Feet come under a wave
Inside the walking soles.

Sea turns the soul sticky
Like the dear one’s loss.

Turtle lies dead on sand,
A shell emptied by crows.


Evening on the beach

A ship in sea digs sunlight
To lay it out on the beach.

Crows eat a sun off turtle
On its death in fishing net.

It is  February in evening.
Sea has early meal at sun.

Canvas bag

Both dead turtles and live crows
Find no use for the dead flowers

Or stuffed likenesses of  the gods
We worshiped the previous day.

Feisty rag picker has use for all,
In his canvas bag ,big with stuff.




High and dry

We have not marked our earth
Like lions piss in a jungle to do.

The bodies piss too many times
To be able to smell-mark earth.

The marks evaporate too soon,
Leaving us high and dry in air.


To leave a little spring in Feb.
Get rid of every body’s death.

Get off my chest , you death
Says a sea ,wave after wave.

Get off my chest , you Poetry
Says death,in tooth and claw.

(On reading Margaret Atwood’s poem February)

Blue throat

We live in His world of belly.
He keeps a poison in throat.

Blue throat freezes a poison,
As we sleep in his safe belly.

We keep a vigil on His sleep.
Sleep keeps vigil over night.

(On the night of Shiva , He keeps a cosmic poison safely away from the world by freezing it in his blue throat )

Night after

The decrepit rag-picker picks
A plastic or two, from beach.

Snails are still at their sleep,
In the last night’s sand holes.

A beer bottle’s shard shines
A dawn on night’s memory.