The yellow leaf is not an autumn leaf
Before falling to the camera frame.
When inside the frame it will not fall off
Like the painted leaf of O’Henry last.

The gold of it rises from pure sunrise
Of the balcony’s shadows yet to form,
Birds forming to wake sleeping house.
And when they do they are vague vain v’s
Painted in the gold of a dawn’s newsky.

Just juxtapose yellow leaf with paper,
The paper of a pink flower trembling
As in deep awe before a passing breeze.
You now have this pink plus yellow frame
In the slightly inebriated morning sky
Without its native hues of resolution.



Our weather is purely for our reference,

A tether for the newly unattached mind,
A kite on a float for cutting off by others,
A well for picking  a  pail of thirsty waters.

The sky-strata grow wider for the asking.
You ask if you want to be the shepherd
In mountains to negotiate endless spaces.
Your flock has endless  feet for counting.
You know you want to stop conversation.

The weather is  sun hid in a backyard tree.
Its rain is  deep in hiding in the beach sea.
Its clouds are a  nightly television thunder.
Moon has temporary circles like tired eyes.
They tell you that rain is coming anytime.


With a distance of time ,what had looked white

Would turn vague and  gray by growing years

Our wading in knee-deep muddy rain waters 
In the streets by white walls missing in places,
The men who tucked white lungis in the waists,
The coins that felt round to  fingers in pockets,
The rivers  dancing round heads of mountains.

The walls stretched interminably to a white  sky 
Hiding bush and snakes in them gently rising,
Feet shuffling to rustling sounds of dry leaves.
The squirrels had built bridges for  man-gods
And earned three dark stripes on their backs.
Strange birds sang in the sky  deaths of lives.
With more distance of time our eyes slowly fell
And the body hurried past closing our spaces.
The distances are now  small, the skyline close.


The pacific storm is a story of animals and man

Their together on the sea, with a gust of wind
In the aft, a fierce tiger prowling from Bengal 
A sailor dead, a zebra, a hyena for not laughing
A boy on flotation to three gods for praying.
The pi has to live off  sea air, its drinking water.

The pi has no life, a variable radius with centre
Drifting away in  storm to  carnivorous islands
Where algae throttles lives of God-seeker boys
Who live in concentric circles,  widening circles,
The last one  of which they may not  complete.*
The pi has to circle around his God like a falcon
Or like the storm around a boat , its flotation
it is a  story's version that makes the difference .

(After viewing the film Life of  Pi. -* Reference is to Rilke's poem Widening Circles )


Whether it is pecking at the bathroom glass

All the time or  when I go there is my mystery.
What is the mystery  in the sparrow's mind
About the bathroom visitors , their bodies
Wet in the knowledge of a pecking sparrow?

A sparrow tirelessly pecking at own reflection
Is a mystery , set against  futility of its effort.
How the bird can be stupid enough to peck
Against own reflection, ignoring past failures
Is a mystery that overwhelms bathing bodies.

I cannot look in its eyes ,set too  high and tiny,
Only sense a light  squirm in its  body as I enter.
Overwhelmed by no mystery  it squirms lightly
Which is  the same  each time I enter its space.
The quest for mysteries is mine, not sparrow's.


Brittle is peace of being ,  of staying intact

All of a piece, not a charred body on road.
Bodies are brittle  and games bodies play .

The minds are brittle  in their eye sockets
Their seeing is brittle  like a  vitreous sky,
A glass  sky  cracking in  rain-less lightning.

Eyes are cracked being brittle, out of sockets.
Eyes crinkle out of their shape, from sockets
Empty with air, like mouths, like sooty hands.

Hands  god loves are separated from bodies 
And later from all gestures of finger- pointings.
Gods the broken hands worshiped are brittle.

(In an apparent terrost attack, fourteen people were killed and nearly 80 injured on Thursday evening in twin blasts in Dilsukhnagar, a busy suburb of Hyderabad)


It was a time lapse of a memory of small things

The reddish tiny worms that swim up and down
In the blood-tide, their spasmodic movements
Fishes of the day, ready to savor and/or discard

Our permanence is temporary thing of the day
The day being temporary in the east of window
Its slow curtains effectively blocking permanence.

Light spots are spot on after a violet light is cast
As if they were temporary once but now and here
Semi-permanent in an overall temporary scheme.

What if they  swim  now ,as they  had swum once
In a purely temporary sea-scheme of years ago
And the temporary sea turns a permanent  sky.