On Mornings like These

On mornings like these,
I tend to bury my minutes in smoke,
Minutes which tick by,
With every door my poems knock,
And every rejection they face.
For you are across the ocean,
Working in a lab with a Prophet's vision.
And I, Frittering my youth,
In useless causes,
Impossible revolutions for same-sex love,
And rights to prevent laborers losses.
On mornings like these,
I plan to write my songs,
To right my wrongs.
On mornings like these,
Do I scribble novels,
Which won't see the light of day,
And whisper words which,
You will never hear me say.
On mornings like these,
White lillies wilt on young graves
For mornings like these
Beg not to break into days. 

Going Back On a word given to Myself

I have nursed some heartbreaks,
Like you nurse old memories,
Memories of the shower
That drenched you to the bone,
Or the time you realized that God
Was always away on an extended vacation.
Of summers spent against rushing days,
Or the sound of mountains speaking,
To each other through the mist.
Some heartbreaks I have preserved,
Like old leaves marking out pages
Which once spoke to me, of me.
Your handwriting still burns in the pages,
Like the candle in a mountain hut,
Alone,but oh so powerful.
Hissing, like damp firewood,
The words are past their expiry date,
Mumbling on how I had gone back
On my word never to write about you.

Yet Untitled

Whispers which are lost between
Words lying side by side,
Or in the white noise when the heart
Shifts from one Fm Station to another,
Those words you want to decode?

Meanings which are mired within
Entangled fingers of long lost days
Between the pains of sudden joy
And the crackling heart pining in love
Those words you want to unearth?

Clock hours which lose themselves
Between the siblings of today and tomorrow
Days and nights which swirl with ice
In the evening ritual of forgetting lives
Those hours you want to count?

Summers which have walked away
Ranting at bees for not buzzing too loud
And winters which arrive like country guests
Who don't know when to leave,
Those days you want to live?

The sea waves which to and fro
Tick like a child on a swing,
Nights which come and go,
Like thoughts and words in my midnight pen
That poem you want to read?

Weird

You say you have been weird since morning
Headache, Heartache...A sudden nostalgia.
Digging up the corpse of the past
And wiping your hands with new memories.
Hissing there and spite here,
Old Wounds preserved for all you care.
It is all part of feeling Weird since morning.
My little porcupine princess,
Too hurt to heal,
Flushing out words ans kisses,
All ready for a kill.

Once upon a time Valentines

Some have faded like old photographs,
Some with the turning of gramophones,
Some like yellow leaves falling,
Have walked out.
A few had lingered like old memories
And some born with the fate of honest politicians
Were banished.
Some masters in deception,
Tricked Satan with kisses.
One went away with a very kind April with her.
Some wandered,
Guitar strings in fingers,
And Baez crawling down their cheeks.
A few wrote letters,
A few cast fetters.
One shouted too long,
One demanded a song.
Some whispered, Some seduced.
Stitched hearts, pain reduced.
One went to war, poems in hand,
Building and furnishing castles of sand.
While some remain,
Like ghosts in a deserted house,
Coming alive once in a while.
Most have faded like old photographs,
Some like discarded clothes
Remind me who I was.

Struggling

I want to undress you,
On paper with words,
:Like the morning undresses,
The shame of the night.
I have been struggling for words
And also with what to write,
How to write,
How to love,
How much to love.
What to say,

Create words to conceal
Say things to hide.
We run like river banks
And unspoken words flow in between.
Rushing by, gushing by
And not bridging the sighs
That light up our
Noons and nights.
I still struggle,
To Morse code my words to you.
I search for darkness,
In a darkened room.
And these lines,
Like aborted lives
Never sees the light of your eyes. 

The First

That first Santa surprise
The first of your many white lies.
The first chalk dust on your shirt,
Your first gold searching in the dirt.
That first kitchen experiment gone wrong,
The first wet-haired bathroom song.
Those first bouts of envy green,
Skin wounds and hurt unseen.
The first five days' mood swings
The first spring shower that love brings.
This is not the last poem I would write for you,
Wanting to be,
The first of your everything,
The first of your everyone. 

The Aubade

Black waterfall on your snow capped neck
Long white arms
Measuring my love last night.
My tongue that gauged the inches on your body,
And colonised your breasts with love.
The morning coffee has kept me awake,
Your kisses last night,
Kept me alive.
Between those white sheets,
Our black souls found new maps.
Your giggles ran across the room,
And street lamps trickled in
The curtains.
Little by little your soul lay bare,
Then your body.
When i unhooked your past,
Your tears
And then Your bra.
My fingers like little feet
Crawling slowly to school,
Traced your body.
The valleys, the hills
The untended gardens
And let loose the
Disheveled storm cloud of your hair. 
As the morning went to the tea stalls
And the city brushed its teeth.

Dooars Chronicles No. 4

Everything here is in little postcards.
The greens, the tea gardens, the neat cliffs
All captured in a frame,
No grains on the film
The aperture perfect
And the exposure just about right.
The birds caught in flight,
Little hamlets in a distance
Twinkling in suspension.
Even time seems to be bound
Within motionless trees,
And villagers walking to and from from markets.
The same time you wanted,
The same time that for me,
Rushed like a mountain stream
And for you remained stagnant and corroding
Like boulders in the desert.
:Like middle aged housewives at the market
You would bargain,
Haggling for time,
Maybe a few more weeks,
Maybe a month,
And I always,
Lent you Time,
Without charging any Interest.

Dooars Chronicles no. 3

These poems seem beautiful
More so in your hand,
Your fingers gift wrapping my offerings
Little by little the words you would read
Will stick to your heart
:Like twilight sticking to the last leaves.
Slowly they will flow inside your vein
In your blood,
Like two bodies exploring each other.
Soon enough your nights will smell of this parchment
Soon enough your afternoons these fonts of blue.
Let these words melt when you utter them,
In the solitude of heartache evenings.
Little whispers carried across
Afternoons where traffic melts into tar.
These unintelligible words,
Muttered under your breath,
Hidden from prying ears,
From iron book of customs
From deafening silence of laws,
Words which become white flowers
On a grave,
Paying homage,
Refreshed every time you speak my name
So the dead lives just a little longer.