Tuesday, November 12, 2013


late morning in an artist's studio
half-baked clay models looking back
blankly at him as he browses through
a pile of thoughts

life is a rusty iron door
with squeaky windows that greet light
through moth-holed curtains

in his share of skyscape
he can see rabbit clouds at play
which makes him envision
a youthful grasshopper
leaping with verve from autumn
to autumn

once in a summer's noon he indulged
the whims of an Aphrodite

a mocking smile reproaches him
and he returns to the doleful hour
as he swallows the bad taste in his mouth

no locust swarms
nothing more than a helpless gaze
of Hephaestus in the mirror
one who hears none but his own hammer
in the last tinge of spring

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

November haiku

looking into her eye--
two tigers at war
in a monsoon

early next morning
the prick of shards
under my feet

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