Table of Contents
frigid kiss
.........8
The First Two Months (October–November).........8
1. Quietly.........8
2. And in Death Rises Fall Foliage.........9
3. Thrashing Euphoria.........12
4. Halloween Flowing into Thanksgiving.........13
5. Cold Cacophony.........15
6. In Between.........16
7. Of This Chapter – November.........18
8. Petrified those on Road.........20
(Published in Worlds Within – Worlds Beyond; June, 2008 )
tears in
:.........23
The Next Three Months(December–January–February)24
9. As in Winter’s Dance.........24
10. Full-Moon Eclipse.........25
11. Snow-Shopping Rainbow.........27
12. January’s Glory.........28
13. Snow Prints.........29
14. January 8 - Two Thousand 8.........32
15. Crawling City Grime.........34
16. Paralyzed Closeness.........35
17. Shouldered Black Trash Bag.........36
18. Pear Shapes.........40
19. When the Power Goes Out.........42
(Published in The Vermont Literary Review; vol XI, 2009)
20. Warmth.........43
21. Cry Night’s Womb.........44
Virgin’s Breath
:.........48
The Last Two Months (March–April).........49
22. March on March .........49
23. Through Rising March (Fog).........52
24. Drawn on Gloom.........55
(published in The 2010 Poets’ guide to NH, Pg. 356)
25. March, 2009.........56
26. Winter’s Passing.........59
27. Patriot day Nor’easter of 2007.........60
28. Nature of Warmth.........63
29. I of Water.........65
30. Nightie in Shreds.........66
- Before autumn’s end
Rolls in New Hampshire winter’s
Lusty frigid kiss
–
The
First Two Months
1. Quietly
As the glazing gold in filtering, fading sunshine
lingers on nature’s music, riding wind-chimes
on tree-holdings - dry ones chime crisp, the
others shimmer before quiet descends
on the bare skeletons; momentarily.
The last of the troops: oaks, (tamaracks) and
beeches - mostly beeches coyly announce
amidst upcoming quiet, proudly in
sound, in color, in shimmering
fold, in lighting trail-canopy
of this forest floor -
This path, quiet otherwise, awakens now in my
careless crunching steps that is sure to
scare off the creatures in rut, who in
this thinning are as illusive as when the
forest stood full, for they be the creatures of quiet.
In the approaching dusk, charm in this casual walk of
mine, through undergrowth lined path, makes me
marvel at the leaf-carpet that I’m scraping
on, of what’s left of once a green canopy,
transformed brown-tan heaps.
Rejoicing life’s transition, in pride, in joy; looking forward
to going down gloriously, accepting inevitability with
grace, for quiet to descend, to engulf the surround
I’m thrown back by a sudden distant loud recoil,
awakening spoils - engulfing in dripping red.
2. And in Death Rises Fall Foliage
The unexpected reddish glare rising up
The floor, bathing this small room, that’s
For an exchange of controlled water-flow,
That ordinarily would be dark
At this time of the day
past,
but for the dying –
now in glow, for
Beyond the window hangs the parading
Naked selves to the frolicking and the admiration
Of human senses, before being cajoled in doom to
Kiss the ground - thrust by wind, by rain, in their
Wild whims, during a
window
of the yearly event
of life drain.
Born out of gems, parading out of winter death
In Sun-blessed feed, passing its bliss through greedy
Stems for its growth-support, to draw another ring;
And in hopes of a repeat bud-sprout-dream, barring
Shut off from this life span
by an
onslaught of
catastrophe inlay of
Winter’s triumph, that in passing, puts to test, the
Resilience ones suited best, from the rest,
And reward the winners in high cut colors, cloaked
In green, received as gift from that blinding
Disk, shinning to fill all soaking
hearts,
in wistful lust
of hunger pans
Of an entry, to greet in a spectrum filled
Dazzling hues of yellow and brown, but
Mostly red, as a carpet laid and insinuating red
Frills, under lifting skirts - that rogue flirting-wind;
Sway draperies - all red, quenching
thirst of an
yearning urn
conceived in turn and
Consumed by death of a new birth in manners
That rests with destined urges, to bear a fruit
Impregnated with sunlight in different color-hues;
So when alive it darkens this room at this time
But for the death that has bared those
skins
dreamy
higher wavelengths;
For blessed be the colors eyes perceive,
That has not been absolved from those rays;
Such as green, when they are alive, but
Now struck gold, on a journey death, by
Stealing all that hidden beneath, its own;
robbed
of all it’s cunning;
awaiting the cursed rape!
3. Thrashing Euphoria
The joy-shame reprimand that happened
as fresh as midnight interlude, scrolled
down in a three-act script like this.
The mischief that’d just lingered between us
with her wheat mid-drift shimmering above
sudden squeaks of profane eruption
would fill our cackling of this naughty
filled apprehension, fearing rebuke.
Through the open door across, in the
main conference room, I see most backs
hidden in high-backed chairs, as were the
faces seated across, except one,
standing in sharp temperament –
rooted stiff in hesitation’s glare.
It was I alone who confronted her and
she in no uncertain terms declared
that the free-bees we could have but
never ever should we show our faces -
ever again, in this venerated facility.
It was more than banishment shame that
lingered on us of that forbidden transgression;
that feeling of a wrongful-joy which
made the acts more joyful, lest we’re to
get caught, and as we’re caught, a reprimand by
rubbing in that shameful-joy lingered
images that’d not fade away, even
when dark shades dropped on
my careening sleep -
4. Halloween Flowing into Thanksgiving
Before heart could freeze, I busied stabbing
her softness to connect beneath; this path -
the two sides in two pockets grabbing;
water flow through culverts in bragging
her sweat pores, without flooding forest swath.
She had covered herself in her distress,
casting her summer glory on her bed
in crisp brown, flowing leaf gown, who could guess
that she’d rob naked in October-November mess,
the warm heart beat, inviting freeze instead;
as human folly in this part of Earth
bob and sink in between election farce,
roll in veterans (fighting) machine girth,
till she recoils in thought of all new birth,
readies in cut days, lengthy night, laugh harsh
to bring home the message of shelter’s need;
to shrink distance in her skeletal stands;
readying to test the outcome of out of seed -
all that would withstand, be princely indeed;
readying for whiteness to crash on lands.
Alas, the months in her season’s conduit
is the bearer of what’s to come in dread,
is the bearer of what’s lost that was sweet
which for few is win, win; for most - a deceit;
as in the conduit joining two sides of bed
from just below her hiding gravely skin,
shooting through troposphere the piercing winds,
the culvert now sweeping existence clean
in cold truth - mean, lack of warmth, life has been;
welcomes the months - motley patch of cruel fiends!
5. Cold Cacophony
The free thoughts could flow tonight, as beer-banana paint was cancelled in a cold forecast, as cold as those moth’s plight in the pine barren that we were to help herd, caress, cajole, catalog in a quest; as great as in yesterday’s rare plant romp – invisibly smiling at bright Sun’s reflection – so small, so delicate, so serene, so readily blent – bent out of wolf-eye’s discern.
Rarer yet is this precious moment that reigns in the faculty, in threads of rare cognizance that shimmers in seeking, sizing, seizing, the rarer within, the rarest of wonders: Creation - on the verge, on the edge, in a precipice, in a precarious balance, buried in unfathomable, unknowable burst of energy - within a cold, cold - very cold Void
.
6. In Between
In between those somber grey trunks,
ephemeral shimmer spewing out in
ghostly gatherings - refracting
the late Sunshine
,
hoisting a vaporous surge of dense
clouds, rising out of the bottomless floor; Rising
-
all day long in a dense mist-filled
shroud, fleeting sorrow in a
pale silvery-mauve, locking all the tree-clans
behind; I can barely see but for
the Solitudes
standing
in between.
In between
the snow and freeze, now that it has rolled in,
this gamut of an unwelcome warming, settling in confusion
beneath a sudden melt, all up and down,
uncapping a swirl of
Discontent
;
in a vaporous protest of all
that’s rot
in this untimely game, challenging season’s hold
in between this day
of all days - Thanksgiving
.
In between
Love
and sorrow, hiding; forlorn and
unbeknown, taking a stand at the forest gate
but for the vaporous mood swings, mistaking
solitude’s high, leaning on these lonely front guards - the
Trunks
-
between despair and
hope, scattering not the blessings that which
the heart beseeches but the yearnings in ephemeral
swirls of ache and Longings
.
As if in sways of
a Japanese
Zen painting, and
a Shakespearean
tragedy, rolling out
these ephemeral plots in
shattered thoughts of an
Unknowable
, as in mist, as in
life’s in-between, rising, out of an aimless
struggle, amidst a snow-ice -melt discontent.
7. Of This Chapter – November
I remember within an early chapter
Of my life, during those burning-hot nights,
Laying on my back, on a water-sprinkled
Roof-top, taking in all those brightly blinking
Hordes, jockeying within the whole pitch-black-dome,
When a streak here, a streak there, would light up my
Wonderment of how could stars fall from up
There, over our heads, into oblivion;
(Enfolding eons drawn chapters, so briskly)
-
On this day, the last-but-one-chapter of the week,
A distant muffled-shot greets me, blended
In a cloud-cover gloom of this morn – to
Be serenaded by Ida
on its way
From a long run of painting the southern
Towns... And on this day – next; ending-chapter
Of the week, rain gauge shows two and three-fourth
Inches for a month supposed to be wet
But has been dry all these days, the last-but-
One-chapter month of the year… Touches me
On this day next, the beginning chapter
Of another week, that in late night is to
Turn the pages for the chapter next, for
The Leonid
meteor shower bloom,
Timing festivity of harvest soon
In synch with ending of the last chapter-
Month of the year with celebrations, so
As to redeem the follies of chapters
Past - welcome the first of the twelve anew…
Within later chapters of my life, in
This distant land of molested sky, I’ve
Gazed - up - hours before dawn, to witness
A meteorite shower – nothing - for long –
But then there - and - here; chapters with eons
Long, passing a show - in a last-but-one
Chapter glow, before end –is it a glorious
Annihilation? or just a transition?
So that’s how the one before the last dawns!
Housecleaning of sort and readying for the
Inevitability, that I wondered -
Efforts of filling with jewels in life’s run -
Now so inconsequential it seems, since
All’s shed - gained from the chapters gone to
Chapter’s end – embrace the realms,
The realms of star-dust…
8. Petrified those on Road
(Published in Worlds Within – Worlds Beyond; June, 2008)
At this crossroad fear crawled in unaided
at the conversations of eating flesh -
I’ve chosen the path not straight but on left
where sights brought the evidence embedded.
Bird’s-eye-view: a mosaic interlay
of half a dozen or so skeletal
arrangements of varying shapes, gradual:
starting from left, large sea-horse curved dead lay -
spaced were nautilus-shapes and other thin
mummified scants - fixed, flattened, grim collage
of artful elements; I pass visage
in hurried trots, when I catch the passing
form on a bicycle with inquiry -
wearing intimidation that lights up my
fears: if he be the one of those idling by,
waiting for piece of my flesh in a hurry.
The fear invoked by repeat art clusters
that might have been once life-form’s crowning gems
but then lost not on purpose but of them;
as we both turned at different purpose -
in my screaming I dreaded thought in his
as I sought escape back to the main road;
from this fearful fear’s competing abode
to seek a second chance; avoid scenes like this.
- Advent of Solstice
Frees the New Hampshire winter
To freeze them tears in -
The
Next Three Months
9. As in Winter’s Dance
Each time
it comes romping in new virgin fold,
barely hiding its flings
in euphoric swirls, holding sleeves of
wild wind cold, in steady
downpour, covering all in its
path with a blanket of
soft white dreamy flowers, in bone chill
finality that begs for
anything but so serene, so pure!
And on limbs, here and there, lay etched
ripped oozing fresh love bites
on young maples at moose height
and on bushes – scratches -
as in some smaller mammals gnawing,
to confirm hot markings
that’d underscore love-violence.
And as if to underscore this point, there’d
lay on virgin spread – on blank cold
compressed white cloud quilt,
in patches, soaked red drops,
timing them canid’s life yearnings.
And of its own will, it’ll roll again,
barely hiding its flings, and when
it’s time -not niggardly, lift us out
of our blessed chagrins!
10. Full-Moon Eclipse
Radiating spoke marks on
Fresh snow –
Uplift print
Of flapping
Wings…
Shivering I catch the
Night’s
Standing
Under the streaming Clouds -
One-third…
Three-fourth…
Slicing
Night’s
Heart –
Oh the Moon!
Once so glorious!
Gleaming
From
Such a distance,
Floating
in
Mother’s
Glow –
Beyond bounds,
Soothing
Laughter
Lost for good…
- I shiver at Erath shade, that
Enfolds
My being
Within
Unearthly stark wings –
As in heavenly bodies
Enveloping
In
This
Nights
Deadening
Sorrow;
Its
Silent
Screams; folding me in its
Tortured dreams…
11. Snow-Shopping Rainbow
In shimmering spectrum I see
Colors
Split through snow-flake prisms,
Embracing nude
Branches up in flames!
Expected guest I stay seated on
Granite-railing
Of this porch, that’s cold -
Facing
Locked door
Of a long standing invitation!
In time glory lapses -
Lacking an
Embrace from host,
Hesitance splits wanting
That Pierces promises;
Shattering snow-shopping rainbow!
12. January’s Glory
A fresh new start -
born out of a year old labor;
in promises of fanciful endeavor
of past hangovers, of wrenching anticipations
poised for a deep dive in this January’s glory!
She – the mind of a lassie
in us all, bathing in sunshine or
cloud veil; of winter-freeze or spring-warmth;
snow or falling ice; even rain
in love-hate conflict that defines January’s glory!
This be the month
born of snow castle heart, flake by flake, snatched
from swirling wind or a blizzard on call; or
on occasions straight they fall - those flakes;
breath of a cruel January fury!
And then the youth in us
find ski, snowboard or snowshoe;
on occasion as a dope stray without hat or coat
to dare dire fate, or in snowmobiles roar
lit fire: head, cheek, nose; challenging January’s fury!
This month that falls in mid
October and April, in a span of winter
mist; a transition in life’s longing and grace;
while frost-heave readies to mock traveled roads
in a rough ride to unfold, beyond January’s story!
13. Snow Prints
This corner of the woods
that I seldom travel
now seemed just right without
- thoughts of unauthorized
violations bubbled
the snowshoes – past few months
of freeze-thaw peek-a-boo
had contented with being
transparent either in
falling from the sky or in
its compact gathering
on the frozen ground – just
- through this encroachment
that only this season
now around ankle deep
amenable to a
snow-shoeless walk, mainly
in navigational low
- in snow covered sleepy
land, despite lacking much
bushes and shrubberies…
I was thrilled in coming
across an intact suet-cage
barely peeking out this corner of
black-bear dragged booties, past
- of a snow-pack could bear
the task of preserving
and retreating that lost
treasure for my other-half
in gloved hand, I come across
this fresh depressions on
white – that stuns my casual
exploration; for the
unexpected intrusion
- story of a weighted print.
not far from our log-home,
on a land, posted quite
clearly, and so I thought
to trace its origin
without stepping on it…
Doubts flared my bewildered
Apprehensions when it
Seemed that these prints, so fresh had
Followed this untrodden
Path that I was on! And as suddenly
My fear-jolted anger
Sinks in this obvious
Revelation of the seeker’s
Confusion - maker of these fresh snow-prints
!
14. January 8 - Two Thousand 8
Laced twinkling diamonds littered the freezing
Clear night sky, unlike when draped
In gloom borne heavy mist sigh;
Not so much as the other seasons, but
It’s the Spring-forbs that’d decide, if it was
Condemned to die - below 4 pounds:
Is it time to be born
?
Granted, it is massive meltdown in
Nonstop rain, from awning carapace,
Unloading this miscue: January thaw –
But it’s no time for a June Fawn!
Way before its time; not even
All antlers have been cropped -
It’s no time, no time to be born
.
Just passing the year-long high
In barrages emptying filled night-sky -
Upset primary winners passing by
Lighting the hopes of some
Dimming the dreams of others
Skimming the cream off ocean white -
But nowhere the Doe’s to be seen
…
Despite a gleaming burst out of waning Sun;
The placental remains and few blood drops
Glazing the not yet defeated snow cushion
Nuzzling of a new born rolled ice sinew
I wondered if it would rise in search:
This 8-pound huge eyed Fawn, for the udder
-
Would my grippers help me see it across?
15. Crawling City Grime
All brown and gray is back
Just in a matter
Of days, nay hours - as if
There never was this
Pure white - a
Cushion made of flakes upon
Flakes of soft tender dreams;
This respite from that daily grind,
That has floated in a
Pure white innocence, painting
Roof tops past
Roof tops and all in between
Which in turn the ploughs have
Wedged in, back - in a sinful
Rubbish grind -
Back to the reality, as the coarse
Deposits swallow
Dreamland promises into mere facts
Of ploughed out back, in
Black, to our driven grimy lives!
16. Paralyzed Closeness
What a gathering! What tight fit –
all participants saw to it:
not to move or stir, but just sit.
Just stay frozen without motion,
stacked on each other in full devotion,
where went freedom, held no notion.
Weren’t they floating free, up in air?
Free as a bird, without care;
until caught in a game of dare -
coalescing in drops - towards ground,
from lost freedom in newly found
ordered neighbors to droplets round -
next be in fluid motion or still
as neighborly symmetry was to fill,
where some freedom existed still.
But with loss of that clear sight
now parked all motion, pretty tight,
all transparency turned to white.
In winter’s heart these white guards flow;
from freedom’s loss, not a freedom blow
but for individuals, a motion slow.
Even within this freedom loss
underlies a restricted cause
from snow to ice in glazing gloss.
Marked motion they were to know -
as in vapor but none in snow;
which lays in between water’s tow.
Least bit makes the iceberg float;
bloated corpses in a castle moat -
shouldering castle’s freedom afloat.
17. Shouldered Black Trash Bag
Laden with dead weight
dripping from my heart, freezing feet;
lifting up those lead weights – snowshoes;
crushing forehead veins; my lungs begging for air
as the shoulder weighed down by the black trash-bag
…
Surrounded by bent thoughts
rooted in deep snow mounds, chokes
my advance, my apprehensions so rudely…
the frozen cadaver, a lost-blossom by the shack
that I’d scoop up before possible desecration bent pets -
Two days back: breaking walk,
one pet leaps barking, followed by the
other; just behind our log home, on wood’s edge
that greets us in double trouble mind of a young bard
owl, sitting on a lower branch, who wouldn’t shift even in barks.
I have seen them before,
I’ve heard their hoot stir the forest floor,
but never so low: holding out a wing – unfurled, stiff -
might end up in grief if can’t hunt in these wintry blast nights…
The only Wildlife Rehabilitator was out-of-state, this Sunday evening:
“If you can corral… cage it…
I will be back tomorrow… let me know
…”
We kept an eye where it was sitting. After long, it was
on an upper branch, had not escaped, beyond goodwill’s reach
of our desperation - to be of help – but not in a shouldered trash-bag…
First thing next morning - we
see no sign of the one signed in for rescue,
I cover the ground around - trample on snowshoes.
Was it seeking help? What brought it behind our nest?
Hooter’s hoot was quiet and the ones, cared most, couldn’t hoot.
It came as a great relief -
injury mustn’t be that great; in its
absence lay assurance that it might have flown
off. Readied for Monday evening’s next wintry storm…
In the morn, it was time to shovel what the plough had left behind.
Beholden was I in shock,
cocooned in a corner by the wood-shack, it lay
frozen; as if failing help that it’d desperately sought
and none of us finding a medium or even a thread in common
which in reflection, juxtaposed help-helplessness with hope-hopelessness…
In gusty freezing cold,
the snowshoes keeps sinking well below.
Lifting my foot becomes a chore for me - not young.
Fighting through for navigation, steering skipped heartbeats,
I try to seek a way, away from harms way, hoping beyond all hopes
that it will unfurl, as I gently
lay it by a tall hemlock trunk on its slanting
snow bank, all white, with hopes that perhaps it will
unfold, beside; blanking the photo I’d taken - the left wing
held out stiff, same as the first day, immobile, over the ‘barks’…
Cost me an hour and half for
a snow-less road of ten minutes or so.
Exhausted in my body, in my soul – that which
lay behind - it has been one of the longest walks I’d
taken… stamped by a half-closed eye, the memory of that evening.
Less weight did I carry back on
my freed shoulder, at end of that journey
of burdened thoughts of a different outcome next time,
if there be one, unlike unburdened burden on cold-white for
good, crashing my heart; it wouldn’t be a shouldered trash-bag.
18. Pear Shapes
As in the making of an upcoming hale storm
clouds gathering amidst still air, in an ominous form;
these faces in shock - makes one wonder what awaits -
must lie a pear somewhere, hidden in these grieving crates.
She stood stone-faced, without a clue - whether angry or sad,
just wanted me out; I’d failed her trust
and that of my dad;
with no tears trickling down, she’d call me an ingrate -
must lie hidden a pear somewhere, in this frozen crate.
Frustrations in the second, held no room for pity,
despite the long bonds we’d treaded; lacked sympathy;
I could take her scorn but not all those burning hate
-
must lie hidden a pear somewhere, even in this crate.
The third face was that of mine greeting her long dead;
limp as reed lay her body, wrapped in white, on bed;
whether I’d failed her
remains a point of debate -
must lie hidden a pear somewhere in this clumsy crate.
With forebodings the sky grow dark - the weighing clouds
breaks down in crackling thunder-borne sounds, so very loud;
outpours from floodgates - spherical, narrow tip shapes -
once freed they start rolling out those open crates.
The face I’d known dry from birth, now but glistened wet;
the birthing face bellowed at me as frustrations set.
The third face, that of mine, stayed dry through loss so great -
crying within - beloved shroud! – but for the granite crate
?
19. When the Power Goes Out
(Published in The Vermont Literary Review; vol XI, 2009)
The slim, non-undulating, unwavering
Flames - perfectly stationary, crowning these
Seldom-used candle wicks - casting just enough
Luminous, hinders my eyes casual navigation of a
Read or the errant penny rolled dead underneath;
Blocking time-flow in its promise run; instead
Casting a seed of inaction, of dissatisfaction, of
Frustration, a reminder
Of a dependent living in the
Deep woods or not, as a hostage of
Traversing electrons,
Permeating life’s
Cogs, without which
There’s no whirring – smooth or not; keeping pace
With other cogwheels; dismissing instead the
Chimes of the Grandfather clock.
Whether it be an hour or two, or longer -
Entrenched in a restless storm or disquiet calm;
The hapless time falling from its
Stilt, in a refusal to its
Standard gate, stretching in unusual
Melancholy, hiding behind them brazen stormy state.
And then as suddenly - the crick, the chirp, the
Humm…; dims unexpectedly the glowing
Wicks in a return of the electron’s
Zeal, the Grandfather clock once again falls
in step, unfurling life’s promised routines,
frustrating in passing, the Nature’s grin, momentarily.
20. Warmth
Seeking body heat - cold feet;
as she snuggles next to his
bare skin, touching both their limbs
filling in eternal warmth:
a formulation of a
satiation in stealing
love borne frothing waves, loving -
as in den of huddled litters
glued on swollen mother’s teats,
sharing body heats, sharing…
The norm - warmth that is – a norm for
animals – social.
This need of touch:
cuddle, huddle, fuse as one,
dissolve in each others warmth -
as a body mass - dissolve
in a paradigm of lost
dreams; uncapping desire -
uncapping an earth sink-hole and
drinking in unrestrained pleasure of belonging.
21. Cry Night’s Womb
Floated in -
riding night’s waves; a howling. Sad yelp -
cracking ajar sleep’s heavy door. We
lay huddled in bed-womb, bathed in joy -
rubbing feet, sleeping couple – we shared
The Cry!
Harking -
neutered dogs’ bark faded our dreams -
February 5th, Saturday night sometimes;
yelp and howl rising in night’s womb,
again and again; and then frustration fading afar -
Night’s Cry!
Desperation -
perhaps a red fox (would wander on 8th night street):
next day’s snowy-bloody spots on trail displayed
life yolk’s primal scream drained womb, unlike us -
aged, impotent, - sleep’s brush-stroke smudged
Silent Cry!
- Cowering the Spring time
New Hampshire winter persists
Ice down Virgin’s Breath –
The
Last Two Months
22. March on March
“Look out, look out,” she erupted at dinner’s end -
carefully I gaze out from side-door and face specters
stand
just under the bird-feeder chain. And appeared a
second - a third and more, came out six in all out that
way
as ghosts from wood-send; one emerged with antler
standing farther in; all stood still, except for
her.
She was facing our house with head held high, as if she
weighed questions floating in their silence,
simply…
…I see faces prancing along town roads in joy.
More and more children fling in the Nature
toys!
…It was the night before that spring was to arrive,
“Can you hear?” she had inquired in my sleeping
strive.
Floated in Bard owl hoots through the window
sealed; and I felt things aren’t as they were
before.
…These wild turkeys visiting the birdseed spread -
sometimes morn or past noon, thirteen of them
fed;
This was the first time ever that turkeys came to peck;
apparitions never seen before, then why was this
craze?
…Building permits are on rise and so are the loggings.
What used to be empty roads; now more cars on it are
clogging!
…Few days back I did choose a path, skirting covered snow
through the woods and not the trail that I thought I’d
go
to the landing, I wished; sun gazing on my shoulder left,
I chose to scurry around a path through the thickets
cleft.
Marveling at the scenery I felt the Sun now had run
Right; lost my way in woods, as always but having drenched in
fun.
And then there I saw a flagging that ruined all I’d spun;
for all these woods, wild once, now shrunk in wisdom’s
run.
…But then this is the trend all over on this inhabited Earth,
all other lives are being swallowed by the one with the rapid
birth…
So in the pictures I’d shot - watch if they were the ghosts
of strong ballerina white-ash legs, standing like silent
posts.
Slowly, did they choose to move, out from standing still.
We had watched them so close, yet yarned for more that
fill.
In descending dark, the ghosts would elope, hoofing driveway loose.
Never had we seen before - so close, so long, a herd of live-ghost
moose.
23. Through Rising March (Fog)
Turned at us - head low,
Dark unblinking eyes,
Waiting in earnest,
Taking in our moves,
burrowing in silver mist.
Righting up her head,
Trotting in delight,
Prancing in gaits in
Anticipated moves
through flimsy layer gist.
Irritation she’d incur,
Jumping on two paws -
Scratching in greetings
Dug excitement grooves
then set on red-dawn.
Sweetest of all was her
Resting chin on jean-lap
Or on table’s edge -
Heart-melting gaze like
that of a lost fawn.
On the master bed
She’d sprint up and lay,
On and off all day long
But vacate when it was
our time instead.
Confronting porcupine quills
That her spirit would sally;
Glossing over routines
Only as of dreams
in sunrise red.
In nervous flicking tongue
She would dillydally
Falling out of step -
Uncomplaining find us
on our trodden path.
Hesitation would lay bare
That’d crown her bold
Inquisitiveness led dare
Which she’d adorn fairly,
splitting Heaven-Earth.
Yet she would cower
Under storm and thunder,
In wind’s howling cry
Cutting deep corner
burrow flimsy morn.
That scolding wouldn’t touch
Her but she dreaded
Pain, real or perceived,
In which she’d wail
shriller than a fog horn.
This form of her, lean thin,
Without a care or mean
And a thought of
Viciousness never
would sprout in that space.
A decade plus two of
Prancing waves had left
Imprints on wet beach
Of daily routine
filling her imprinted face.
That once beset a dream
And the sufferings
Beset our Amani
In deficiencies that
racked physical fence.
That humble shadow,
Protector of our
Domain chased two Moose
Before erased for good
her mortal presence.
24. Drawn on Gloom
(published in The 2010 Poets’ guide to NH, Pg. 356)
More than a bouquet of mists
Draping mountains in black veil -
Shrouds hanging so long, discretely, now
Fading…
Surrounding this Province
Lake that cuts two ways – two towns
And two states, harboring a
Moment sought, marring a speeding
Heart…
Across this highway, I travel
Dazed with dripping wound-bleeds.
So fresh! Just returning
From assisted downing to a gentle
Sleep…
Inevitable closure of one so dear, so
Sweet – in a chapter so full, so vibrant;
Blessing her into finality!
But for the resonance residues leaving
Imprints…
Grappling dense fog, speeding
Through mountains’ hold on this highway,
Reaching in its nape, to hide;
Taking all central Effingham in its
Lap…
As if to wipe off the dripping loss
In mist of heart-ache… And then streaks in these
Sunrays!… Will it unfurl once again the
Zenith, shinning bright? - smiting lost bereaving
Sights -
25. March, 2009
Wrapped on one another in flowing streams
Of season’s change and change in season
Came a rising and a heartbeat skip
-
A silhouette, against a glaring white, of a human
Reproductive, arching torso in lazy yearnings,
Palms clasped behind head with protruding
Elbows in still-vibrating hummer wings;
Knees firm on terra ferma
with heels
Pressed on soft-firm behind,
Bellowing on forefoot, to
And fro rhythmically.
Sketch the comings – Grackles, Redwing Black
Birds, even a Robin before the snow cover is
To oust between its ills and the crocus trumpets.
In-between the serenading of early spring birds
And firming buds peeking out of season change
I snowshoe on the improbable - a swamp; final
Time; for in feet-deep slush that it’ll turn
In drainage before month’s end, filling the
Wilkinson brook wetland
Navigable shrubby into a
Nightmare;
Of a silhouette arising before last year’s end, missing
Form that all those financial inoculators would point
Skyward of self-delusional rewards, that is dissolving
In hopelessness of past greed, bringing
Down all of four corners merrily,
Hitting most gobblers equally,
In shelter, life, feed, while
Confusion is setting in…
Like others I am counting on when my life savings
Would bounce back, at least to a level of a
Survival end, but for this new images keep hovering,
That started in a happy setting, if I may say so, a very
Happy indeed, when she said the day being lit so
Brightly - I did not disagree, sunshine a plenty;
That they would not be long from the merry
Event which all of them went in delight
And I was to hold the fort till their
Return, but came a change
In frightening speed…
Dark clouds engulfing the whole brightness from
Bottom up, in a vortex of blackness, smothering
The canopy of hope and reason in a despair netting…
26. Winter’s Passing
Rain, rain – bleached whey drain
With fluffy cotton candy swirl
Down Green Mountain on
Wintry advisory
Stop this day, way
Before it bleeds dry the throbbing
Heart jammed in boulder can
Amidst last lazing down
On sodden bed -
Most all Friday.
Round, round – wings on wind
Tide, eying on flotsam rolling by
Down the impatient stream
Tunneling down the
South mountainside,
In slant tossed wink, curling ribbons
Down Town House Road, folding
Both sinuous bands in
Swamp basin of
Wilkinson brook.
Diving down, cawing black wings
To poke the eyes off first, if
Only the body would stay
Afloat - heads up
Unlike praying -
Prostrated in sinner’s repentance;
Cleansing unsettled conflicts,
Pincushion spread - readying
Only to face the next
Triumphantly!
27. Patriot day Nor’easter of 2007
It was in coming – foretold, forecasted,
days past, when it came upon us, in a rush,
teasing emotions.
Finding us frozen in inaction, it called
for action, but then lay in wait the
carved, set erosions
.
In advance of this month, this spring of
grudging winter snow, of winter cold that did
settle repeatedly
to fill in this perfect combination
of a wintry storm, out of season, out of
norm;
(momentarily
).
I see in its coming the warnings, the
physical handicaps that would call
for rescue needs
brought upon by the inevitable - a
need to drive down our guests to catch a
plane, through the flooded streets
in this downpour and swirling wind, pregnant with
voluptuous ocean spirits, rebelling
the winter retreat.
Fronting on ice-dam wall that should dampen
flow, in an outburst it has risen above floodplains,
engulfing the streets that lay low.
As we drown in despair, in loosing the
use of amenities, without the electricity
thrown in stark dark.
That the Generator’s limited help
couldn’t uplift candle & lamp wicks’ niggardly
flaming contrast –
(momentarily
),
but despite the flooded mountain roads, forced
to retreat on it as gravel street was cut in
ditch by water flow;
expecting least a sight of rapids over
the bridge, once a lowly brook, now in
overwhelming wrath,
arrested my entry to our abode
that despite my fear I knew I needed to fight
through currents or fall,
through erosions, electricity and
all, the flooding rushed in memorably
as spring promises stalled
(momentarily
).
Unfolding the drenching wintry mix set,
under a darkened canopy, filled in wind
blasts - to and fro.
Grinding deep cracks like the ninety-eight ice
storm, will leave this mark, upon us, even
if we do not get
to greet another like this, to add up all Nature’s
calamities, beyond our comprehensibility.
Even if foretold,
couldn’t fold the lake or river dredging beneath
the highway, beneath its girdle spite marked
emergence banshee sight… so cold…
(momentarily
)
28. Nature of Warmth
In Candlelight
beyond moonlit night,
this silhouette
framed in serene gaze,
neither fluttering
nor wide open, these
sculpted eyelids
dripping with honey –
waiting,
yet not craving;
in desire -
hot burning touch,
not in changing
the profiles
of that lingering
feeling,
lingering in moments of
joyous healing -
the feeling
that washes over as
nectar -
nectar sweet dream;
fill to the brim and
then waits -
awaits your trembling
lips -
awaits expectantly,
awaits divine -
awaits your charm, rising
out of a winter freeze.
29. I of Water
Ice -cubes, -crystals, -flakes or in an unknown
anointed form, in which rest the life-germs,
in sudden happenstance, happens to melt
as molten lava, gushing forth live-birth.
A gracious flow: noise, jocularity
reverberates birth serendipity.
As in a stream-, river- flow, pursuing life’s
greater causes, towards pond, lake and ocean.
Instead, the flow flows upstream in shallows
where no refuge waits from winter’s setting
or in a long run from winter’s dreary assault,
where the flow could hide beneath iced-top;
instead, now in slow motion, drawn in winter
end flow: coercing, caressing, confronting.
Leaving far behind in wash up cracked banks,
skirting amid stones, shrubberies blocking flow;
cajoling through hidden brushes, stones, stumps;
imprinting mud waves, flowing without much
care, touching them all, now at its end, end in
it’s loss – for renewal again to its original form -
reverberates birth serendipity;
a gracious flow: noise, jocularity;
as molten lava gushes forth live-birth
in sudden happenstance befalls the melt,
anoint that which invokes life-germs, held in
ice -cubes, -crystals, -flakes or in yet, unknown!
30. Nightie in Shreds
“Cattle ’seen, cattle
-” apparition says.
“Now, have them thirty
…” “Thirty of those
?”
Curious youth drifts in mosaic puns.
“Yes, thirty three really; counting new ones
free, out of mother’s womb, as freshly lays
.”
“From this window I enjoy seeing
,”
she says, "I’m that fortunate… pleasured
in moving to this farm
-” she fills in laughs;
“big-horn cattle grazing with three new calves;
in a life of farm-lass that I have been
…”
“But how can you possibly care these all;
all these barn stocks
?” “You mean these livestock
?”
“Yes, how can you, by yourself, care for all these?
Besides, you also harbor gander and geese
.”
“By measures that are simple and quite small
…”
A knowledge arises then, that she is of a pair
with a companion, but of age were both;
“oh, not much work in it
,” she fondly says,
“as seldom I find myself tied for days,
I pleasure in all effusive life’s care
…”
Her ponytail swings bright as gold and warm;
which transforms into other - another
female, not quite that old. Could, perhaps she
be the farm lady? Adorned in flimsy
nightie, cut wide under the pit of her arm.
When she rights up, her elbow shifts high,
rebelling white smooth bosom peek through
that the boy of hers, when ten months old - dead,
now stands there fourteen years or more instead:
signs, tilting his head up towards the sky!
Tilting his head, drawing up his eyebrows,
pointing his fingers towards his own chest-
her to get the drift in ways he could state,
she lowers her hand closing armpit gate
in smiley, working-face, mellow as cow’s -
smiley working-face; she readies to go;
when he sees her long nightgown dangling in shreds
baring her thighs; he finds her flow in -
into another, who from scene unseen is
not of this time, but yet, he knows it to be so -
juxtaposed holding hands as one, God bless!
Pirouetting in air, as she disappears from that scene,
draped in flimsy, translucent nightie-
he sees the bare back retreat, and with a frown
wonders - how could his breath have been out of that flesh?
Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.01.2010
Alle Rechte vorbehalten