Soul Friend

They say each tree grows in its own shadow
But we are strange trees you and me
For I am entwined to you stem and roots;
Someone passing by
Would swear we are one tree
and lose that bet
But my bark is rough and yours smooth
Your leaves are the shape of the heart
and mine the shape of an arrow head

all striving for light

Crossroads Park

At a highway crossroads
Leading out of this City
There is a tiny little park
Where maidservants on their off day
go to meet their sweethearts.
Amidst the noise and dust
the fumes of the passing cars
the shrubs and trees
which might have otherwise been beautiful
are coated with thick dust.
Intimacy is brewed and thrives here
every sunny Sunday afternoon,
and one passes by without taking notice
only once in a while an estranged heart such as mine
stops to wonder with admiration
how this love thrives and holds its own
in this noisy, dusty and soulless city of ours.

Murder of Crow

A crow was lying on the pavement dead

Who has murdered the messenger of death?

Its black plumage exposed it the sun

Still holds its plutonian sheen

For a second I stood transfixed

As to pay my last respects

As to absolve myself

From the wrath of the dark master

Of this hapless crow

____

If this were some little wren

The tiny ants would have already settled

On its beak and eyes to gouge

No ant dares settle on these dark eyes

That looks down to the underworld

and in my head sounds an eerie caw

Avenge me master of this gore

They have broken the old rule of yore

That to a messenger no harm shall befall 

_____

My mortality flashed across my eyes

As I sat at the high stool

And the shoe shiner handed me a newspaper

Chattering on about his dreams of youth

A murder of crows fluttered in my mind

And in unison went on their caw  

Avenge me master of this gore

They have broken the old rule of yore

That to a messenger no harm shall befall 

The longest letter

This is the longest letter

That I ever wrote

 I draw from the deepest wells

An exercise most tiresome

And yielding the least water

My drawing bucket hits rocks going down

And weeps coming up

From the dark depths up to light

I fill my jars

With the bitter water

Then I lie beside the huge pile of rope

To gather enough strength

To carry the water home

Behind me I hear echoes of the bucket

Hitting rocks going back down

It is not I alone who draws from this well.

The Apparition of Bookstore Isle

I saw a fair apparition

Standing on the bookstore isle

She was holding a book

That shone light on her face

Or her face shone light on the book

I couldn’t tell.

Her dress was an inverted floral globe

That glows in the dark

Her legs stuck out in style

With feet gathering pollens

Of fallen stars

Walking behind the shelves

Not to be seen

I peered through the stacks

Coming into the clearance

She was gone

And only the book remained

Lying on the floor

Lightless and base

Since then I have not departed

From these haunted isles

Day and night I scour these pages

Looking for the fair apparition

Many times I have called out

And tugged shoulders

But the people coming in and out

Seem not to hear or see me

A veil between two worlds  

Rivers flow back to your sources

Blades of the oars the currents beat back

Once again am counting my losses

For my hopes have missed their mark