Five not so easy pieces: #2

After the rites

In the burning Ghats
I watch tired bodies praying
for a cleaner death.

 

Spring

When the weather turns
a harp plays inside my bones
and ripples my soul.

 

Hooked Under

Gulmohar petals
trapped under my car’s wiper
struggle to break free
like bra hooks in the hands of
an over eager lover.

 

The commerce of words

Take a great poem.
In its humble remembrance
over hundred years,
do you picture the decay
of human conversation?

 

There is memory

Every night, I watch
a father walk with his child
inside our compound;
Sometimes I feel guilty, but
always there is memory.

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Posted on May 13, 2014, in Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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