Independent Love Song

Love 4

The clock strikes 8 PM
We are in the midst of some
Spaghetti and meatballs
Talking about what transpired
During the day. We are an anti-thesis
Of passion, how we start the conversation
With the most boring fact;
How the street dog looked a little ill today
Or how the traffic was a menace.
And still that is enough to sustain us.
Little anecdotes like how the crashing drumbeats
My wife listens to alone, is nothing like house-music
And the poems I type are
As idiosyncratic as a pair of Jodhpur pants
And still, we will never go out of fashion,
Or out of love.

Why we don’t make sense
Is what defines us. Two people
In one room, who disappear
To the night, like the prairie grass,
A room as white as arum lilies,
The fragrance of jasmines
Creeping in through the open window pane,
As we are blunted by the long day, and still, we
Let our bodies scramble together
A little twig-fire, that burns
Like a campfire, and we like marshmallows
Losing our color, just like how the night
Swallows the shadows, and all that is left,
Are two beings in an anemic confluence
Giving meaning to our world.

And we are only
Match stick figurines that burn in a flash
And still, those phosphoric moments
Stay with us, like a sighting
Of an obscure comet, and soon we are blurring away
To the night, our eye lashes closing…
And the night drapes her inhabitants
In chameleon skin and look at us,
Making ourselves irrelevant,
Under an opal moon.

Love in the 40s……


I remember hitting 30, like yesterday,
The hair thinner than my 20s,
The confidence considerably thicker though, 
After 5 years in graduate school.
Now I look on the mirror to see a plumping man,
With a little tummy tires and 40 something waistline
And a flabby neck getting flabbier by the day.

And I look at my dreams
That unlike Rocky Balboa will not
Be not be coming for a 7th edition.
And only a lass as shy as Mrs Balboa
Cheering me on from the sidelines.
Only, I have no clue why I’m still in the ring, like
Old man Foreman, selling a barbecue machine,
And still there is some purpose in life,
I tell myself.

Purpose, like a wishing well
Dried of water – and wishes – looks a bleak land.
Still I shovel the now fallow fields
Like I was introduced to my wife
Just yesterday, her lips that look
Devilishly inviting, like a date plum
The pulp of which, is pushed apart
From the center.

And love, just like a piece of mahogany furniture
Still looks ravishing even
With a lesser varnish. That piece of furniture
Becomes, from a sassy armchair
With new cushions, into an
Antique, which now, can only be
Anointed, for her sheer elegance,
A mere classic that stops
Aging and becomes a vintage.

Now you look at her, you are trapped
In an illusion, that when claimed
By the retina, makes time stand still
And space move closer and closer
Until the epicurean moment
Is yours and hers, and all that remains
Is to close the deal, unfurling your lips,
Like a greening leaflet in the sun, yielding
A hermitage that only knows the fleeting occupancy
Of two butterfly-winged lips.

A Poem


What transforms me,
Like the stray dogs on the streets,
Is that, once something becomes
Too comfortable, you become
Set in your ways. Like my story
Of journeying into an accidental poet.

Now I make some words scamper like fleas
And sometimes I make them stick like ticks
I also make the head chase the fluffy derriere,
Which unlike a dog’s own tail
Is combined into one, sort of like a prelude and a fugue.

Now I let the stray dog
Loose onto the nearby street
My name etched on the leather collar,
The fur combed into waves.

And I hear there are queues at the nearby vet
Begging for a Rabies injection.



You look at her doing some art
In bed with her Samsung
Galaxy minitab. She is in a world
Of her own, in a skimpy pair of shorts,
And a brown-beige top.

And I’m afloat in sight, the light
Waves undulating through the vacant
Space, carving open a dominion
Along her contour lines. Suddenly
She is all that your eyes gather.

And how beautiful,
For the ocean to drain through your eyes
To sharpen the lines that unravel the source
Of what lies concealed.

Your Atlantis.

Bikini (inspired by the picture)

An atomic bomb was dropped
In the Bikini atoll in 1946. Here
Nuclear leaks spilled through
Generations of vegetation and fauna,
Leaving behind a legacy of
Survival and perishment, sometimes both, in
Adjacent plots. Meanwhile the bikini continues
To make spills, seeping out through triangular edges
Of models curvier than Kate Upton
Leaving little to the imagination.

In that breathtaking landscape,
You have silicone everywhere you look;
Playing Peek-a-Boo from behind a little enclosure
Holding a canary yellow popsicle,
She bought from the beach ice cream salesman,
Inside her curved lips, while men
Armed with contact lenses – that too made from silicone –
Look out of their anatomical windows
To see a whale swell out her whale silicone,
Her blubber, gliding past an ocean backdrop
Her lips painted in dazzling summer colors,
Drool sneaking out of her blowhole,
Her smile carrying an invite,
To spume.


Love 7

She awaits,
For the stranger capped with a condom
To take her to a strange land 
– a nonsensical La La Land.
Where she will hear a mellifluous voice
Singing “La Vie en Rose”
Of all the things the heart desires.

Unstringing a string that ties
The two halves of her lacey corset together,
And an invisible string
That ties her plumbing and his, into one flesh,
And a string that will be abridged
For her body to elope like a runaway kite.

And a wonderland awaits her,
Where the grass is lusher and greener,
Blades rising like goosebumps,
Dew dappled like water-colored nipples

And an inescapable feeling
That a lawn mower had just run through
Every inch of her skin.

Dengue Fever

Dengue Fever

Looking at the dengue patient
On a hospital bed, loved ones
Hovering around like droning bees,
A glass of water ready to rehydrate
And a pair of rubber slippers missing
The feel of life. Just a kilometer
Away, a mosquito buzzes around
A little child, searching for the feel
Of skin, to indulge in a blood meal.
And how dreadful, to see a little
Child, and a little insect, making a little pact,
For the smallest possible life form on earth,
To traverse through a dermal rampart.
Which like the nuptials of man and woman
Threatens in one fleeting moment,
A different meaning to the epilogue
Of that beautiful word – an eternity -;
A nuance of how out of all
Things blinding, love is at the helm,
And in the opposite extreme, rests
A puncture of skin, that in earnest, carries a strain,
Far more endangering than love.