Pastoral life

The village school is closed for the day
In honor of the guests on the string cot.

The sunflowers will open with the wind
When the shadows will creep up slowly

Behind the buffaloes, with eyes closed,
Their mandibles moving up and down.

Our vision is clouded, our phony vision
Caused by much emotion in the eyes.


I see things in mist of confusion
And all your gestures are trying

To match bodies with my eyes.
As mind recognizes sovereignty

Of the foot, functioning on own.
The fly does not walk its texture

Nor does the song set it tapping
A ghost foot declaring rebellion,

Preferring to join them in a mist,
As if parts are wholes themselves.

In the mist

In the mist are vague contours
Of people and shrouds of them

Walking towards me and away
Like wind that wanders in mist

Or a rain that comes in walking
On the road ,as gusts of a wind

As people and daughters about,
People and mine from a womb,

And white robed figures in long
Tails hanging from their necks.

Pagoda mystery

Several hands stretch to the helicopter,
Mouths quivering with hope at its whir

While the bodies pile to form a pagoda.
A mystery why some bodies are always

Found on a copter while other bodies
Have to rise from dusty ground-earth,

Why the bodies have to form pagoda
To the bodies up there, on  dusty sky.

The undying

Known largely as undying one,
Now about to die, a head of hair

A self-confessed undying head
Makes confession on deathbed.

This wind is a source of chimes
And I make confession to birth,

A swaddle cloth smelling child
Doing reference work on a sin,

Like a Sexton born without sex
Trying to confess others ‘ sins.

We will not paint sinful heads
In a wind that will quickly die.

Sex is tricky on an upper berth
But we do confess to our birth.

(Reference Anne Sexton’s poem “With Mercy For The Greedy“)

It does not add up on some days

The drone goes on ‘tween the ears.
Existence is bare heads bobbing up

On a blue space beyond spiked gate.
A mere serious girl clicks her shoes

On waking ground in oval motion
And midnight’s crows pierce night

Awaiting  tomorrow’s early dawn.
A seller man sits under  lake tree

Spills beans in red and blue bags.
It does not add up on some days.

Missing matter

A fistful of matter seemed to matter much
Why blow it up in search for other matter.

His sun had brilliantly thought he was sun.
The other skulls came telling of other suns.

A bearded man dropped lightweight petal.
Another’s fruit explored the physical world.

A rainbowy microcosm appeared to spiral.
Yet there is saffron fear in fistful of matter.

Knowledge is but neatly stacked craniums
With entire inside matter notably missing.