God’s Face


I look at old Renaissance pictures
To see god, a white man, with a beard
And strong eyes, as I picture how I 
Saw God’s face. I saw him like a man,
So weary, that his eyes were dropping out
of the eye sockets, and the mouth, was whispering
Something that we humans didn’t want to hear.
As I ponder, how that nagging fellow’s face
Has become wilted and gloomy in the 21st century.
As I pause for a moment, to feel in my conscience,
Some empathy for God, a little gifting
Of time and meaning, as I look at that weary face
Who I suppose will die one day not far away. And that day
Will be the end of a long and dragged-out show,
Of how one man stood between,
The easy and the difficult. And that faceless future
Will be our easy way out, when our
Consciences become true lemons, with no
Face-off with the difficult, while you realize
That the picture of God you kept on seeing,
Was your self-control, the discipline in you,
Not to do what was fashionably easy – to sin,
When there was a choice not to.




There is nothing more subjective than god.
Some people carry him in their pockets,
Some on their tongue,
Some on their back,
While other they camouflage god
Inside profanities,
And still god, he creeps through
Cracks in your system,
Beautifying that strange sanctum
Called the soul, with bullet
Proof walls. God is just
Weatherproofing tomorrow
With today’s paint, and what you
Have at the end, is mercy, the type
That takes the weight of your legs
The afterlife beckoning
And that riddle is enough to make
A little pact with god,
“Look after me in the afterlife”
And I will chant your name.
And still we realize god is just
An enigma at best, who is found
Everywhere, in a cyanobacterium
Or a date palm, the small and tall
Or for that matter,
In Kim Kardashian’s buttocks.
How much talent does God
Have as a sculptor, you wonder.
We are aliases to time
And when we die, we are shuttled
The Christian says,
And when one life goes, another shoots out,
Soul is cargo that gets trapped in form
And when that happens
Love shoots out a little zygote,
The most basal life.
God gave you the key to life
A door stands between
You and a heartbeat
You are the chief, the captain, the conquistador,
Of renewal. We are doll
Makers, little Kens and Barbies,
We are more Gepetto than God
We make children
Who grow up learning that
A lie, is what saves the day,
And not the truth.
God-proofing is a lifestyle choice now
To be an atheist,
To pronounce that you’re
Just as organic as life is,
And a heartbeat away,
From reaching compost heaven
In your afterlife.

God Days


Depression 2

You’re tired to the brink, to the collar bone
Sedimenting on beds and reclining chairs.
The long plod of life
As hostile as a mammoth scorpion
Reversing for a fight.

These are the days you remember God
When that stubborn strain of weariness
Regulates your movements
You’re like a potato, the couch kind,
Still the TV is too loud for you.

And those days shit happens
All you can do is to flush it all down
To the awaiting amnesia

Of a black hole God.


donald trump

Only god gets to say
Looking in the eye with a little arrogance,
“you’re fired”, while flipping his quarter pounder hair
Like a Big Mac, striking fear through every muscle
On the chin and cheek.

And still there’s something about God
That you just cannot ignore.
Like the mogul heart and boyish twitter account,
A virile potency that shames most men his age,.
The flaming beauty sharing his bed,
An eastern-European accent that makes among
Other things, empires rise and conquer,
And a babyish chubbiness that makes
Plus-size, a little extra chin and muffin top,
And still, an endearment.

And he will always be the great white hope
Of a land that has seen decibels of brays and trumpets
Dividing a patchwork land
Both crying freedom and foul. While the seed
Of Kunta Kinte rises like the tide of the river Gambia
Demanding equality – Martin’s dream
That echoes at best, like the lonely dribble of a basketball
At the hands of a young black man
In a Washington DC court.

And God-haters will line up in the streets
In the name of science and arts
Or for the 14 year old felled by the albino trigger.
They will sing, dance, write and explore
How to make America a bunch of God hating atheists.
Forgetting for a moment that landslides
Of the heart and ballot, were once a story
In the American heartland.

And God will promise little things
How to balance opinions and cheque-books
While the polls see-saw. Storming on
Like a Walmart cart on a Friday night
Opening up like a packet of Lays chips
And watering the flower bed of the American economy
Long before taking time to smell the blooms.

And God is everywhere.
He is on CNN and Fox, on the church nave,
On twitter, in every sensitive issue
That needs some political incorrectness,
– Some long-needed honesty –
On the lips of every refugee and drug mule
And on the long road to recovery
Of mistakes made long ago.

And they say Moby dick was a fat white whale.
So is God. Pequods will rush, Ahabs will roam
And still there’s an ocean that needs
A larger than life. One day they will say
God went through this dust bowl
And made it into a promise land.
And protecting the ten commandments
Of the great American constitution
Will be his greatest redemption.

And there’s something sharp about a God
Who drives the message in like a golf cart.
And knows when to play the trump card.
And heaven is just a little oval office
And command central, from where
He will send angels and thunderbolts
To the great turquoise playing field.
And do wonders with the hearts
That need moving.

And bridge he will, everything symbolic
About America, The tint and the shade
The ghettos and the mansions
The sleeping and the sleepless
While stalemates slowly turn to landslides.

And there’s nothing ironic about
That beautiful autumn day in November
When fate wished America


The Man on the Mirror


Transfixation is a pristine mirror.
The glass painted on one side and self reflected on the other

I’m sitting in the front seat of a bus, looking
At the rear view mirror. I know what is chasing me.
The weeds that grow taller than the cultivars.
The predators that run faster than the prey.

You need make a man of yourself
Assembling together course contents
And spelling learning outcomes.
The next generation needs to be molded
A house of bricks, a sapling with fertilizer.

And I look through the hourglass. The little orifice
Keeps getting wider every day, the slope getting steeper.
And I’m trying to make a little fairy tale work.
A little poetic justice, ejected from karma’s womb.

I’m tone deaf, I can’t hear cries of “loser”
Only an anchor that pulls me down, chained around my waist.
I’m sinking in my own dismay.

Perhaps all I’m is an experiment to man
A plan for god and a cart for fate.
I’m a slave of one or the other. Smiles are hard to surface
Laughs are quieter around the Adam’s apple
Need to succeed is the noose around my neck.

And a little wooden chair holds me still.
Four legs and a flat piece of wood

I call my dreams.

It takes more than Speedos to make an Olympian

Michael Phelps

Micheal Phelp’s speedos
And Usain Bolt’s track-shorts
Weighed so little, a few grams at most
But that heart inside the flesh suit
That wobbled and quaked, when they felt the tingling strokes
Or mercurial pace-mongers
Yet rose to the occasion – weighed a lot lot more……
For it takes a million tons of iron and steel
To sculpt a dream – ground from ore, processed with acids
Melted and alloyed and sculpted
Into a recurring thought, seemingly impossible
To abandon -; and that nagging dream
Will shatter the alchemist’s myth into pieces
After all the tonnage of a steel dream
Does transform to an ounce
Of perfect aurum – and that is as good as Midas !

Little White Church 2


A little white church by the coast
Seemingly with brined walls
Tasting of sea-salt
The type that cassocked men
Devour tequilas with, licking the wall cover
To counter the bitter taste
Of faith going south

And those empty naves
And pews were now filled with night owls
And caterpillars, even the scavenging crows
And the faith that grew
Like an empowered fungus, was now shrinking
In to a single cell of yeast

And that diorama
Of a vast universe of one moon
And many stars – the catholic faith
Was now a meaningless hall
A naked sky of abject darkness
Yet in those same cracked walls
And misplaced tiles, lies the echo of prayer
Of a single soul, the music of his whispers
And the harmony of hail marys
Jumpstarting the soul
With a vivacious strain of hope

And hope they say
Lives in broken bread and spilled wine
Nourishes with a bite and inebriates with a sip
When that intruder inside
That smallest of chambers
Sneaks out and enlivens
Bones and muscles

And they say
That is a small edition
Of resurrection…..