I am a shadow of what I could have been, and I have you to thank for it.  Thank you for making me mutable and immutable – giving me wings to change direction at the beckoning of the sun.  Thank you for giving me my omnipresence while being nothing at all; forever a companion who’s never there – you gave me this transient bliss; without which I’d have known a lot but the meanings I’d have missed.  On the less green side, I can see more green – if I stoop, it’s to see what’s beneath me; you made me this place holder of time, a herald for herald’s sake – for that, I have you to pay.




An illustrious life is thwart with calamities and disasters – misadventures and mistakes.  Joyful moments and painful hours all congeal inside the mind.  But for some, something happens when all the excrement reaches the library of brains – it fertilizes the seeds of curiosity.  New ideas blossom from this tree.

But this life withers quickly – its mortal form defeated by its upstream evolution, and its devotion suited to universal need, it retains the memory of existence through a clandestine omniscience. Our guardian angels in all plains, our unexplainable moments – and the fairies in our dreams.


A sheltered life cowers under the weight of desire – nepotisms and non sequiturs.  Pain and suffering overcome such beings despite all material things, all comforts, and all belongings.  For most of such sad fortune, nothing can ever satiate, nor create happiness out of spinning money, power and games.

Too much of anything burns a hole into the fabric of unknowns and predestinations.  While too much sugar causes diabetes, none of it makes life indescribably boring.  So the shaded existence expects too much, including the sun and the moon, its light and even the darkness of the night – and chaos overcomes them.


A life of deceit has a veneer of peace – Betrayals and duplicities. No emotion dominates but a blinding selfish desire.  It consumes even itself, cutting off its own air supply because of near-sighted flare.  In colors of love and law, it menacingly dances atop mass graves of conquests, ruthlessly massacred.

For such souls only devolution exists.  A constant incremental decline into the nearest black-hole, only to be rediscovered on the other end – in pieces, yet still retaining conscious memory of misdeeds like a maggot trapped under its skin.  It festers, explodes and implodes, and eternally eats itself.



A star burns brightest right before it implodes.

It gradually, voraciously, consumes itself;

Leaving a trail of light for a few billion years.

As if stopped by the iron hell-hound,

It rumbles inward; it can’t eat the dog.

So it eats itself – and shatters and scatters.

That Big Bang makes life,

For another few billion years;

It becomes the unseen.

The taker now, and many;

Circling around its kin in pieces.

Atop such a grain of sand,

With grass and water,

And parrots and robots,

Glued by gravity,

Only to look into the abyss of space,

To see another star,

That imploded only God knows when,

We stare.

For a rare cosmic glimpse,

Before we become stars again.


Amber Nest


Poetry is to life as a heart is to a body – it supplies the beat that livens life.  Poets do not write poems; poets write what they observe – poetry lives all around.  In flights of birds dancing atop concrete jungles and in the drumming rhythm of raindrops on tin roofs – in car horns that rise with the sun and ebb with dusk; and in stars that twinkle at night and exist in daylight, but out of sight.

Fruits of Mirrors


Enemies have more in common than friends.

Seeing one in another’s eyes, in that ageless rage;

Fighting for the same thing, from opposite ends.

The man, the mirror, the reflection of him;

Are three different beings; but not to him.

He sees himself; he sees his own enemy.

Then the breaking begins; a hydra of terrors.

In the end no one remembers the mirrors,

Nor the spark that lit the gunpowder plot.

Just a swath, scarred, pillaged – a field of dead.

Boys washed up, girls drilled – plagued forever;

With an indelible suffering that cannot be said;

Nor felt, by anyone other than the lads,

Who see the fights; ingest the sights,

And reflect them back onto mirrors.

And see war-scarred faces of fathers,

And mothers and brothers and friends,

And them – etched into their DNA.


Black Bird

He roared aloud before his last fight; for his God-right to be alive, in peace.

He trudged and swam, and waded and ran; and then rested at heaven’s gate.

No hate; no pity, no rage; Just love and a sincere plea to play.

To smile and jump, and climb on humps; to learn, discover, grow old with his brother.

None of it happened; these simple needs denied, he cried; he drowned and died.