you'd want to do

Scented candles remind me of you and I hope – that something else, if not scented candles, remind you of me or of the camels that we rode when we travelled across all those faraway deserts wearing robes stitched from endless sheets of scented dark clouds from which fall droplets of purple-pink rain inside water bottles that once belonged to flying fish that sooner or later realized the necessity of losing excess baggage and let go of their pitchers that they didn’t seem to want when they flew or swam and in a conversation with one fish such, I learned about all of everything that they did and all of everything that you didn’t and for seven years after that I tried really hard not to hold any grudge against you and the cool blueness of your skin made you look like a good-at-heart snake moving outside a window like the promise of a sweet dream

we'd stop

Transparent are the bars of soap in pleasant blue-green shades of glycerin and perfume to soothe and protect the skin of your face kept inside safety lockers of banks by the river on which live alligators that think they are crocodiles, thick skin and sharp teeth of the boredom of Tuesdays, 10 AM wishing to wave a wand at the hats of sorcerers trying to turn pots of clay into shells of gold and silver, thin lines of decoration on birthday cakes of babies whose birthdays fall on deaf  ears while the world waits to celebrate happy new years for more than three hundred days every year – and a day more on years that leap, pretending to be frogs or at best, tadpoles resembling very young fish inside little bathroom tubs and puddle pools in which grow lotus, at least seven per pool

another good day

What does ‘we’ mean is a question we ask ourselves – you and I – we sit under the tree of questions on the branches of which hang ripe questions – questions of depth and weight, like ‘what does “we” mean when we sit and talk about questions?’ make their ways to us and we play ping pong with such questions that bounce, pushing them from me to you and from you to me and the galleries are all empty, there is no one to watch us play with questions that are our own – that sure must have saved many from painful necks, but pained are we, who do not know who they are – we do not know who we are and we look at the sky through the gap in between our bent fingers

that unique shape

To swim in a sea of coffee on a day when plain stretches of land pretend to be hills making you want to cry when you walk alone – after the memory of two round slices of forgotten cookies or biscuits is what a morning like this should all be about when the doors are closed with curtains of sugar syrup and thin wafers of dreadful dreams stitched together hanging from thin reed rods of metals hiding the insides of ink-stained souls from the silky sunshine of sparrow songs – who goes there hiding behind the shadows of yesterday – if it isn’t you, that is all right – but if it is you, stop right there – we need to talk

amen

I like this day the way it is –  ah,

It’s bright, it's pleasantly cold as the

Cool wind blows, the leaves move

I feel good, I feel blessed

To be me, in this day that is

Bright – ah, I’m alive here and now

Suddenly at a distance, from

There near the horizon a large

Form, ferocious – takes shape

And it grows larger in size

It moves from there to here –

Straight here, where I am

It can’t be me anymore – so, sorry –

It’s you, who sees the large form

Moving towards you, you’re afraid

It grows larger and larger, the

Same wind blows but you don’t

Like the day or the wind anymore

It’s a dragon, an angry one

(What is worse, than a dragon to ruin

Your good day, is only an angry dragon)

And so you run – you run

For your life – away from here –

You run and you run and you run

The dragon chases you – you

Run hard and fast to escape the dragon

Your day is not so good anymore pant, puff

In the end some miracle happens

And I am saved – the dragon

Slayed – some miracle, oh well

My great day is back again

The brightness and the cool wind

And it’s not you anymore, sorry

last night

i left my windows open last night
there was moonlight on my bed

i pushed my sheet away
i shrouded myself
in the silver light that spread
all over the bed

the moon didn't let me sleep
i didn't let the moon sleep

through the night we spoke -
me and the moon, i think it was
just us, who were awake
the last night 

talking about everything
that slept

out here, now

out here, now,
a little more than a mile away from here
you are already an old person
the early winter breeze nods familiarity
and the yellow leaves that fall to touch your face
are already familiar
stray dogs at the corner of the street
do not stop to look at you with suspicion anymore
the world is the usual place as it used to be,
few sneezes ago, the same old world
as it is out here, now
where you already are an old person

Rainbow

Just like yesterday
Very same colours, seven
Today's rainbow too

dog paws approximately

spots of black
tap tap tap
tap tap
and once again

dog paws
approximately!

the sailor song

With words like knives
With dreams like lives
We sail on

With nights like seas
With skies like these
We sail on

With hopes and dreams
And breaths like screams
We sail on

We sail on
From dusk to dawn
On and on
From dusk to dawn

fifty oil pastel stars

last night i could count
fifty stars, oil pastel blue
on the sky, at a distance
twinkling to themselves
twinkling for no one

last night i stopped counting
stars - once i counted fifty
bright blue oil pastel stars
that twinkled for no one
and went to sleep

last night in my dreams
i saw more bright blue stars
fifty more of them i could count
in bright blue oil pastel
i counted the stars, till fifty
that twinkled to themselves

and woke up to this morning

evenings

any evening is good enough for you to see through the grave your own
for time repeats and time is so full of stories and the stories repeat with time
moments replace one another as moments pass by when today is a fond memory
and yesterdays long forgotten to take you to the next day when new flowers are abloom already
stories of people wearing red caps only to prove the uncertainty in real or in paintings
everyone has a version of their own yesterday and it is only a lesson
for one's own self and for everyone else when realizations do dawn from somewhere
across the table or from somewhere besides when you know what from inside woke up
to show you things in real a lion or a red bit of paper of only shadows of eyes for
nostalgia does help at times but not always for nostalgia only blocks the way to rush
forward towards tomorrow or the next day of life or the next pointless living moment
with no element of surprise, woo - hoo, and this is new, yes, brand new
totally out of the gift wraps that we never knew
neither i or them or he or she or it or you, oh yes neither i nor you
time to taste the latest brew, the super potent dark brown brew
the shade of the dark night sky
the shade of a failed try
and the moments pass, as the minutes now are then past, as you grow old
you only know it's all

gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold!

the june tune

realization of time repeating itself
and the moments in life hence
june ends, begins july

to fly

and the very last day at the end
of the world, the place of mythical
legends, the sun sets in

ha, oh my

then are born the stars and golden
fountains and black clouds in steel gray
and red cherries in fruit juices green

only to try

to be and to talk consciousness
of philosophers and men of the mind
and philosophies and the ways of the mind

by and by

the golden glow fills from inside and
disappears from outward in when
the words get intensely intense

deep and high

stories and books and depression
and paranoia, is not uncommon amongst
tamed lions of the circus behind the cages

a string and a tie

easy to see and easy to be
limitless and mindful and free
to be clear sans fog, as can be

and then a sigh

to be all hopeless inside but
still be hopeful on the outside
for tamed lions in a circus - and to confide

is no lie

and then to know hope
when the smell of hope fills the air
all over and all around, hope and hope

is worth a try

the ways to where you should go
in twos or in threes or in fours
only long thoughts when follow

a night and a good bye

dance

Come what may
Go what will

An empty street –
Breeze
And golden glow filled

The full moon
Clouds
Trees, silhouettes

Can empty a mind,
Make one realize freedom

And make one dance
All along the road

And when alone too

Recall

(1)


"So, do you have a mole on your head?"

"No... Erm... But I do have a mole on my upper-lip..."

"No, no... something on your head? Say, a mark?"

"Yes, I do have a birth mark on my head..."

"Ah, so I was told..."

"Yes, I told her..."

"You told her too!"

"Yes I did!"

Laughter

***

(2)

"You have a squint!"

"So do you!"

Laughter

***

(3)

"Ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha ha!"

Laughter

***

a game of cards

slanting rays of light pour down
across and through the flight of stairs

men, gray hair smoking cigars
laugh loud, playing cards
five or seven cards each
with every one of the five
that sits around the table

it's only a familiar scene
when an old man smiles to himself
and throws the queen of spades
when the one sitting next
picks it up with a smile again

the cigar smoke rises up
and flies outside the window
along with the laughter
and the moments that
silently pass by

Evolution

Tens are not remembered when they are lived
Normal sub-human lives, sub-human, normally
Not even worth memories, but for a select few
You want to remember, if possible forever too
Only what they tell you

Twenties are remembered when lived
And much after, in all humanness
Human lives, nostalgia for years to come -
Full of scenes of twenties, awesome, woe-some,
Longing, made up of twenties’ scenes, total sum

Thirty brings in the change
Thirty pushes us to the evolved side
Thirty makes super humans of us all
Makes us divine - makes heard clearly, the call
Super human, we rise, from the longest ever fall

Books

We have read
Books
On dreams, reality
And the likes

We keep reading
Books
On loss, grief
And our being

We will read
Books
On birth, existence
And our lives

Time, tense
Control what we read
Read, and will
Read

Shifu

Shifu
With his scroll

Scroll held high
Runs forward

Runs backward
Scroll held low

Orange robe
Dark black eyes

Zen Kung-Fu
Red scroll

12. Thursday

In the middle of the night you wake up, sweating. There has been a bad dream. You open your eyes to see the dark ceiling up above. You can't see them stars scattered on the clear sky, probable clear sky. You hope it is a clear sky, cloudless and star filled. But now, there is this ceiling above, and that is all you can see. You got doubts in your mind. You are not sure if you are alive. Or dead. You do not know if the concrete surface you see there, there is the ceiling or the inner surface of your own grave. You do not remember anything, from the past or the present or future. You are not sure if you just woke up or if you are born here all over again - old and wrinkled, some dirty twist of fate. You close your eyes. You think it will change everything and set everything alright. You know for sure, that things are happening all around you. You are sure that something and somewhere and all around do exist. But you got doubts in your mind about your own existence. So you close your eyes tight and tighter, hoping it would change everything, and clear all your doubts off your mind. A mind clear and cloudless and star filled, like your clear and cloudless and star filled sky that you hope for. You are awake for a very long time and do not remember when you fall asleep again. You wake up in the morning with blood shot eyes and wonder what went wrong. You are almost happy, but for the irritation in your eyes.