It is raining on a tree

It is raining , artist tells mom.
Mom rises out of newspaper.

There is pitter patter on roof.
In a rain no body hears farts.

Mom goes on to clothesline.
It is no rain and only the sun

Farting to a glory on clothes.
Clothes smell of lime flower.

Sun has no bum to fart with
Nor sofa with mom in news.

Artist has noticed sofa farts
Interchangeably with autist.

Mom opens kitchen window
To find it is raining on a tree.


After foremost preternatural error
We believed errors would go away
If we did nothing but merely blink.

But errors surfaced in parchments.
We would dust and rustle them up
For corrective action, all the while.

But the bus number was delightful
Soft-ware error taking to the edge.
We would do our nothing but blink

That is when we teetered, on brink.
After brink there is no more error,
And no parchments documenting.


All this sadness is hers and not mine
It is her kneecap that is not working

To climb the stairs powered by a lift
Not working now , sadly,  powerless.

A sadness is hers she refuses to own
And passes it to me nursing my own,

My own sadness congealed in blood
As a general sadness of humankind.

It is not her sadness but enema man’s.
Pain in anus is mankind’s, not hers.

The wild elephant

The tribal guide would not not let us down
Into  crunch of leaves and tiger paw-prints.
From such a height you can see mountains.

The secret is to hold on and not let it move
To mountains over thorny low-slung bush
With blue clouds at  top presaging a storm.

Without ankush it takes us to inner animal
With trees uprooted, mountain pulled near
Without dusk shining from the rear flanks.

Muthu teaches  to wield ankush on it to go
Where we want to go, to   blue mountains.
We will use it to tame  wild elephant in us.

(The mind is a rider on an elephant. ‘My own mind used to wander wherever pleasure or desire or lust led it, but now I have it tamed, I guide it, as the keeper guides the wild elephant-Buddha)

Wonder ceases

While at stand we keep wondering
A mouth agape, forgetting to close,
Now we ask immortality but forget

To ask eternal youth to our bodies.
A cicada keeps nightly mouth open,
Sounds unending stream of youth.

We open our mouths to keep them
Wide and agape as minds wander.
Wonder ceases when youth is gone.


There were twenty steps with a rope
Many hands have worn dark in ages

At bottom of the stair case we stand
Looking up at the banister and foyer,

To closed room where we lost word.
Rope is darker by descending hands

From upstairs room with lost words.
We look up ,walk away, words lost.