Neat conclusions

Uncle is now an idea, on the green carpet in  a house beside two coconuts, where we saw a fire rage in a kitchen and some pigtails quivered with fire chants.

Last time, a year ago, he was a thing on way to be a mere idea in my mind. The thing is now an abstract thing, an argument away from a sarcasm.

Uncle is an idea together with a dad and a mom of the far off mango tree. The ideas vanish when I myself turn into an idea, an argument with a neat conclusion.

Making up meaning

I am small brain, in knot.
My words are the echos
From inside of trespass.

I know why son is in jail.
He is at large in big hall.
My words are my pickle.

You are who ,from when?
I am a trespasser on jail,
Certain cerebrum in fold.

Pl. make up my meaning.
A dream spells my words
Of my time, fortnight ago.

(From the rantings of a dementia patient)


From the basic elements we see composed tiny charcoal patches on the hot river sand. From a little distance a watery breeze blew from a streak of river. There was no water nearby but only a haze and men and women blurred in  the sun and their eyes crinkled at oncoming.

The blue sky was part of the composition like a large tarpaulin against the wind. Dark coal patches were fresh and warm with yesterday’s deaths .

The temple bells rang up the river’s stone steps. A breeze blew away time’s faded black patches ,the rules in history of composition.

Composition is the ever changing haze as the wind whirls from patch to patch.

The fall of a hole

We ,who keep our windows open in our flat, have their falls to account for, when the sea emerges in window in the widest of a sky possible. A window falls from its perch on our third floor flat overlooking the sea after its rusted hinge comes off and a passing crow perpetrates its fall.

Now the window’s hole in flat lets in an empty sky hole inside the room.

The watchman below escapes a fall on a thinking- weary head ,with a possible hole in his head spilling out its weary thoughts. The fall digs a new hole in sky. The sea floats on its emptiness.

We ask the carpenter to stitch the window back to former hole in the sky.


A poet on dope and on mantras howled incessantly into his thin air . Like all of us, his thin air consists of growing old.

It grows old on the body’s howl about if food arrives on the coming Sunday and if the  nurse helper will come back from a youth’s wedding in banana trees, with fresh leaves from a spring.

Winter worries, if spring comes and the body’s withered leaves will loosen and fall in dentures.

I say, don’t you grow cold in thin air or read dead the beautiful line ,not true to the air growing old.


Between two of us and our loss is the  tree with potential red flowers. Take care ,you perpetual woman.You and I shall listen to the tree, its bark ravaged by time like face letting the big petal drops falling in rain from leaves,drop by drop.

I pour its red flowers in your palm. Take care , you perpetual woman like you take care of our boat in the river with its gentle ripples on our shore.

Thief across the street

When all the others were asleep in their anonymity ,mom and I were one with a burglar in the street who was breaking a hole in wall.

Her voice bored a hole through night , echoing on sleep’s heavy silence, all the way to the thief who broke sounds in our sleeps waking our fears.

Mother and thief are now holes ,in the vast silences of their nights. We are waiting to be our holes.