A hole in memory

We never would reach our horizons.
All she asked was to wear seat belts.
Soon we will be in decrepit carousel

Until our bags are full with the hole.
The horizon will be hole in memory,
Like the smile on the hostess in red.

Monks in the Himalayas

In these snow hills , sadness hums
Like clusters of bees in a dark cave.

Their happiness is an ochre illusion
Celebrated for its essential sadness.

Quick lips hum like bees of sounds
While the fingers run on tiny beads.

Body and image

As the body walked on lonely road,
Its faithful image strode behind it.

Image had no thing or name on it
And no substance worth the name.

This evening the body and image
Chose to close gap between them.

The oxen at night

A faith’s embers burn within us
As in the poet’s Victorian gloom.

Oxen are night’s meek creatures
In their stew of straw and urine

In tail swishing of sleepless flies.
Gloom sits yet at twelve of clock

Awaiting the paper star to shine.
A few drones appear in a desert

A peace offering by far off men,
Ever lasting peace for strangers.

(Reference is to Thomas Hardy’s poem “The Oxen”)

The eyes of dice

An occasional episode it is hardly.
The general pain is hope and loss.

Dice is cast all our time with eyes
Blind to probability and method.

An occasional episode is a crumb
A comic relief ,when we scramble.

(Taking off on Thomas Hardy’s poem “Hap” and his famous quote from a novel “happiness is an occasional episode in the general drama of pain”)

Plucking poems in mud

I go into the very slush of words
To pluck poems in recent movie.

Boy and girl kiss in squishy mud
As in circus feat high in the roof.

We yawn deep in  slushy movie.
As kiss takes place in stark mud.

Love comes out of the slushpile
A poem for the day from  night.

(after watching a movie “Rangoon”)