A Collection of Verbs

Life is always aspiring
to build a collection of verbs
so as to define itself—

achieving, acquiring, winning,
proving, conquering, possessing—

everything except
just being
a Being.

 

Defiance of Fall

As often as I fall—
still I will not let myself lie
silent on the floor,
like leaves journeying groundward
in the crisp days of fall,
ready to mold, blacken, decay
through winter—
returning to earth.

Perhaps—tomorrow.
Perhaps—another day,
when my jar of breaths
runs empty—
but not today.

Half-Finished Poems

 

Today morning
after a long time
or maybe
it was just a month,
but still,
it felt like
a long time,
that I returned and took a peek at
some half-finished poems.

Hallelujah,
it was good to be
back home again.

Before I rise from bed...

 

Each morning, before I rise from bed, if I remind myself of my mortality and recall that someday I will leave this world, unable to carry any possessions with me, the thought will render the baggage and the grudges I bear so utterly meaningless; free of those burdens, I might live a happier day.

Each morning before we get out of bed, if we remind ourselves…
...the world might be a happier place. 

May be or Maybe

 

There is tomorrow
but perched at its front,
       always sits a 'may be'
or a 'maybe'—
and if not leading,
      then it follows.

‘May be’ tomorrow
      or tomorrow, ‘may be.’

‘Maybe’ tomorrow
      or tomorrow, ‘maybe’.

Whichever way, perhaps
we will still be together
      come tomorrow
and that is so much easier
      to convey.

The words I write, are they poems?

 

Today afternoon
in the afterglow of making love
as my hands fiddled with
with stubborn locks in your hairs,
you had asked -
why I scribble
seemingly random words
that often break the rules
      of elementary grammar
and call them, well,
      poems?

How long, you wondered,
      will they live
before getting thrown
in the dustbins of time.

You got me thinking,
why do I, indeed?

I mulled over the question
rest of afternoon, and then…

…over the dinner spoke
ending up
      in the dustbins of time
      is okay;
what matters more
is that the words I write
are the white pills of sanity
to rescue my mind
from the headwinds of
      existential angst.

They help me sleep
      through the night
and to be with you
      during the day
so I can play
with those stubborn locks
in your hair.

You smiled, reached out
pinched my cheeks
and word, they were okay.