Grave Monumental Dedication

Reel off another 

One of those patriotic 

Pat pablum paeans of yours 

Praising the glory of war over 

My dead body and imagine 

Once and for all those numberless 

Numbing skulls turning one 

Deaf ear to you after another. 

 

 

 

Illusive Lantern

When you write 

Poetry, they ask me 

 

Do you do it 

In the morning,

 

At noon or night? 

And does it make 

 

Any difference 

As long as you 

 

Do it right? All I can say is 

I’ve spent most 

 

Of my life, right or wrong, 

Looking askance 

 

At that slant glint 

Of piercing light, still 

 

Waiting for the first sign 

I was right. 

 

 

 

Miraculous Feat Transpiring

To happen 

To see 

 

A star falling is not 

So exceptional 

 

A thing, to see it 

In broad day- 

 

Light is far 

And away 

 

Quite another thing. 

 

 

 

 

To An Ancient Behemoth Recently Passed

If only you could 

Step back 

 

Two colossal steps and step 

Forward one, you might more 

 

Fully appreciate how ruthlessly 

Advanced your state- 

 

Of-the-art trajectory was, 

Seen from the dizzying heights 

 

Of seem. Why just yesterday 

You were but knee-high 

 

To a grasshopper and now 

You’re rubbing elbows 

 

With blind Homeric earthworms 

And wide-eyed grubs! 

 

 

 

Brown Hair and Grey Matter, Metaphorically Speaking

That shock of curly locks adorning 

Your forehead aside, it’s abundantly clear 

That esoteric space between your ears 

Still remains empty for lack of ideas to fill it. 

 

But don’t take my word for it— 

 

How long ago was it when 

The poem you so much wanted 

To write (but never did) turned 

Your hair white overnight?