Untitled
Overheard a stranger remark, “the act of love
requires so much courage, don’t you think?”
That question came back to me this morning
as I watched the river slide over itself, at it
walked forward into the fog. There is so much
openness in the way water moves, and this
makes me think of the liquid eyes of children
before they are wounded into the age where
dying enters their life as a distant glimmering.
I would like to slide down the barricades to go
to the edge of the besieged city where cavalry
lead by its mad prophets stands in wait. But where
will courage come, to take more than these steps,
this one forward & the next one backward?
Perhaps when I am wounded beyond mere pain.
My Poems
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A Story Told By A Stone
In lamplight the blue agate
is a firestar on the white
expanse of Radhika's throat.
It signals, "Here, here lives the firebird song. Here is the geography for the dark hued one to map with his mouth.
Here is another metaphor for a hymn to the quaking rain, knock knocking all afternoon at the bay windows."
Cafe Annie, Houston 02/16/2008
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Writing Notes As Spring Sun Glows
In the middle of Houston (or any other American city), you are listening to the surf of traffic breaking over a plangent Bhairavi.
It is morning after a night of rain; first green of spring grass blankets the curbs. It has been nearly a decade since you have drowned here, in this bathtub of ideas, which you once thought stood for America; but what is America?
And what kind of an Orpheus should you become to sing here, in America, for a Beatrice who now remains as an idea than a flesh and blood reality? To feel the hasty passion of those younger years then, when knowing less, the mind did not constrain the imagination from embellishing imperfections.
Will it liberate though, the anemic heart from all its conditionals?
Traffic roars and pours.
My Poems
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