in transit

these steel and grey
structures
of our time,
like buses they send off
these flying insects out into
the unending sky till
we reach another such marvel
full of signs and warnings - the greys
dotted with oranges and greens
(fluorescent, warning) and sometimes
the upholstery on the
scarce seating
disagrees with the grey of the
floor, the steel of the cages,
black and white uniforms, to borrow
the colours of the real world.

An old man always hiding aged eyes behind dark glasses

His wife's car borrowed
for the extra income, the
ashtray full, the radio humming
softly spoken verses,
the speedometer never
questioning the approval of the law.

Our conversation: his
step-son and granddaughter,
of her life with them
and the vagaries of the
weather. "Now if only we
were all good Christians! Tell me all
about you guys..."

Me throwing back the questions,
back at him, talking Brahma,
Vishnu, Mahesh, comparing the
holy trinity to an egg,
he cursing his son-in-law
for being in bed with his daughter
and a Jehovah's Witness. "He warn't
no good - never spoke much
to him though."

And before long
the airport crept upon me,
the sanitised walls ready
to absorb me and me resting
in his prayers. Maybe, said he,
I would believe someday.

travelers

We spoke once of faraway
destinations, premonitions, retribution
for deeds done not too long ago.
We sat and sipped on frozen
beverages, the words stumbling off our tongues,
their touch calling upon bare
memories and sentiments – too close to invoke
nostalgia. The reasons were few but the answers
were true and the mosaic danced cold
and unwelcoming.
We spoke then of much and I listened
to your dreams and such –
the world slipped on by, waving and calling,
we both stalling and never hoping to converse
again. Our voices, then, must have held so much,
so much so that our memories fail again.
That evening light shone upon our shoulders, on
our feet, and on our eyes, but now I fear I am out of breath
and there’s naught in my mind to stake hold on what
we’ve held.

desire

Every thing turns to white:
a view riddled by cold winds, harsh,
like the thoughts of a snowman standing
alone in a field - children walking
past every morning.
Throbbing and burning underneath
a sky greyed by churning thoughts,
the minds of the young
look for passions that might
let them be immortal.
Images imagined with unending
hope: to be fixed in time,
etched on a page, exorcised
from humanity, freed from stone
as old as the earth that the snow clings to in vain.