a winter poem

when the warmth of the sun
disappears behind the cold winter
trees bend like old men
coughing into the ground

the icy ground receives their sobs
geeky nighmares speak in Greek
blackening branches interview each other
for dignified white death

'wood of the trees ends up as coffins for old men"

scrawled sheet of paper

a sheet of paper drifts away
the child's scrawl on the refrigerator door
with the sounds of laughter
mingles into the buzzing of the kitchen gadgets
I stare above the microwave
day-dreaming of harmonious
spaces invaded by the scent of food
I look beyond the obvious
towards that broken chair in the corner
emptiness speaks of untold secrets
in that darkened spot behind the kitchen door

"what does that dried blood suggest to me?"

flames of karma

I walked and walked
the flames beckoned me
how could I not obey?
when I went right through the parting
I stubbed my toes on the whithered logs
fell headlong into the middle
I became less and less.
when ashes rose out of me.
I could see nothingness
as light passed through me-
karma had made me resplendent
for you, them and the heaven

collectibles

in the midst of my books
I place precious something
you must be thinking of bookmarks
yes, I do collect those too
along with scraps of paper
matchboxes, coins,
black and white pictures of movie stars
yet, those count for nothing

I collect memories too, which
an angel holds in its arms for me,
and gives me back when I so desire

deathly adventure

it happened this way.
but you can hear Death's own gentle voice.
you do not turn to look at her.
I would not advise it.
if you do turn, she might smile at you.
her smile not a child's smile,
or a woman's smile.
she will tell your story,

"it happened this way-
I was on the road.
I could be anywhere.
does it matter which road?
it is small, cobbled and potholed;
it lead from one place to another
horses trot there,.
dogs mark their places;
so why not I?"

pausing, Death twirls her skirt.
sometimes she likes playing a mortal.
it amuses her.
you wait for her to continue
you barely ever notice the shift of time,
the clouds covering the Earth like canopy;
the sudden icy sting
on that bright sunny day

"It happens this way, always
I will blow over you,
watch the blood drip slowly
over your limbs
soaking your clothes
before I can no longer
watch your agony.
I will rip your heart
before I walk away with your soul."

the highs, the lows

she lets her hands be her eyes
slowly shaping the contours
she lets herself pour over it
the softness changing into hardness
controlling each movement
she can feel each of the nuances
the highs, the lows
exactitude of pressure
when she achieves her utmost desire
she opens her eyes
smilesat what is beneath her hands

"her master piece is ready
when the potter's wheel stops"

the waiting

when a distant whistle sounded,
there was a shuffling of feet on the platform.
The night express slowed down
a burly man with the dishevelled red beard
walked swiftly up the platform
toward the approaching train,
uncovering his head as he went.
the group of men behind him
each one letting his thoughts incubate,
glanced questioningly at one another,
a few of them climbed in
a coffin was got out of its rough box
and down on the snowy platform.
not a word was exchanged
one who had come with the body,
looked about him helplessly.
The man with the red beard
stepped up and stooped
took hold of one of the handles of the coffin
opened it to face his nightmare

"when something exploded on his face
it took more than his vanity and his red beard"

clipped toenails

her nagging drowns his strumming guitar
his head bows down and down
closing his eyes, he blots her out-
slowly starts a tuneless song
instead of ending the discussion,
this winds her up even more.
she again starts on about his faults,
reciting one after another
as though she’s building up a case
he leans back in his big blue recliner-
starts clipping his toenails
he wonders if maybe he can
get one of those prefab storage sheds for the backyard
he needs a place he can be alone
and play his guitar as loud as he wishes
if he soundproofs it,
he can use the little shed as a recording studio
more he clips his nails, more he whistles
and suddenly senses something
looks at the darkening sky and says-
we'd better get back, 'cause it'll be dark soon,
and they mostly come at night... mostly

"his bent head doesn't register her fangs
till those dig into the back of his neck"