metal rasped on rock
a grating demon squeal
where’d it come from
surely, not from Liberia
despite the flag’s claim
drifting across high seas
it found a suitable grave
on an unknown rocky shoal
[National Poetry Month: Poem #22]
She flips a sheet over the line,
smoothing it by pulling the ends wide.
Looking out to a vague and distant rumble,
she sees a wall of water climb from the sea.
A crazy person would smile at the idea of
putting laundry out to dry in a tsunami.
But, sanely, she runs for high ground.
Everything she owns is soon to be debris,
unclaimable, indistinguishable, and unsanitary.
But she doesn’t think about that.
She can’t think about anything.
Zen mind is her saving grace.
If she thought about how
tripping, struggling to her feet,
and resuming a limpy run
would spell her doom,
She’d trip, fall, sprawl
and be pummeled
by flotsam–
that chunky stew of humanity’s refuse.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #21]
Source: Wikipedia by Evan-Amos
“I’ve never really seen my hand before.
Never noted it’s vast range of dexterity.
Tight enough to hold a sledge hammer.
Light enough to hold a bug harmlessly.
Fingertips can detect infinitesimal
variations in temperature and texture.
I can even tell a Vulcan–
should I ever see one–
to ‘live long and prosper’
merely by abducting finger pairs.”
At this point, the Officer will need
to consult with his superior to make
a determination about whether you
constitute a danger to self or others.
Now, if you put a phone in the
aforementioned palm, no one
will give it a moment’s notice.
Still, think you can recognize sanity?
[National Poetry Month, Poem #20]
Little kittens can’t get their legs.
Feet slide as legs sprawl wide.
Writhing amid a pile of siblings.
Wrangled and nudged by mama.
Tiny screams for leeway ungranted.
Bellies bulge with mama’s milk.
They don’t yet look like miniature cats.
They have neither the proportions nor the ears.
They could as well be puppies or opossums.
From any distance mama sanctions.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #19]
Gulp.
Silence.
He awaits the sacred geometry,
but is greeted by the purge.
Emptied.
Turned inside-out.
All is lost.
Violently vacated.
But then how come
a dragon comes sliding through
a nightmare too entrancing
to be terrifying.
There’s no slither.
Just a silent slide.
It slides, it slides.
On a silent ride.
There are two types of eternity.
Neither is cheap but one is free.
He just needs to discover
of what it’s free.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #18]
I feel the swell,
but can’t see the boat.
Let alone know whether
it contains passengers.
It’s night.
The sea is dark,
and the most I can hope for
is a glint against the hull.
If I look to where the glint was,
She’s gone.
Tune to the
rise and fall
of the swell.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #17]
Siddhartha Gautama saw
– one old
– one ill
– one corpse
and knew his path must change.
I saw a naked child
stomping in the mud
and knew my path must change.
To slog through the mud
is the way of sufferers.
To stomp like you’re in a marching band
is the way of joy.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #16]
I remember those gray days.
Drizzle. Mist.
Gray cloud bellies hung low,
scratched by church spires.
A cloak of damp,
damp cold.
Shoulders hunched.
Eyes on glistening pavement.
A world closing in.
Burying one in gray.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #15]
Taken at Bannerghatta Biological Park in Bangalore
What’s a tiger but a bright, orange cat
who naps all day but doesn’t get fat?
How does he stay muscled and lean
when he eats and eats and sleeps between?
Sure, now and again, he’ll chase a gazelle.
Unlike my cat, who’s trained me with a bell
to deliver food to a bowl right under her nose
lest I hear the pitiful yowl of hunger throes.
But when chasing prey, tigers never run long.
He picks slow and weak over fast and strong.
And you’ll never see him run in the mid-day sun,
and he’ll always be napping when his meal is done.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #14]
Hey, there, Mr. Millipede.
Shall I judge you by word or deed?
If by word, you’re big, stinky liar.
I counted 200 feet, not one higher.
“1000 feet” is pure exaggeration.
I say with no intended defamation.
By deed, now, that’s a different story.
You deserve all the accolades and glory.
I trip and stumble on just my two feet.
With 200, I’d never make it across the street.
How can your tiny brain keep feet moving?
Does each step need pre-approving?
[National Poetry Month: Poem #13]
