The Dry Spell
It hasn't been raining since it had.
I sound vague? You haven't stared at
the spearhead of a midday road.
You haven't tried to track rain and heard
the summer roar.
Everything set for the rain - that cup of tea,
those books and music, social media posts,
bad mood, sudden sex, uprooted sadness
that breathes on and perishes at the same time -
all hold a bowl.
No noise, tune, ting - the bowl remains
an arch of aching. It waits.
Nothing is nothingness; even a dry spell
gets wet with our sweating.
Halo- rainbow around my sins
(To Robert Frede Kenter)
A halo-rainbow surrounds my sins,
its glow almost motherly callous
and concerned as if she stands in
our longevous balcony and see
us playing soccer in the street
without watching us, and hence we
can be the truants from good behaviour,
I blink. I cannot remember a rainbow
in my life let alone a halo around the sun.
I murmur, "Forgive me for leading
a monochrome life." Cold breeze
feels for my pulses, touches my neck.
"Am I alive?" I desire to ask and decide not to.
The grass smells of a memory falling
from a great height, from the parapet of Eden.
The air thronged with the particles
reminds me of how the crows circle and scream
when one of them falls. Light has fallen.
It is sundown soon. I can call you Rob
and say, "Slainté Mhaith." or hear
the sobbing water of a lake nearby.