there is no gatekeeping between your offerings and your God.

-

May it be the day
you brave the May bees
to bloom with ease.

-

April is angry
She ain't your girl next pretty
The buried bodies
rise in the wind
stinking as they should.
The hushed mockeries
speak out loud
under the spell of Spring
everything is out loud.
Everything leaves
that does not stay.

-

My mother's hands are not smooth like butter. In fact, they have cuts deeper than my childhood memories.

Her hands are swift. They trained in cradling siblings holding a rhyme book and a broom.

My mother's hands do not dance like a flowing river. But they will hold everything~ from missing keys to your fragile ego.

In autumn, her hands fall on my shoulder like dew drops. They hold a lush green umbrella over my monsoon. In winter, they wrap me in her knitted sweater, and in summer, they find me her cooling recipes.

As I said, she does not have the hands of Her Majesty. But they smell like an uncut umbilical cord. My only wish~ her hands clapped for herself.

-

Solitude sounds like the pause between human cacophony. A new day will begin tomorrow. Old sweat under new makeup. Old alleys with yesterday's petals. Green tops under a grey monsoon canopy. Birds will chirp. Dogs will bark. Wind will not unwind till 5 pm. Before tomorrow begins and tonight rests, here grows this little piece of life that knows in its every cell that it was meant to dance in the rain like no body is watching.

-

Dying rhythm

I walked barefoot on the beach today
yawning, the paws gave way.

On my way back
I wore my bluetooth headphones
the blinking light made them bark.

And I wondered
what signals change,
how do barefoot beats
change to digital tap dance?

How does a natural rhythm lose itself
in music so distant the earth
finds it alien?

Mother's tongues have rhythm, too
a stepmother's needs warming up,
not a force of logic that sits uneasy.

A tongue less robot, on the other hand,
is further than the blinking lights.

So when you drape a poem in
a wrinkle free shirt, style it with anklets
that rhyme away with the tide
you leave us barking.

-

What does an overstimulated mind write about?
The fragments within a fragment that do not know what they mean?

-

I don't like explaining my poems.

-

I did not pick up your call because I wanted to listen to my new ringtone.

-

the pitter patter I knew
the aroma that made me drool
the dusty lanes I didn't mind
the sky I belonged to.
Home,
a place I never belonged to
but made from fragments
like a collage in progress
bring back the artist
who did not quit.
Oh, come back me!

-