Four Short Poems


Halloween Love Story

We outdid everything, in banter

There were lanterns inside pumpkin faces,
The smiley visages could do no wrong

As we became the afterthought before we knew
What had transpired…

Almost like a flash of instant lightning.

You and I, had scored each other.

Jack O Lantern had claimed his Jill.



The rain toils, through the eve
Intermittent, the forecasts tell us all.

Two lovers caught in rain traps
Wait under an umbrella at a bus stop

There is nothing as loose as the wind
Blowing through their faces

Their hair flow with the budding wind
Just like the umbrella, difficult to control.

Moisture gathers drop by drop,
On her cotton covered breasts,

Just like lust had dewed on his lips.
Nip was just overstating the obvious.

Desire could not have been more transparent,
Nor clinically overwrought.



I was just as visible
As what my skin portrayed

And just as thin, just as invisible as,
Who I was, and every time

I closed into to do the “job”
I looked at the bathroom sign

I would rush in to where the frock was,
And every time, ending up searching,

For a cubicle, to make an invisible
Organ count, letting out, the flow through,

Of what was just as excretory,
As a disposable flaccid faucet,

That was only a contrast for now,
And perhaps a zombie – sometime soon.


Gay Spring

In that picture-perfect life
Of what it was to know

From the early years, that

You were just a shadow dweller
Lurking behind, never in front,

And in that chemistry between similar poles
You found, how to bloom in a meadow,

In a color few possessed, and yet
You made it your own.

And spring was ushered in
Leaving behind a spring roll, under the covers,
The feet and head poking out,

And spring was just
Like the wind blowing through

Eloping forever, your god-run kite


The Cart and the Bull


We linger, in that evolving stage
Where you have gone past the first comfort zone
And you are as comfortable as 
A koala on a eucalyptus tree.
Marriage was the cart, the bull came a little afterwards,
Unlike the more celebrated type in the 21st century.
Our solemn pledge to stay celibate
Making us immovable from a stance
That was both sponsoring love,
And refreshing a catholic tradition.
And the bull came true, the day we became man and woman
And oh boy, the bull could pull
The cart more than we had ever anticipated.
We were in Pamplona,
On most days, of our first year of marriage.
Flesh-relations were just letting the bull loose
And the cart stood as pledge, stamping love.
Letting the cart usher in the bull,
Was just our way of acknowledging
That we knew each other implicitly
Before making the explicit count.
And the beast of beasts,
Used love – the raging type – to preserve the cart,
As the beauty of all modern beauties.

Nomenclature of Goodness

Friendship 2

Do you ravage what is surprisingly left
Out of your dignity, like blowing out the last leaves of autumn,
And then you think, what is it, that makes me, me.
The fact that you haven’t done any charity for 10 years,
Or you taking pleasure in everyone else’s grief.
And there is a humpback whale
In your CONSCIENCE, singing her whale song
Offering herself to those less fortunate than you,
And you denying her of any life.
And DIGNITY is not your a-la-mode style
Your funk, your panache or your joie-de-vivre
Those are all hedonistic helpers
To your wasteful life. EMPATHY is you
Putting on someone’s cap – or shoes –
And working the magic of understanding the other,
Of what made him, so catastrophically lean in times.
EMPATHY is no arm-chair lesson.
It is your organs – like the heart and mind –
Taking time to understand inbred pain of another,
And delving why that was so. There is a solution
To every situation. You can save the plight of an elephant
Fallen inside a well, if you only try.
Try is the executor of EMPATHY. It is no forgone conclusion.
It is paying forward, with no ambition,
Of rewinding it back. LOVE is the
Only pure science in this world, that settles
On another, with no personal gain.
DIGNITY is knowing there is no personal gain,
And being completely accepting of that.
And INTEGRITY, what else but,
DIGNITY in the past-tense.

Opportunity State

New York 2

There’s nothing remotely strange
About New York City reinventing itself
While keeping the boroughs happy.
In this range of identities – which like Jigsaw puzzles
Fill themselves – you find ghettos that are both
A sanctuary to the like-skinned or perhaps the like-minded,
And labyrinths far more intimidating
Than the one in Crete. In this city, which displays
Her multiple personalities, you just
Have to wonder, what really happens
Inside these like-heavy cultures
That invent little Bombays, little Santo Domingos and so on.
And when you don’t’ acclimatize,
You keep a large chunk of you from back home
On this larger city of street-maze fame.

New York is where people learn to collide
And still stay for a while, as if there’s a language
Outside of bodies in burn phenomena,
And big yellow taxis are not the only
Ride the body can get into, there are strangers
That are searching for the same conclusion
As you are, and when they meet,
They unravel into an act of mercy,
Of what it is, to be a reciprocal
Without continuity, a shot of god knows who,
On the rocks, drinking the stranger’s tongue,
To outmaneuver the stark loneliness,
With a mouthful of opportunity.

To My Lover

Easter Bunny

The possession you’re not
And yet an appraisal, of worth beyond measurement,
And in that dimensionless horizon
You sit, holding a flag of my name,
A memento of, not just, how we became
Bed currents of primal savageness
But also, of our promise to keep our bodies,
In humidity-gathering anticipation,
When we started out 18 months before,
As little pits that needed filling, and look how
We ended up as each others oceans.
My love, just gaze at how we learned, that dyslexia, is just
A brief interlude of error-proneness, that with time, atones,
To the sublime honesty, of how to transcend,
One’s nagging fears, to be,
A little careless in our tongue tactics,
A little clever in geometries,
And outright foolish in how you grin,
At everything, that you do to her, and she to you,
And what else but shame, not to disapprove,
Anything and everything, while
Leaving nothing to the imagination.


Love Portugese

I burrowed underneath the bed sheet,
To the warmness of what it is like,
To push downwards, some warm air,
The days this used to be a furnace
Gone, just like the sultry summer,
And the memory of you and me,
Careless with our tongues and lips,
Like a wriggly sea creature coming
Out of a cave to catch the colorful prey.
We were at that point, mere man and woman
And what we made, could have
Been far from prosaic, like a diction
Of strange sounds and heavy breathing
That underscored how to let momentum
Guide us, pause hold us, morphing
In and out of combined figures, who swallowed
The remnant light, and made it into a silhouette.
We were nothing more than foolish
As an unarmed prey and yet tragically
Moving in and out of geometric formations, degrees
Of leniency that were both filling and emptying.
And we, like two porcelain crabs, holding the muscle
Of our claws, on each other,
And yet, letting the ocean, that breathes
In and out of us, slowly break us.

Brown Skin


Every Indian girl’s dream,
As in those tapestries of white lace,
You have little skin-rungs, 
That help you escape from a brown fortress,
A caste of little people, who
Are taught that tan is just a curse at best,
An immortal dungeon of birth.
But then, just take a look, at the dark skin of Kali,
Embrace a near-Godiva stitch
Almost like Shryln Chopra’s stint,
In molten brown sugar,
Showing that brown – just like pure white –
Can turn tapestries of eye-candy
Into sultry caramel.