mismatch

Competing poets

Poor industrialists

Are in peaceful war

some triplets

End devours

Table laid with values

Saliva begins

Black and white

On crossroads stop and go

Unwritten looks

Queue cumbersome..

Waiting to be digested

Grinding sounds of thoughts

Words sing litter

Sound look different

Penned reams of paper

Grandma’s pickles

Sunning on the terrace

Eyes water the tongue

Old homes in towns

Full only with parents

Children come in time

Crow craps on a head

With knots of thoughts now cleared
Handkerchief doctors

Party going on

Songs chandeliers switch off
Happy New Year

On deadline weak steps

Safety and security
Painter paints to sell

Sun in the morn

Poach on the hot table
Give a slight kick-start

a storm

a storm

A storm

Leaves are falling

Tools norms values noise

Like the wind from one end

To the other

I fleeting from me

As the receiver giver

The mind precipitates

In silence

A choice reaches out

To adorn the tree

Mr. Professor

Mr. Professor

If you are not a novice Mr. Professor

You must be an amateur.

Your words tremble for judgement,

Posed in essence to collect approval,
Signs of a doubtful beginner: an unsure debutant.
When you teach in between Heidegger and Sartre,
Try to narrate the angst and agonies
Of players from your chosen books,
There goes Oliver on the street squeezed between words,
Faking his limp to earn his lunch; hope a cake for him,
When Lucky talks gibberish,
There go the same-name leaders,
Nominated by the famously faceless us
To bring in halfwits as fillers;
But Mr. Professor these are those on whose shoulders
Writers rest: this for itself and in itself I wonder if you know.

For as long as you mind your Ps and Qs

For praises and classy awards,
For as long as you talk from the wrong side
Of the window, with words that confuse between a twilight
And a rainbow,
Mr. Professor
For as long as you picture the poverty of the characters
Of your novels, where words bled beyond words,
You wouldn’t have a clue that despite feigning as an expert,
A savant, with all appreciations notwithstanding,
Why the lines sing as a refrain before the cracking mirror.

If you are not a novice Mr. Professor

You must be an amateur.

Atmosphere

Atmosphere

Shades,
If it weren’t, would fall like the fruit;
From the tree, in the unready hands
Of the beholder and whisper its smell
In the untrained holes…say something
Appeared as meaning in the unprepared ears;
As a child in its orbit, matures.
 
Layers,
If it weren’t, would splash like foams;
After a roar, into the deaf sands
With meanings inside its folds
Hugging the unsuspecting land… moment by moment
With the same degree of opaqueness and secrecy;
As a child bit by bit, turns old.
 
Shadows,
If it weren’t, would whisper like flash;
Without a pause, into the mirror
That neither sees nor shows until it is close
The world becomes… ready trained prepared
Listens to emotions of atmosphere;
Roaring whispering lying, clear inside. 

Push and move

Push and move

I just pushed you to know,
If you could be ready
It was just another night,
When I woke up because 
The fan stopped moving.
It felt time had also stopped…
There were nights when you’d cuddle unto me,
Post the pushes that were so frequent night after night,
Everything on bed seemed to be more than right,
We’d wake up completely exhausted
The heated pot of water would have tea mixed with sugar
For us to sip in the middle of the night
Words would be soft to let the kids sleep
In the room with stars and the moon,
We’d then steal our way to the balcony
Smoke our dearest cigarette so injurious 
To health! Whisper willing words for you to say
Ah no not again!!
What now would I do the children are there
In the same room asleep just the same
When in this worried helpless room I realized
I just moved a body cold and still.
The fan began rolling again and I get a slap
You push me to ask why such a deep nap.
 
In here facts adjust in search of a dream
With words unwilling to shout and scream.

Plus d'images

Plus d'images

Plus d’images de soi-même…
Débordé dans l‘ordre sans thème
Le miroir, déchiré du temps…
Vole d’autres ombres pourtant,
Il essaye de se voler sans les bras
Le ciel se voit clair, avec des nuages ici et là.
 
English translation


No   more images

No
More images of self…
Overflown in the order without theme
The mirror, damaged by time…
Steals other shadows yet,
It tries to fly without arms
The sky is clear, with clouds here and there.

The game is on

The game is on

End of a game is not an end

In a while would begin again
With rules just the same
Players and fans will roll on and on
Day ends at night to begin with the dawn.

True or false

True or false

Gluttony and Pride,

The two spoilsports
In the ballgame;
Jealousy and Anger,
Look for excuses;
Hatred and fear,
Towards self
Manifest;
Eyes of judgement,
Judging their own,
Violent is the victim in need of care
Not victims of the violent.

If a tree were violent
It would choke us all,
If a mountain were violent
On us it would fall,
If an ocean were violent
It would drown us all.
If a fence were violent
Throw us it would
Without remorse or repent.

A promised cycle ride

A promised cycle ride

I took her off from the car,

There was a cycle waiting for us,

She wouldn’t ride on it, no fuss…

Until I told her we wouldn’t go much far.

There was this meadow lush green,

Wearing a necklace of a street,

Soft Sun I cycled for once outside the gym,

With both of us there out for a treat.

She touched my cheek I know she didn’t want,

Bubbles in my heart dancing taking vault,

My one track mind tippled to the touch of my mate,

This went on and on without any halt.

Crrring! Crrring! At times I blew the bell,

She giggled like a baby I enjoyed it like hell,

I wondered why do people move inside a car?

With closeness such as this a cycle is a star!

My arms were strong enough for her to take rest,

We gazed at the birds flying in and out of their nest,
At times we stopped to drink coconut water,

I cycled all along for more than an hour.

She leaned on me with her eyes closed inside my chest,

Her hair in the air was flying at its best,

I swear to me it felt as though,

We were in an outstanding hammock of a moving meadow!

There the journey ended we were in front of our car,

She was looking at it as if it wasn’t now so fair,

She wouldn’t get in until I promised we’ll be back,

Cycle ride's all fun in cities we often lack!