POEM: Color in the Scrublands [Ottava Rima]

Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.

The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.

POEM: Temple Red

The walls were painted temple red.
This dream was just that kind of dream.
I saw no feeders nor the fed,
but my deep mind followed that stream
of color from décor to blood.
And seeing it not sacredly
saw red waters rising to flood
and paint the walls a shade deadly.

POEM: Unceasing Jungle

The jungle paints the ruins green —
brown blocks are made verdant.
So, you can’t see its ordered shape
’til you part the curtain
of palms and vines and mammoth leaves
that hide those old remains —
once hacked back by muscled men who,
daily, took great pains
to clear the rampant jungle growth
out beyond moat and berm.
‘Til the invading army won,
and Fort was deemed infirm.

POEM: Orange Hour

A golden streak of light,

glowing off the Ganga

like the opening scene

of a fury-destined manga.


The silent, gliding boats

give way to bells and horns

as sadhus leave the ghats

with the fading of the morn.


Gone the floating lamps and flowers,

so ends that magic orange hour.