When Falling Out Of Skies: An Easter Observation

When falling out of skies
It’s best to be a mountain.
Your descent to earth a flow
Of rivers in reverse. A settling
Of stone on soil, a closing
Of spaces between. No fountain
Of might or mercy, but sighs
Etched into the rock face.
A rising of Grace.

End Of The Road

If there’s an ocean at the end
Of the street, even the puddles
Seem headed that way. The huddled
Buildings, grey and blue, bend
Their angular corners towards the hills
If the end of the street so wills.
I think, as my feet aimlessly wend
Their way down foreign streets,
That there must be a mountain,
An ocean, a future, to meet.

Cry Me A River

You see that streak in the middle?
That looks like a river? It was actually
A little sliver of rain, just a drop, really,
The only one left after the wind
Had dried the rain that fell constantly
That day. I wanted a picture
Of the mountains streaked with ice
Vivid under the flat grey of the skies
And I didn’t see that single streak
Slipping down the glass windscreen
Carving a seeming crevasse on the peak.
You won’t notice, unless you’re very near,
The mountain, moved by a tear.

Courage I


Some days I am the frozen lake
Peaceful amidst strong hills
Some days I am the petulant sun
Determined to go where I will.
The other day, I was the laden cloud
Shattered by epiphany
My brooding greys split black and white
My single sharded to many.
Today I am the jagged edges
of shorelines uncertain and sharp
Pulling away from towering pledges
Shadowed from the bright-lit heart.

I wonder if the lake I was
Runs, still, beneath the crust
If courage is not the water’s edge
Meeting what shores it must.

Simple Rhymes for Difficult Times

Peace be in your streets
Let no neighbour inspect
Your larder for its meats.
Let no man suspect
Your daughter of eyeing
Mates of other castes.
Peace be in your markets
As people shop between fasts.
May those who consider dyeing
Their cloths in other hues
Choose wisely amongst colours
While paying holy dues.
Peace be in your homes
Where reading stops at sundown
When hiding certain tomes
Means riding until run down.
Let no man be left slumped
On his doorstep, stained.
Let huddles of good folk disperse
Their blood lust undrained.
Let sunsets carry what reds
We need to light our days
And nations wave what flags
They must, and go their separate ways.

Peace be upon this city
That none need earn their pity.

Around Midnight

When the red gold sears
The desert sands of the skies
And the mountain rises
Like a mirage, mystic, promising
Water to the sailor, thirsting
For sandy shores. And the seas
Glitter and glow on dark beaches
Bringing treasure from the reaches
To strange lands where women
Watch from the rocks for seafarers
Washed ashore.