Hold it up to the light

it says nothing, it says everything
hold it up to the light again,
some days, you’ll see a poem

An abating second wave (really?), an enraged monsoon (climate change?), a monday-friday grind that mocks attempts at writing, a shrinking world of poetry suddenly made beautiful by an unexpected poem that drops into my timeline – how’re things in your world? What have you been writing? 

A hoarse ripple

Sometimes a word or two would
break the surface, a hoarse ripple,
as if a frog had sighed in a dream
or a fish had stretched and yawned
and then the water would straighten
its creases, the silence separating
us, sometimes, fusing our bodies into
one, the muzzled light opening and
closing wounds like a flautist on
a distant stage. There wasn’t that
much left to say. Not that night. Not
in that place. Not with words, anyway.

mountain-lake-1024x829
Mountain Lake: Salvador Dali, 1938

Dreamers

Dreams, I think,
are like their dreamers,
spawned by their moods,
aping their attitudes;

see those garrulous,
backslapping dreams,
getting together at sunset,
at a tea shop on the horizon;
laughing, cursing,
trading secrets,
waiting for sleep
to give them their cue;

mine just looks
for an empty path,
that the stars
have forgotten to light;
slips in alone, late,
clutching the apron strings of the night,
stepping gingerly around the clouds
not splashing through the wind and dew;

see, dreams are so much
like their dreamers;

mine tiptoes down in silence,
sees my crossed fingers
and crosses its own too;
squeezes its eyes shut
and tries to dream
fervently
of a new moon.

April:#30- 20/30

12/7/15: Linked to Poets United

Getting Over

I think
I am living your life.
slipping it on like an old glove;
being you,
feeling your thoughts,
speaking your moods.

Why yesterday,
someone said, it was your smile
that almost reached
into my eyes.

I worry, someday,
you will come back,
and take it all away;
and I won’t remember
who I was before,
did I like mocha or chai latte.

But perhaps it was
a simple trade;
and somewhere,
you are frowning,
being me;

standing tip-toe
biting your lip,
pasting neon stars
on a naked sky,
thinking of you.

7/6/2015: Linked to Poets United