Poem published in Gloom Cupboard #115

Here's the link.

To read this poem on this blog, click this

Night

Empty sounds emanate from
Elongated lobes, like torsos of
Desireable women with plastic smiles
The wind is an unwelcome guest
At this odd hour, shattering any
Hope of ennui on a Sunday night

Candles flicker like half grown
Adults eager for love. Smells of
Fish fry aromas signal the fall
Of some unkempt bachelor’s
Bastion to womankind. Flies
Survey my banal diet with
The pure interest of capitalists

Meanwhile my old gardener
Romances the blossoms to the
Haunting orchestra of twilight

Street

There is no fragrance of flowers
People do not fashion some things
Anymore. Somewhere winter
Lazes around, like an idle snake
In hibernation, refusing to stir
Thunders taunt with no promise
Of rain. Everything is stoned

Crows head home like failed
Clerical missions. The sky is
Crimson with the dying day
Clandestine gazes exchange
Messages in twilight.Only
The street bears silent testimony
To a stray catfight.

Somewhere a lovelorn loafer
Seduces passing women
With a sly smile.

A Poem Comes Of Age

We cannot walk together anymore
Man and woman. These days it
Is not safe to say things in the open
There are revolutionaries out there
And Patriots . Sons of the soil
Who may not like us, taunt us
Earlier no one cared who loved
And lost. Which king advanced;
Or the fallacies of nubile age.

Instead we can communicate
In this indifferent clatter.
I can very well understand
The language of these lazy
Womanly aromas invading my
Nostrils. Another bomb blast
And we shall very soon pretend
To like this banal silence

Meanwhile, while each day recedes
Into a drunken lullaby, I understand
The wisdom of love. Just another
Futile, distant possibility in twilight

Winter

I never understood these mute chasms
Which separate us in this hopeless exile
These shadows cast by the fire in our hearts
Many long winters have passed and
Yet I brandish this forgotten childhood
Like a talisman to ward off evil

My mother is concerned with rice and gold
She wants me to go to the fields and reap
Hope in this wintry haze. But beloved, only
You and I know the pains of this indifferent
Existence, living like strangers
In this misty rain

Meanwhile, Winter comes like a
Shy widow, unveiling its lust in
The smoke of an early morning fag.

My mother makes tea for me