Monday, August 7, 2017



I have always wondered
Where was it that my hands
learned to crave and to remember
a touch, that they so long for.
Where is its memory stored
and how does it signal a tremor in
my consciousness.

While you remained away, my hands
have aged to a fluffy rough
with marks and mounds not known to
days of togetherness.
Its in the waiting of many decades that
they have learned to slide and glide against each other
in the symphonies of anxiety and
the serenity of the yog mudras
while with you, in youth they
had freely danced
for months and weeks and years.

Together we invented the language
of the dumb, the imbeciles and the juveniles
as palms on palms listlessly fly
and as the indexes entwine
to a firm grip,
leaving the others free to
imitate an embrace
or stay closely huddled
till the beating of the pulse is felt.
Palms laze on palms
as parachutes collapse to the ground
while the silks of your wrist glide
and surf the
tactile of the wavy hair of forearm.

Listless memories of my unsteady hands
learning a grip and then a feel,
trying to remember and distinguish a
caresses from an abominable touch.
The language of the hands is learned
with patting on the back, leanings on shoulder
and the nipping on cheek
in the morsels, in the huddles and in the embrace.
While the body and soul resonate
its the hands that communicate.

From a montage of touches
my stimuli has learned to discern,
but I have always wondered
Is it that the ridges

of our hands meet and collide
to a tight fit
or cause an electrostatic charge
from friction
or is it Love that flows through the
finger tips
when it has no other measures
to express and explore.

Hands know the language
of hands
there are seeds that reach the soul
with a caress and
a touch has memory
only that, it does not evolve
because the body intervenes
too soon, and steals the play
making them only objects of
grips and holds
objects that lie tied as cuffs
or strangle or tie
while the pleasures born are
stolen into the torso.

I have always wondered
What is it in the epidermis that
gets transmitted
through the cusps and the mounds
into the soul plates of nerves
that remain entangled in my hands
causing a flow and a longing
in all Contact.
There is something that hands do
in the idle hours of listless days
till labour, hunger or desire
spade the laze and frutify action.
They have learned the
hops of the index, the
slides of the moist palms
the knuckle knocks
the high-fives
the thumb cajoles
the mound to mound collides
and the thumb sting play
games only hands know
how to play for a better TOUCH.

~ A.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

O! Poet, Walk through me.

....a poet is a being
who spells poetry.

He buys from
many hearts
their harvest
and carries his goods in
unspoken chambers
within the
silent taverns of
seven hopes
only to weave
the latticed-warbles of
pulsating emotions
kaleidoscopic visions
of trust and life.

To many it appears
that the poet works
in silence
but he is only motionlessly
tendering and creating .....
journeying as a being
that does not die
but moves from
body to body
mind to heart
from many to many
only to re-establish
the unity of rhyme and rhythm.

Walk through me
O! Poet.

~ A.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Ageless Ark

Lets create
something for good
I will be the CRAFT and
you be the WOOD.

Let me uproot you
from the trunks of
long-run mellowed trees
that divide into
beyond the reach
of the purlins
of the kirk on high,
leaving your origins
into the soil stung roots

Let me
wedge you in the back
with a cut about
two inches deep
so that you,
with soft winds
to natural inclinations
your xylem rings
and memories of
ageless time.

Let me be your Master
as I axe you
with my power blows,
screening you
through your divide
let your bark and sheaths be
stripped aside
for I
have a glimpse into your
sap and heartwood
be my soul and guide
my hands
through your resins
or let the reflexes of
my muscles memory

Let me feel
the woody you
as you allow my craft
along the grains of your
natural spline
and me with my
panel saw
cut you in rafters
which I shall later join
up to the keel
doft with twitches of
iron nails
holding the ribs
and the knee
to a firm clinker built
and perfect shapes entwined.

Lets create
something for good
I will be the craft and
you be the wood.

I know when the
age of formation is past
sooner or later the
day shall arrive
when as the treasures of
the world you shall vessel
floating along the
contours of the
rising tides.
I might be missed in
the eludes of time
or in a double-cross
my name will in the list
but only if you let me through
will many through my CRAFT survive
O! wood of the Ageless Ark.

~ A

Monday, November 28, 2016

Will it ever be me again

Incompatible worlds
that thrive on my facets
poach on me
Vagaries that breed to
disarray me
smother reality
Infectious peace retracts
for prodigious expectations
self reacts to self
Divided along asymmetry
torn along rift zones
flows the molten me
Empty for obsidian
plates sifted
will it ever be me again?

~ A

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

confused fresh

Hoofs of a young fawn at daybreak sped
Bright sunlight strained on a lime-sorbet
Nature soothing the cause of life on all-clear
Senses now spins to destinations off-near 

A while ago everything was confused fresh
Qued seasons were unpredictable instead
And then the manner of life for memory's sake
Stale flesh from free range to broiler instead. 

Reticenct  pleasures sentenced to agony's best
Hope giggled in a frenzied child-like zest
Furtive desires from under the blanket peep
As dreams embodying my life undress. 

~ A

Wednesday, October 19, 2016


Resplendent pleasure and pain
Festivities in religious ardour
Amulets of Love
Riddled righteous passion
Fragrance of Alistonia
Crazing the lazy daybreak hour
De-greased‎ hides, suedes and Feather
Dhaki rolls the Kathi fervour
Reds smudge hems of feet
Cinnabar brow-smears
Lal-paar tasseled anchals
Durga in her valour
Chakra, club, conch, lotus, arrows, spears,
thunderbolt, trident
SHE is
Still in an eighteen-armed blow
To the two armed Mahishasur..
piercing his heart
Trinkets of blood in the falling
Tiger clawing the wounded-asur
Is breached by the stillness of festivity
Mahishasur Mardini exudes
Shrieks of joy, Sounds of clanking
Conch-Naad, Bells and Verses
Sorrows and Joys are blessings
Crimes of Love bestowing
STILLNESS in a victory hour.....
~ A

Sunday, October 16, 2016


The kinetics of Clockwork
A pendulum in full motion
Gaze fixed to oscillation
Hypnotic fruitification
Stimulus to its countlessness
Haste............. I find it.
It spins a web
Bringing many collisions to action
I flow in its fulfillment
Smuffed in its admiration
Smothered by its potency
I submit....
It was
Just a wandering thought
Steeped in Love
For your adoration..

~ A