Casanova Psalm

Desire

Focused on snippets of skin

Baffles and intrigues

And simmers on lips

That’ll spill into a smile

And sauce my plate

With spices of sense

That liven with lust

Dollops of boredom and smog.

Cut it as you will

And colour my sins

But this much I must confess:

On tips of my eyes

Hang heavens of sense

Whose presence I never regret.

The Rubaiyat of Dorian Gray

Snuggled in the corners where lights never creep,

Cradled with roofs that utter not a peep,

I shovel through the mire I have piled

And ledger in pain the corpses I keep.

[For the Sunday Mini-Challenge at Real Toads] 

Doves

They shimmied on sky
Over motors and horns
And flew through my pallor of grey
As networks of wings
Beyond drains full of filth
With immaculate whiteness of
Indelible gleam.



[source:firedirectioncenter.blogspot.com]

Abinash C. Halder in Love

What she had asked was common to the core -

Trying to be civil, artifice of care.

But it tugged at my heart

And played on those chords

That fling my shutters unbarred.

But I who have stumbled on simplest of stuff

Recall my letters in trash.

So why should I risk

My image for a fall

And burn those robes that glitter.

So I measure my pros

And weigh in my cons

And bottle my words into safest of packs - 

Nuggets of proper and prim.

All that are left are sealed into self

Where they would flower and grow

And build from the ashes of questions unasked

Shrines beyond time and its roar.

Birdsong

Hidden
In leaves of grime and grease
She blossoms her tunes
And livens our noons
With fragrance of jasmines at dawn
which tower over streets
Of asphalt and horns
And soars into clouds
With pollen on wings
That glitter in the twilight of dreams.

Holed into hours of targets and tasks
I search for her trail of feathers in haze
That light up my lamps at night.

Trickles

I’ve sat by the trickles of en-diesel-ed days

And played with pebbles in tar,

As bouquets of red and yellow and mauve

Have withered into shades of brown.

Torn into cubicle of antipodal shifts

Ours are tracks that rarely converge –

Halved by the meridian digits on clock.

Packed into cans of unmoving past

We’ve chewed over recollected passions in freeze.

Digging our hours from albums of still

We play out our acts and crave

Times that are bolted in frames. 

Marsh-Men

I’ve gazed into slime-sodden canals of night

With larvae of fevers and pain

And even have chimed with toads that croak

Concert in gutters unclean.

Roots that have rotted are all

Eyes in the bushes can grasp.

And though I’ve searched while choking on mud

Proverbial lotus in filth –

Swollen with bites of insects unknown

Mine is the harvest of rust.

Peeled into puppets of pulverized husk

We totter on the banks of canals of slime

And slither into blind man’s bluff.

Further upstream, the beggar still sings

Blind but dreaming of stars.