De Vinci

Have you racked up time
That dimension that keeps running away from you
And you’re wondering what you can be realistically. 
Am I a Poly Math I wonder?
Yet I cannot paint the Last Supper,
Still I look at the number of things I do,
I get to be poly-something I say to myself.
Perhaps I’m like a tensile polymer
That can stretch words to the blurry spaces
Of metaphors or perhaps I’m just
As worthless as polythene,
Or maybe, if I pack my bags and go to
Utah, I can be a polygamist, big in love.
Whatever I do, I know a legacy
Is in need of me – or vise versa –
I only want to be that bust, before I get busted
Of being a poet who peddled verses too often,
To shoot an ounce of beauty, every time,
The heart was open to a metamorphosis
Of words lapsing to wordless.


Meat Lover


In that absence of introspection
At the merciless canines,
I stand, no predator in solemnity 
Just another soul, that looks at
The buffer crashing into a chicken, darting across
The street, and smiles nonchalantly.
And in that voracious appetite
To the white and the red, which just like
The wines, makes you inebriated
When you feel the juicy flesh ooze out the taste of the kill,
And all you can do, is say a prayer in silence
And glutton out, knowing, we are the wise ones, wiser
Than a parliament of owls, or a group of chimpanzees,
Knowing that protein, the animal kind,
Keeps you away from anemia
When you’re short of red blood cells.
And still you look at a drumstick or a shank, knowing this was
Once part of a limb, and how easy
Letting the dirty work to be done
By a lonely worker in a slaughterhouse,
And all we have to do, is munch, knowing we’ll have more life
In us, more hemoglobin in our system
To carry molecular oxygen.
We are the same meat, the same protein
The same color – red, and yet
We order meat lovers at Pizza Hut
And a big mac at McDonalds
Knowing a creature, that has 99%
Of our DNA, perished to give
Us our daily dose of blood-free protein.
And have you seen a clueless chicken cross
The street, or a raging bull in a china shop,
Or Humpty Dumpty on a wall?
Aren’t we only sparing, those maladapted creatures,
From their eventual destinies?

A Prisoner’s Bliss


The poetry of silence swimming
From all corners and rocking
A bassinet, that like a mother’s palm
Gently sways me right to left
Up and down, until I’m a weary
Sight-blunted warrior, in my beauty sleep.
Knowing that, in this life-long incarceration,
My green mile at Alcatraz,
That’s the best part of the day or night,
Not knowing inhale from exhale,
Or the beat or skip of a palpitation device,
Or the snowing thoughts,
Just the perfect illusion of death
Blacking me out, through the Negro night
Where time locks you out,
From your own body, which by itself,
Is a prison cell, of a most-wretched life.




To be,
To exist or live,
To prolong or carpe diem…


Caught in these trappings
Gurus define; I go topsy and turvy
Through the navel of an hourglass
As I waste away, knowing life
Is just a meaningless inertia,
Of what we collect to furnish meaning,
Love, riches, photographs and memories.


And still, we are just as empty
As we can be, knowing the mightiest truths,
That lighthouses are lonely,
Ships are lost, and the mermaid hunter
Lives large, looking at the rocks
Through the lumen of a periscope,
As manatees swim by.

On the Third Date

Don’t kiss me as yet honey,
At least not right now.
I’m not ready for your body
To comb my thickets or tip my sensors,
Nor do I wish to learn the language
Of love, this early into knowing you.
We are still buds, little closed rings of petals
That still don’t know,
The art of cross-pollination,
Just two bodies in the wind, blowing inward.
I don’t want to kiss you as yet honey.
It’s because I don’t wish for any light
Between my guarded lips, to be sealed.
I fear that, what will transpire,
Would be the need of my perfectly-placed
Fig leaf to abscise and from there on,
I fear to navigate through your waters,
I am petrified I will not be able to drop my sail,
For your body, like a brilliant lighthouse,
Blinds every cone and rod,
That convene my ocular reception,
When I will be nothing except
A beast called cyclops, with one eye popping
Out inside his bulging pants, and while near-sighted,
Throwing himself to a whirlpool, your one,
For you to drown him, all of him,
In your underworld, in that torrential
Maelstrom that love ushers in.
And what else but love – even prematurely -, can sink
A cyclopean monster, while colluding to
Flare a pirouetting tempest,
Blowing through, you through me,
Until the beast inside comes squealing out.

Elegy on Fame


A nebula develops
From a little opening on a stage
And slowly turns to a star 
To throngs, just like a celestial body
That blazes light, for those afar
To witness, the burn of gases
And with time, the star power grows
Until you’re battling your wrinkles
And the sagging protein in your flesh,
And the cataract in your eye,
And if you’re meant to be
A brilliant star, they paint a little boulevard
In Hollywood, with a handful of stars
That passers-by walk on, and if you haven’t had
Enough of stars, you get to be like
An artist who painted Starry Starry Night.
Of course then you become a cataclysm,
A supernova, when every paparazzi
Will carry a picture of you
In your prime. And in that ageless
Vacuum you will rest in history,
A legacy of a man, who painted happiness
On faces and made suburbia
Happyville and yet, died a lonely soul
With only a few sharks around
Searching for a name on a will
For a slice of meat, that in earnest
Packs a spaceless invisible vault
With a tail of zeros.



You scoop ice cream to two bowls
To watch Titanic from bed.
You see Jack and Rose flutter their arms
Like they are albatrosses on a hull
About to take off and you try the Titanic pose
At home, you flap like mad,
And still no Romeo and Juliet moment
Only a feeling of two chicken stuck to the ground

You would do anything to recapture
The spark on the honeymoon
As you look at that large iceberg
That is banging on our larger-than-life hull,
Slowly making splinters loose.
Was it familiarity or the fact that 40s
Is never really all that naughty?
When you start to realize that marriage
Is a titanic ocean liner that requires a good supply of coal
To power it home. You can only
Steer away from icebergs and
Hope for some St Elmo’s Fire on
Top of the mast. .

Perhaps New York will greet us
At the end of our long journey,
Perhaps my wife will still be the biggest apple
In my now cataract eyes. I will look at her
Holding my hand nearing my death bed,
A feeling of being capsized taking over,
Looking back at Southampton port
Where it all begin and the thousands of miles
Journeyed together. A feeling of surrealism
Blanketing me. Overwhelmed, my eyes
Become rain clouds pouring out,
A gentle stream of cider tears.