Atacama desert or life in Mars and evaporation is the time-drain
Of losing what God impregnated in us
We are as stupid as the dodos that once
Ruled little islands and gathered only
The strangest fruit. The fruit of self-obsession
Pulp as ripe as a mango that can only feed one mouth at a time.

Apathy is the man on the mirror, the narcissist
That pulls the plug of love. It is the abyss of all depths.
The hell of all dungeons. When we lose empathy
We are stupid as the Giant Pandas that eat bamboo shoots.
The tall bamboo that falls over to the mediocrity
Of the common folk. Commoner is
Just a man, searching for a heart, on the streets
Of Calcutta. Love was a little flower to pick by the roadside.

The caged bird will feed on Xanax seeds
And chip away his lifetime.
Cage will wear him down and one day
The heart that was supposed to melt in love
Will shatter to an anoxic death. Infarction
Is a little traffic in a tiniest artery that bombs
A little enclave called a plaque.

We are only as big as the shoes we wear and
The stickers on our backs. We only wear size 8s
And slogans are just pacifiers of self.
Love is a bleak land, a wasteland, where no
Sapling will ever grow.

And through the cage, the bird looks, as bewildered
As a child in a science museum. Freedom
Is as lonely as the caged heart. We are all trapped
In our own dimensions, our own dynamics. The bars
That hold us back from empathy.

Love is no science, it is just a liberal art.
Making sense of it, doesn’t mean reading Shakespeare
Or breaking through a poem few understand.
Love is just wearing someone else’s shoes – perhaps even cap
And saying, how wonderful his world is.

And love when practiced gives you a fit-on
That very few endure. And how wonderful is the walk of life
Of that bird in the cage, who recites poem after poem
Survival is not the Xanax feed, it is song of a bard
That usually gets lost to the noise of prejudice.

A backyard of love is useless. Only a front yard
With an open gate will make breeding grounds
Of picket fences. Self has two fixes – ish and less.
And Love is one rare occasion, less is more.


Love In Its Entire Perfection


It’s white in the beginning
Only to transform to
Pink customs
Bringing about crimson flushes
And scarlet flames

Desire is a pricking device
That gives you pins and needles
From the inside
Testing your patience
And love, in past-tense
On a mattress, is peak-perferct
On mortal plains, and sin
Is the flag on a mountain top

Essence becomes quintessence
Love turns to adore
Prime grows talons to be primal
Idol transforms to idyllic
Endear sculpts endure

Story can only be



There is a lonely leafy tree
On the corner of the front yard

A legume by the vernacular “Kathrumurunga”
Sesbania science tells us

And this tree carries a hefty dose
Of vitamins and minerals, an elixir of sorts

And on top you find the sky branched
Out in to moon-lit boulevards

So many silver crescents falling
Through my iris-sketched pupils

I’m swallowing in millions of moonbeams
How can disease swallow me?

Down syndrome


I look in through the noise of the heart bell
The angelus chiming loud as ever

I see a little infant on a little bassinet, crouched in the middle
Thumb in mouth, crying for breast feed

And she will be more beautiful than any child I’ll ever know
She won’t dream of a doctor’s set or Barbie’s perfection

She will count the stars in the sky and fall like a meteor
To our arms. She will make miracles happen every dusk.

As I come home she will be the dasher to the gate
And the walker leashed to my hand

I can then count the eyes that glimmer like maple syrup
And a voice that makes slurry nasal sounds

As crispy as her tongue and larynx collude. If I sit down
I can count the tresses on her little temple

And if my memory is good, the kisses pinched
On my grateful cheeks, and the countdowns are all

Beautiful, as I look at a photomicrograph that spell out
A unique karyotype. Then she becomes even more

Spectacular, like the moon that does not hide during the day.
Her face will never know, the white lie or green envy

Only perhaps the red blush. The number 47 they say has killed
More people in history than any other numeric.

Yet 47 to us, is a beautiful number, when child
Makes childlike a little game for adults.

A little girl who will never see or be trapped
Inside an adult mind. Genetics is just a little extra

Helping of a miniature chromosome – what is
More beautiful than 47 little champions

Inside a cell, making an endearing sculpture. Beauty
For us is a syndrome of love and innocence

And we cheer on every day, at one paltry chromosome
A rope that binds us tighter than an umbilical cord.

And this landslide of biology was all it took
For a watershed of blessings.

Love could do no other but flood……



No one can blow the flame
In your eyes, nor can they fish the dream
Out of your heart.

A dream is a yellow dwarf
Around which many small objects revolve
A solar system of its own

And your spirit is a leaf
That photosynthesizes on the sun
Funneling quanta and streaming
Energy from the source of the heart
To the fingertip sinks.

And one day, we will hold the impossible in our palms,
Knowing then, the tangibility of a dream is only proportional
To the mallets in our palms

That transform to indomitable sledgehammers
On fate’s resilient walls.


Syrian Woman

I’m a little confused, still wondering which constellation
Collapsed in a mass suicide to give way to an orgasm

At least one feels like that – and the inverse appears to be true too
Like when my wife quakes through her fault lines

And she tells me, she has never had an orgasm till our honeymoon
And it took only three days of honeying

To sweeten her face. And now it seems
She’s a little shy of them, wanting a baby more.

It appears after a year of marital bliss, I’m gazing
At the night sky, searching not for Andromeda

Tied to a bed post and fantasizing I’m Perseus.
I’m just yearning for a baby star to get bigger and brighter

Like nucleosynthesis sculpting a fetus inside my wife
And chemical elements changing in composition for a star to evolve

And I just want to make her happy. Happy as a
Tiny nebula inside of her strengthening in luminosity.

And I look up at the sky, a sky filled with flying fish
Barmy dolphins, radiant toucans and elaborate peacocks

And all I wish for is a shimmering mass multiplying inside her
Crashing through black holes and darker tunnels

A perfect orb of light, my wife and I could make on a picnic cloth
As dozens of fairy fireflies hold tiny sky lanterns

And now, I don’t search the skies for collapsed constellations
Seemingly a little death doesn’t matter, only a little life

And supernovas had taken a step back, and one day not far away
I will gaze at the only cosmos I know, holding her thighs wide apart

My palm firmly in her grip, ejecting out a little dwarf
Brighter than any star in the whole night sky

As if we had given birth to the sun, blinding us
And stretching our little universe

With the only constant we know – love.

The Priest and the Nun


The night blanketed in an autumn chill
Leaves treading lightly to the soil’s fill

Patches of burgundy amidst skeletal maples
Rustling and rocking to the fall mistrals

The moon pries from her heavenly perch
At a lass sitting outside an archaic church

The night juvenile sprouting of desire
For her heart is a lantern kindled by fire

She sits on a bench amidst carpets of foliage
The rouge of her lips silent yearning for her stage

A reclusive hideout nestled on holy soil
Amidst the prowling eyes as tombstones toil

Her soul a mustang tempestuous and bold
Her heart a bonfire flagrant amidst the perpetuating cold

She walks with a compass fixed to her meridian
To the true north of a prince with portals obsidian

She could see his hearth through the lucid glass
Of a noble soul enamored with his only lass

She stood still like a seed waiting for the advent of spring
To germinate a love as perfect as a ring

The night flustered as footsteps were nigh
As a boy appeared from the shadows nearby

As sprightly moonbeams prostrated to the call of gravity
Her succulent chambers were embellished with charity

A kiss lingered on, four lips in a mushy clasp
As nostrils searched for vitality, naked and agasp

As on a lonely churchyard by a maple forest
Two robes disheveled to unfold a love in her rarest