The After-Dream

Art © Vector De Yukitama

The green beak pecks my morning window,

rising in me, in volumes.

I open, to a complete disappearance

taking shape slowly in front of me, into a complete destruction

left with scattered, dusted, rusted and drenched victims

staring at my luxury with their wide open red, pale yellow, drugged blue eyes

pleading my humanity and morality
to call their short stay beautiful for the one last time
and that survival is blooming,

and if I do, they will take my death to be relatively better
as hope is a betterment at any stage,

diluting their own, sharing the life long suffering and pain

called colors.


This Time

Pic  Courtesy: © Moumita Mukherjee

A strange silence prevails this time.
It isn’t as if this time She has decided to be

and not make me see.
After every fall, I saw Her rising.
Then why is She feeling like a stranger this time

Is She seeing how I have progressed with each fall

mining our deeds, into darker pits? Strangers, yes perhaps, that is what She sees.
My autumn is Hers this time.
She feels, somewhere She has failed as a mother

She is trying to be a friend this time;

the friend of secrets.
Perhaps, I have revealed a bit too much in our friendly chats

that I never missed Her 

except when She was needed.
She said, 

‘If you expect from me, the mother inside me will be happy

If you don’t, She will be happier

But don’t make me a sadness
as the goddess in you can’t neglect

and She will be called again and again.’
I stare at that aural brightness 

as just another household chandelier.

Her carved beauty as just another beautiful woman close by

That’s how much I own Her.
Her smile and anger both are owned

This time too, the expression isn’t devoid of an expression.

She wants to say something.
Then why are the echoes silent this time.

It isn’t sadness but more.
A strange silence prevails this time
of numbness within a numbness.


Pic Source:

Lyric is dead in a petal for being petal
and I find it in a wiped leaf on the glass
A leaf with veins catapulting child drops, on being wind kissed
It shows: the reminder not only lies in
air conditioners.

Knowing toxin and being toxic speak different
but not in a wall with distempers, as it imbibes much
to stay, to sight, to take in and thereby,
call one a poem.

If I call as such, what will it make of me?
Have I matured so much as to neglect a hue and still pen it?
The leaf nods but in a horizontal breeze.

‘Stop trying too hard. You already left an imprint on your bed for Me.

You already neglected one dew for the other’.



Pic Courtesy:

The bus stop, the bus
and the bus stop.
The pigeon feeding
on the crossing
isn’t a letter,

but a possibility.

The close horizon has
boiling kettles on blue flames,
getting bluer

and the eye chase
in a poem of
passing shades.

It just reels back
to what you call
Wind guests speak
in volumes.

Why do words die
after that?



Photographer: James Jordan
Name: Autumn Dawn

The steps speaking a ‘crisp’ december,
each time —
the sole taps on his slumber.

I live in the mid projectiles —
as those are dreams
It walks…

They halt at the vendor of pre-spring —
selling open eyes to witness colours.

I buy a pair
as those are birth
It enters…

Between ‘who’ and ‘why’
the pane glass splits into a thousand crystals


as ice cubes on an emptied glass
of whiskeyed nights.

as vivid lights on the screen
of a dressing mirror.

as dawn on my face.

I wake to see a reflected ‘you’
from romance to memories
to my ‘rebirth’.

The beeps heard of
‘Hey love! Wish you a happy valentine’

Accumulating the scattered in my hand,
pleading the Sun in my palm,
I say —

“See! your guy is wanted
That’s why I keep on saying ‘stay’.”

In comes the second beep

“I am on my way and I will…”



Artwork: Italian Midday (1827)
Artist: Karl Bryullov

The cushion has me in splits —
and I see a part of me under the wooly blankets of fern —
living a sleep rather than dreaming it.

The head remains neglected
as it foresees the day —
It has chosen a deliberate trouble.

If the very dawn was the precipitated noon
and in turn, the sour orange
and the wooded moon —
The existence would have been ‘you’.

I look at the tea pot served —
and wonder
if it’s ‘us’ pouring in a combination,
attaining applauds.

If that’s so —
the present isn’t any different.

It’s upon us how we form poems
The dawn is just the plot.

I should wake and leap forward —
entering other prohibited phases
called relations.

I would love —
to be boycotted by dawn
and live your day.

It’s only then —
You vibrate me up with a push
uniting my pillow and porch as one
and directing for a pre-office bath.

The first drop —
from the shower nozzle on my lip
The first dew of your dawn.



Photographer: Diego Bachiega
Name : Sensual Beach

Yes, I reach those belly sands
with a reason to gift —
bringing in the horizon, in rushing waves.

It’s only when you let —
your fingers surf those,
making an Australian coast.

I realise your hairs
I relook at my harp.

Yes, I reach those authentic corals
with a reason to gift —
becoming a couple to praise its memoir.

It’s only when you let —
your fingers sweep those
making a moon glaze.

I realise your lips
I relook at my harmonica.

You watch me through your window
in poems called nights;

You sleep and I am still there —
whispering songs in wooded dreams;
waiting to mix at a slight opening
of the curtain.

It’s only when you let —
my fingers slide those
to my convenience.

I realise your thought
I relook at my ‘unseen’ sent mail.

I return to my self —
getting up from the bed in slippers
called lyrics.

I go for a morning walk.