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Narcissus in Us and other poems

Narcissus in Us and other poems

Narcissus in Us


These days we do not grovel
these days we are head over 
Heels in love with ourselves.
The world is in cahoots
we all go to a still pond
Silver like mirror and see
our twin and talk to it.
It echoes back, mouthless.
How can we make love 
to a ghost lipless, flat 
and sheer? How can
we embrace and caress
an illusion of narcissism? 
How can echoes mislead 
us to believe that our
Reflection as heartless
amorphous and vain
as the thespian hunter
can requite our love?
Empty the hubris
Go find love in others
Give it to others or 
Perish and grow 
Pale till nemesis 
Exacts retribution.
Vanitas vanitatum
Et omnia vanitas.

Guns and Roses


Is it just a finger on
a trigger of death?
Or is it a mouth-like
Barrel, sucking life?

Is it a god’s weapon
Or Satan’s proxy?
Is it just cold metal
or toy of deranged?

Is it just a gun in tow
of a tormented child?
Or is it a country’s law
gone totally berserk?
Is it a new genre of
music played in clubs?
Or is it the corrupted
Melody of new bands?

Is it about brown, black
White, straight, queer?
Or is it about a new age
Enactment of holocaust?

Is it about the soulless
Object in our warm limbs?
Or is it about cold souls
with blood on our hands?


A Waiting Window


This window is an oases in
a desert, it’s an open field,
a medium, gazing out of it
Is perhaps an act of séance.

Glass barred window where
her reflection has become
a part of it while waiting, dry
as dust yet a sign of sentience.

The leaves have grown over
her face with marble eyes
like lacework of poison ivy on
fence out of Van Gogh painting.

It’s the most gazed upon work
Of art hung on the wall as she
Waits until the line between her
And her mirror image gets blurred. 


End of Beginning 


January is closing its eyes
Lids in stance of ptosis
It can’t see, can’t see
The promises like puff of smoke
Roll the dice, it nudges
But skinflint luck eludes
The perfect number
So it will roll dates and
Months and flip
The hanging calendar
Gathering dust of the year
It’s thickness a measure
Of time, untenanted
By events and fulfilment
Tainted by procrastination
Wassailing, wayfaring
Crashing into shark infested
Waters, but how does one
Kill those already dead?
Those who do not breathe
Dreams like oxygen.


To Find My God


How god’s breath
would feel?
Like a balm or a storm
I wonder
So I sit in the crotch
of a tree
Waiting for epiphany.

I think I will find him 
Sprouting 
Like a shoot, a spring 
Out of bone
White stillness. I think 
I will see 
Him in the shaft of light.

With dust motes, swirling 
Like stars
I don’t go to the temple
I don’t gaze
At the idol supplicating for
It to come to 
Life instead I come back

Empty-handed, clasping
For sapping
Warmth, I see God waiting
On my porch
He has a familiar face
And when 
He whispers in my ears

The voice tickles me like 
soft wind.
I can’t help but smile through
My tears.
As I recognize the vibrations
Of my drum
Sound of my mother. 

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