On The Balcony

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Life feels like an opera sometimes.
Everyone watching from balconies
Judging the performers on how they perform
On stage, their eyes vigilant as ever
Scooping out any mistake,
Any gap or anything worth criticism.

And the balcony, isn’t it just
A place with a scenic view,
We lift ourselves to, to watch
The unfolding drama, a ballet
Where dancers pirouette, do arabesque
And many other maneuvers on pointed toes.
Skirts like coronas around the waist,
Radiating out to those
On the edge of a balcony seat.

The only thing more intense
Than the figure hugging leotards
Are the spectators, homing in
On every scene. Everything
Seemed stretched that eve; the leotards, time
Limbs and imagination, while
Standing guard were the eyes,
Blotting from punch.

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Mars and Venus

Mars

Mars, Venus, man and woman,
So far apart. I wonder if a Mars
Bar knows how much water it will 
Take to make the planet Mars
Receptive of life. While I wonder
If Venus Williams, even at the grand
Old age of 37, can win the Wimbledon.
Mars is just an inhabitable planet
So is Venus, when prolonged in loneliness.
Although solitude beckons, these uninhabited planets
Need to be like that turquoise globe
To be able to hold life on the outside.
I sometimes feel alone, just like Mars,
The roman god of war, the war
Inside, the needs of the body crying,
Like a baby imploring to be fed,
By the pomegranate-like breasts. My gooey heart,
Just like a Mars bar, holding a crumble of peanuts
Beneath my skin, looking at the horizon
For windy Venus to blow through
Me, like a gale does, deracinating
The most primal needs, discovering sources
Of water beneath. Mars and Venus, they
Are bridged by life, the source of all animation,
Drifting towards the center, the habitable zone,
Learning that percussion is good for the system.
Mars will only then learn that blushing
Is just the body’s way of saying
You’re made for love.

Time Vessel

Old age

I storm out of the door,
Late for an appointment with a student.
When I realize that time by habit,
Drifts faster than we can play catch up.
Birthdays now come so fast,
Aging is like a speedy morphing process,
When one year ends and a new one
Begins. And in this timescape,
Breaking down the minutes,
Is what will make us appreciate,
The tokens, those moments that lie
Naked for appreciation. Now
I look out of the window to see
Little myena birds peck around
For grub, my wife’s cellulite
Thighs in display, a book that reads
“wind in the willows” on the bed,
And all I can do, is to try and slow down time
On her heels, and look through
A convex lens, to see we are only
Foot soldiers of time, belligerent
Of everything fateful, trickling out
Like a creek, soothing the thirst
Of those dependent upon us. Time, always
Expedites everything mortal, like
The wrinkles on the face, the silver
Strands, and the frowning eyes,
In that never-ending tradition
Of space-mapped movements
Outpoured as anecdotes, holding
Our perishabilities on the tip
Of our noses, while we age in dog years
Waiting for fate to throw in a bone.