Day: August 18, 2017

Sri Lanka

The storyline from, The tip of the Deccan breast, The trickle of Adam’s bridge, The infant’s Jaffna lips suckling His mother’s milk. And below, You find a child curving Out the contours, the slopes And curvatures, Covered by salt diapers, Evolving day-by-day, To be a grown up boy Who will one day, Wear the Silk

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Love

Historically, an unknown, That came into being, long after The stone age, when the heart Looked deep into the inner sanctum To assure oneself, that there Are places inside, that are nameless, Needing the intervention of a noun, That can sink or stall or rise. And one creature who not knows That the height of

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Hangover in Hanoi

The places We orbit and the places we land When we are like magnolias In summer, quenching Each day, holding it so tight, Like God was trying To take it all away from you, Not knowing whether the places we land, Are tarmacs or rocky ground, And still we land, knowing That the unsuspecting instinct,

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Three Poems on Gay Marriage

Till Death do Adam and Steve Apart What else champions the muted heart To rapture in the loudest decibel. Who would have thought that history Could be made, in a tuxedo and a tuxedo One jet black and one mute swan white; And when they came off Under a tapestry of yellow stars, They became

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Asterisk

Shhhhhh Can I tell you a secret? [A serial collection of asterisks] – (You) Were the reason I was born, Thrown out of my cocoon, my body, When my lips could feel orbitals Summoning like a magnetic pole, And that secret is (asterisks – you) Built a constellation just For me, and laid them out

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Texting “I Love You” on a Friday Afternoon

So I type a text message, Thinking of my wife in the afternoon, Wondering whether “I Love you” Is just professing my affection Or just twisting the moment to my advantage, Of needing a communication. Something to break the cold frothy waves, All around me, in the silence of ghosts, That appear through the salt.

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Becoming Asexual

There is a paradigm shift. 40, like thunder reminds you that Your body doesn’t rain as much.  Climate change you call it, When you’re just an arid earth On which nothing grows, bigger Taller, fatter, even curvier, When the man holds a basin Out to catch the rain water, The drizzle of the monsoon That

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Rubies

There are historical paintings, That are priceless, like the girl With the pearl earring, the Mona Lisa Of the northern renaissance. So what is it about earrings, That draws our attention….????? They are pricked into yellow cartilage To embellish two ear lobes, Which is, more a tradition of the girl child, Than it is anatomical

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Painting a Female Nude

There is the Mona Lisa, Who looks flat chested at best. You have multiple opuses of Renoir And the impressionists That flirt with the female form, The rounded breasts in particular. And Gaughin gives it more fire power More variety, painting the French Polynesian culture. Still a female Portrait, in particular a nude, is not

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