Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography
Daniela & Frank’s Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

Historically, an unknown,
That came into being, long after
The stone age, when the heart
Looked deep into the inner sanctum
To assure oneself, that there
Are places inside, that are nameless,
Needing the intervention of a noun,
That can sink or stall or rise.
And one creature who not knows
That the height of man, is not
How he feeds his intellect,
But how he ensures that a fortress,
That is unsure of itself and yet lies agape
To allow the entry of a lifetime warranty,
When real, is an indestructible filler.
The longest road made up of cameos,
Of the shortest distance to travel.
When an implant inside your heart
Becomes your only cargo of worth,
Starting a tradition of inching towards
The very drawbridge, that opens
To let one tongue out
And another – yours – in.

Three Poems on Gay Marriage


Till Death do Adam and Steve Apart

What else champions the muted heart
To rapture in the loudest decibel.
Who would have thought that history
Could be made, in a tuxedo and a tuxedo
One jet black and one mute swan white;
And when they came off
Under a tapestry of yellow stars,
They became a shade of cinnamon brown
And together, flared by a flame,
They could only caramelize.

Muscle Cars

They call it the aftermath, the echo,
The residue; A kiss leaves dewy lips
Sunburn leaves behind a rosy patch
A cigarette makes the mouth taste funny
And what about two men whose only dream in life
Is just a hall packed with kith and kin,
And an ice sculpture on a lifted stand
At the entrance; what should they lapse into,
As their bodies cave in to heart matter,
And became like two snowy white swans
Whose beaks and necks needed no
Introduction, but their bodies did,
Just like man and woman, no longer
Squatters, or trespassers, just defenders
Of the oldest union, which like
A carburetor mixes two elements,
Into combustion. And they say, there are
Trials of fire, when muscle cars cruise.

Time Trails

We are under no umbrella,
Only an Acacia tree.
Over here, the bricks called DNA, bear
No scars, this is just as natural
As a binary body, with equal poles,
Searching for an ampersand
To drift us together, to become
As naked as a bowed cupid, holding onto
The shifting momentum,
When we are just plain wrong, for those comfortable
With the familiar, and yet it still feels right for our bodies.
We are just, tumbling from then,
To now; time, a frothy dominion,
And we are children of a lesser god,
Building sand castles right at the edge of the beach,
Hoping for the day, they will
Stand out of reach, of time’s
Bogeyman lips.



Can I tell you a secret?
[A serial collection of asterisks] – (You)
Were the reason I was born,
Thrown out of my cocoon, my body,
When my lips could feel orbitals
Summoning like a magnetic pole,
And that secret is (asterisks – you)
Built a constellation just
For me, and laid them out like mythology
Does, but within my reach.
You’re now the wildfire inside my heart,
Lit by a falling star. I’m yours truly,
An asterisk – the wildcard –
Who wants to be your wild-thing.

Tree House

Tree House

The tree house sits on a giant Kottang tree in the backyard.
A playhouse, a play pen for a little child

And a gadget-rich den for inner-child. It seems
What makes a child a dweller inside a tree house, sculpts

A man with a little foggy heart, misted in nostalgia
Of how once things were, embellished with the need to invent his own little space.

Toy train tracks go all around the floor planked with ebony
With landscaped surroundings, figurines of farmers, train drivers and truckers.

The big fellows driving even bigger monsters of steel – tractors, trains & trucks.
And arranged on book racks are the DIY books of carpentry

And the latest car magazines sold at the nearest Seven Eleven
And a large sofa, with a Nintendo game console next to it.

Little figurines of dinky cars and super hero figures litter
The small cabinet on the side wall. And all is hunky dory here

Child and inner-child eclipsed together. The springtime memories
And the autumn dreams. A sacred truth hung on mental walls.

It seems we never really grow out of our cocoons. And even when we grow
Wings, we retreat back to the homely places we once treasured.

The larvae that we once were, walled inside a little fiber closet
Light in nature, a little sentimental, always a collector

And we build these treehouses inside abysses of our heart
Just to accommodate the monkeys we once were,

Who lost their tails and grew up.

Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus)


Tanned yellow tiles,
The open face of a sun flower,
Pollen-clutched bees and butterflies,
Composite, compound soul,
That keeps vigil on the forefront
In an anthesis of a celestial sun,
That can swallow yellowcake,
Through her sieves and tongues,
And stands untouched through time,
Like an Elizabethan virgin,
Who smiles for the simple reason
She is not just an artichoke
Plucked at budding, before she emerges
As a flowerhead, just a Jerusalem artichoke,
Giving the tongue, a meager divinity of taste,
And the tummy, the torment of the wind,
And yet, perpetuates as persistently,
As Christian tradition.

Trump and Me

donald trump

There are yardsticks everywhere you look.
The hemline is a measure,
Of the degree of a woman putting herself out. 
Alcohol tells man how much
He can glug, without feeling like shit
All over, when the hangover the next morning
Seems like a little nauseating pastime.
You ask yourself what and who
Should measure me. Should a flabby tummy be a measure
Of how unfit I am, or my friendliness,
Should it be an indicator of flirtatious behavior,
Or will I be judged on my carelessness
Of being forthcoming with comments
Which makes me the anti-christ
Of political correctness.
Still I look at the person who is most
Visible and most judged in the world.
A man who combs his larger than life,
Blonde hair, into a comb over,
And presides over an oval office.
He is judged on every careless act,
On every decision, on every utterance
Every imperfection. You wonder
At how much stone you need to be that fellow
Who can only be in compromise,
The weakling in a power suit,
Who twitters out shock tactics and awe
And yet is just a man who is too visible
To hide anywhere, making the world safe, to make people
Bloom to see their potential.
How glad I’m that I’m not the guardian of this planet,
Just a regular Joe, who will
Die a noone, and yet one feeling
That capsizes you, will ensure
You’re an alibi even after you’re dust. The only
Yardstick I aim for is love,
How big, how solitary and how true,
How much did I have of it to shine on one creature.
I will never be the mobile phone I carry
Or the designation at work.
And while the bigwig in the white house
Works on nuclear disarmament
I’m working on nuclear chemistries
And nuclear physics, to make
Fate reel in a moment of nuclear biologies fusing,
To issue a ticket, for the right
To carry a water balloon, nucleated by an intangibility
A medium, aether, a chemistry,
Of a spillover that moistens an inner spongy chamber
With perfect innumerability.

A Kiss

Love 4

Can there be anything
More parsimonious,
Than two, trying to broker
A bonding interface, between the front line,
Of one council of teeth, and scrimshawed
Chess pieces of another?

To embolden a moment of madness,
When little dentine monoliths
Take a back seat, while pushing forward
A purse that willingly opens up to be
The loudest in habit, yet evicting a moment
That is silent, nimble and melt-prone.

When my wife looks at me from the gate
And re-surfaces on my waiting lips
To exonerate touch, in feel-digits
A peck, a whisker, and still a mouthful,
Of raw, distinguished chemistry, which when in lapse,
Is the most primal contradiction
Of gender, balance and force,
Always endangering the moment after
With indecision…

In the sheer indiscretion,
Of the quintessential coincidence.