Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

Under Mistletoe At Christmas

Love 1

How nirvana means different things to people,
A nicotine high, some cannabis,
A little coffee to take away the cravings, 
A sugar cookie at the corner shop,
A meat pie from a 7/11 store
Or under a mistletoe tradition.

How the best part of the day,
Is looking at my wife listening to
Eclectic music, charged like a nectar-full butterfly,
Walking aimlessly to a thumping beat.
Michelle, I call her, and still, she cannot
Hear me, so lost in that zone of hers.

We kiss goodnight and wait
Until one becomes oblivious of another,
How we are like logs, on which, dreams grow,
Like fruiting bodies, mushrooming over,
While we wake up to a loud alarm clock,
That quakes a little, shouts a lot.

How Nirvana doesn’t have to be out of this world,
As I smoke time, looking for a high in all four senses,
Her petrichor after a morning shower,
Her cough-syrup flavored lips when she gets the flu,
Her sugar maple irises at each goodbye, her heartbeat
I hear, as she holds me close on her chest,
Her favorite words, like “colon burps”,
And calling me “spiffy”, every time
I wear a checkered shirt.

How beautiful that some traditions,
Feel like a brand new smoke.
My wife, my choice drug of recreation,
Filtering through. How she trespasses on me,
With my discolored lips, bad breath, stained incisors,
Dental caries, and oral bacteria,
OD-ing my fickle world, with nicotine.
Our mistletoe customs inside a well-lit room,
Infiltrating loose defenses,
Letting her mouth gently intrude,
And stay occluded for a while.

Posted in poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

Aborigines 2

Aboragines 2

Didgeridoos like alp horns,
Kaleidoscopes of mystical sounds,
While they gather around a fire, 
Learning that their throats
Are spirited, and their hands
Are full of corns. In this outback, the choice
Is getting high on pituri and cheap alcohol,
The type that is distilled, in a Queen’s land.
How the kangaroos came before
Us, and learned how to
Jump and kick, while protecting
Their young.

We harness the fire in us,
like the fire of the land. We look at dusty roads,
winding like slithering venomous snakes,
that evolved to be a menace, while we look
At sunlight reflected from the topmost sheen,
While we drive past dead kangaroo carcasses,
Caught ambling or jaywalking.

While dingos howl, we prowl
Our seismic fingers, like a potter
high on caffeine. We spring on our
Back, our matildas, and walk along the chosen path.
How we are charged by two kinds of spirits;
Ethanol and the rainbow serpent,
Like the white man has his God and red wine.
We are no one’s graces, No one’s charity project,
No man’s welfare cause.

How we forget that our women, wade into
billabongs, to bear inside their wombs,
Little Bindis, tiny butterflies,
That suckled the nectar rich breasts,
Of Banksias, that leap out of mother earth,
Remembering the stolen generations,
forced into ways, a white man lives.
How one word “Sorry”, reiterated,
That one act of salvation,
is perhaps an apology too late, and too few.
How we saw through the thinly-veiled white man,
Sandpapering his profound guilt;
200 long years of Mea culpa.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

Aborigines

Aboragines

A round Eucalyptus bark, gather,

B reathless groups of men, dark as cocoa,

O verlooking a rusty dome, Uluru, it is called.

R emembering an adolescence of gleaning,

I ndustrious in harnessing the abracadabra of a land;

G oing for a bath to a billabong, to a high on pituri,

I ndigenous, and still loyal to a land of fire. Proof that,

N o pale-skinned invaders can overthrow, ‘

E ons of midnight skin and sunny eyes at noon,

S howing to the white man, who encroached;

 

Dreamtime, is our own welfare system,

Made of sun woman & moon man,

Casuarina thickets & muddy waterholes,

 

While our perspiring bodies,

Fleet through the parched outback,

As spirit-powered utes.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, Uncategorized

Haikus on Caribous

caribou-3714113_960_720

How in tens they appear,
Through the ghostly woods,
Shaming Walmart.

Those deciduous branches,
A far cry from tips of antlers.
Like acorns & pine cones.

How in the heart of winter,
Caribous trek thick dunes of snow,
Masts but no sail.

Tundra in a meltdown,
While the boreal shifts latitudes,
As do caribous.

Through misted snow,
They rally past ghostly branches,
Like virgins waiting for spring.

How caribous assemble near,
Santa’s sweat shop in the North Pole,
Like those illegal Mexicans.

Posted in Love Poems, poems, Uncategorized

Ode to Muthiah Muralitharan

Murali

We don’t deep fry our crickets
like in parts of Vietnam, we
Make men with defective joints,
Into a fanfare, a circus. How 800 test
Scalps, is no small feat,
As a smiling assassin, surpasses
Crazy Horse, in counts and statistics.
Cricket, needed a universal hero
And that man who owned
A Jam factory, made a trick like Houdini and called
It a doosra, a word that began
Like a Gobbledegoook, or perhaps
an onomatopoeia, and entered into the colloquial.
How one man became bigger
Than a country, bigger than a religion of multiple gods,
bigger than a game. How a man, made
A mis-anatomy, God’s miscreation,
his shoulder joint
Into a Ferris wheel, that turned
And turned.

How a small island nation needed a hero,
In a time of war. How a man, who was a freak by birth,
turned 22 million into aficionados
of a game. While a man with
A fearful mustache stood near his
Oblivion, a man with a killer instinct,
made real history. The windmills rolled,
Four blade-like limbs, as a confectionery salesman,
bamboozled men with willows in hand,
Marking their downfall, bringing the sweetest confection
Of them all, a conquering smile. How
The reign of terror, could not
Tame a nation, of a maddening game.

How a crooked el-bow, became like
An arc of a rain-bow, a sign of real hope,
Of fearless tolerance, while one man’s glory
The type shared over a TV screen,
Can make a nation forget and perhaps forgive.
How wintering hearts, in comas, started
To believe, to dream, that no
Dream is too far, or too obscure,
while, we, for the first time,
in the short history of a fragile country,
stood no longer as gullible fools, as it sank in,
That an illusory peace, was now,
No longer a nugget of fools’ gold,
Only an oasis skirted by brine.

The Pyrite was now the Pyrrhic,
A victory in a war of attrition.
How inside a biomechanics lab in Perth,
Serendipity stood one degree adrift,
To turn, turn, turn,

A perennial riddler into a cult hero.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, Elon Musk

Musk

There are places like the stones of Stonehenge,
Older than most sights and structures,
Made of the mortal and the divine. 
While Golgotha, is the place, where one man,
picked a rugged cross and climbed
up a hill, while whips cracked like flames.
In one sacrifice, which only counted to three days
Inside a coma, a man showed,
To countless others, that death
Could be defied.

While 300 years after, in a place called Nicea,
they chronicled his life, in a black book,
and gave a city of seven hills,
a conscience, to guard over mankind,
which is now battling the rise of able contenders,
like Buddha and Confucius, who are hot on Jesus’s heels.
As you wonder, how easy it is to
wipe out a man, who preaches a clever sermon.
How Jesus, stood finally on a cross,
becoming the king of the Jews.

How modern day sin, is like doing the limbo,
the bar keeps getting lower and lower,
while Stonehenge seems like a place,
from where, Jesus rose, like a space ship,
vertically gaining in altitude, passing
the celestial aura, we call an exosphere.
while heaven, looks from a distance,
like the rugged rust-colored landscape of Mars,
waiting for the arrival of its first son,
that man, Elon Musk.

Posted in poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

My Mother Goes to Vote in the American Election

Trump
 
My mother is the type,
who even if good old Santa Clause
is running for the local election,
would not vote for an obese white man.
for her the “X” is so precious,
you could say she thinks of herself,
as bigger than the whole electoral college.
 
She will never write on a festive card,
the word “X Mas” instead of Christmas
or do basic Algebra,
only telling me, how beautiful it was,
when I came out of her womb,
how a surgical aXe came useful that morning,
to cut the umbilical cord.
 
I guess 40 years ago, I had her vote. Her “X”.
I was the “X” in her X factor.
While she changes TV channels in haste now,
Every time she sees or hears,
An obese white man coming on TV,
A type absent of a silver beard; who they call,
democracy’s big daddy.