Moon

When I see anything beautiful
I share it with you

I wait for a beautiful thing
to seize me before I write of it
before I tell others of it
I check its existence
fortune
rewarding exclusive experience

Write

2.14.7
while the veggies cook

Dream

Grannie, you have slimmed down
your grey hair is in a plait

Some poems have to share
their title if they are from
the same womb.

Granpa,you comfort me that
we will meet in the other world.

On a raised place
on the right
a person with clout and unhappy with the happenings
is on the right with a group behind him

on the left
unware of whats about to happen
a man walks in measuredly like a lion
prescience wouldnt change his course

Someone in the crowd blamed him for the riot
An axe is thrown at his mid-body
No scream or shout.

I am screened by the trellis under the bridge
'Where is his wife?'
'Where is his wife?'

I see a familiar face.
We pace around looking for his remains.
Blood stains lead to a closed room.
The wooden gate reveals two dark men.
one over the other.
I salute the legs to not incense him
to excuse my unintentional intrusion

The friend is lost
In my search, I realise the place is
Bhadrachalam.

It rains
At first a hand swipe washes its existence
Then the drizzle makes its force felt
Then it turns to a controlled sprinkle
like the one to spruce a naked front yard

I could have taken the axe assault for you.

Dream

I remember from the part
you appear
But it has long begun

Is there a dream collage
or a roulette for a person
each day stopping at a number

The one with us running
must be an odd number

Why cant we make up
clothes or mores?

If

you are the wind
I am
the sand on the shore

you blow in time
I am forever.

Time tossed

Bad time is a good reason
to hold off making a call
When you cant hold off
even worse time becomes
a good time

Imaginary relief from
solved imaginary troubles

Deified daily objects -
blue bicycles can
stalk too

Forgotten Mending

Despite their loud shine
I bought the black shoes
One painting day
in the shuffle of things
being moved from one room
to another, some furniture
leg must have got stuck in the
sandal
a strap gave way
I was getting ready to do away
with them with a new pair
And then it struck me
that there are cobblers
to mend

There are street hawkers
who mend broken plastic buckets
The man who collects garbage
earnestly wants the
cardboard boxes
lying outside.

Eye opener

Creative Nonfiction

Vol 27. Writing it short

Ikkyu

We've been lucky, true- lucky enough to live through some stupid stunts.
In luck, theres a duty to talk about the lessons... - Kevin Holdsworth.

Brevity


Vol 21.

Lessons from the unlikely - Erie Newport (raising a kid with Down syndrome)

Solar Addiction

I smuggle some
sunlight from an
empty room
I dont know when
I have raked enough
My basket never
seems to fill

Whole Cloth

He measures the cloth
with his metal scale
Snipping it off
with heavy scissors.

**************
We know they have more to do with folklore than with fact - most of them were spun by grammarians out of whole cloth -The way we talk now,Geoffrey Nunberg

Mother poem

I recognised Kim Addonizio of Ordinary Genius: a guide for the poet within
The matter
Lucifer at the Starlite

The Turquoise ledge

Reading of author's experience of being photographed in old time dresses, I was reminded of a trip in Kulu Manali where we draped indigenous clothing to have a picture of us taken. Even silly seeming things done on trips find a place in memory.

Ofelia zepeda
Proclamation
Her account of saving a rattlesnake stuck in a net is riveting.

ground catching fire

The bees have lost their stores of food in the hive, and now they want me to feed them until their scouts locate a new site for their hive.

Fascicle

Up until now, the one thing I knew about Dickinson was her much quoted death poem. I did see that there was a number associated with another poem.
With Dickinson, her mystery is coming under light.
Poets thinking
Henry Fuseli

Sirocco in It was not death
Shelleyan maenad

Staples in The Soul has Bandaged moments

Heard of her, reading now

In the beginning of Revenge, I am reminded of Dream of the evil servant poem.