Tanka 10/11/2016

at times to all
rain cleanses the air
and other times
without you
I’m just indifferent


Tanka 24062016

still alive
in some parts of me
this autumn
of all the songs you sang
the sound of sweeping leaves

The light has shone

to the man no one wants to know — spoke against the grain,
he could either weep or appear odd to perfection of flowers
but the stars didn’t abandon the night sky without her authority,
every inch the man became known mother wondered
it’s gotta be His blood at blame —
he’s not the man — she spent all her money,
the house of black straw of black heart for her rotting body
his silence gone too — befitting all the more,
pin him to the floor
you can’t handle guilt, go ahead shove it my way
have your little victory
for I am the dreary light of judgment draining you of all brilliance,
and I’m the shaman bruised by endless supply of criticism,
what an embarrassment, but I accept it like the snake of the forest — with grace

Dear Father

is it true the blood coursing through my veins
is drunken in your hollow name
the name for which merit to whom shall I offer
you have gambled yours away for a pile of sand
by the wretched summer when one seeks shelter
I have no roof above my head
and with my belly exposed to the sun, I cry O father
what in god’s name have you done
in whose grand tutelage do the courts verdict
the loathsome acts you have me intended against
was it the alpha of the two whose cold blood
and cunning for brick and mortar sways true
or was it simply the cold-blooded bent of a father
be that as it may, I desire not your stone
neither your silver is of any appeal
that and all can be compounded for the son of alpha
for I have read long tales about unconditional sentiment
but laughably enough none can be ascribed to you
so when nature’s torrid face turns itself to dust
barren of love and human touch
father you may beckon on no one to bear your ashes
and the merit of this is whose save mine to boast

A Very Indian Affair

two strangers engage in wedlock
and fritter themselves into promiscuity
they boast designated insults
a lecher and a filthy cunt
all they wanted was to explore
each others bodies
their pretence to fall in love
it all began the night the white horse
got her someone to blame
she martyred her virtues
upon matrimony
slapped her hands on the sides of the bed
let out a piercing cry
as if his member was a doctor’s needle
next morning she called him a brute
for he had left her sore beneath her springy pubes
blood smeared the bed sheets and her thighs
in sticky mishmash, they were creatures of consequence
he was a lustful man and curiosity
spared her her ignorance
until she sprang back on her feet
feeding herself what memory she craved for more
under the moonlight she said for the world to see
how ample beneath her gossamer
when it clung to her skin
he stiffened emptying his eyes
and himself into her, it was a swift adventure
he slumped like a corpse atop her musky squalid
and she with a grunt like a cow at the time of slaughter
had had her fill
they were a match made in heaven
ploughing each others middle
at every libidinous impulse
until they ran out of the goodness behind dowry
which laid the first stone of his in-laws’ intent
to mollycoddle their baby daughter of twenty four
with hopes to restore virginity
lest his messy affair sour the sanctity of marriage
so it did
she was the reason he took up Scotch
and his was the guilt of pinioning her snatch
a villainous act, once the seed has been sowed
pronounced her mother
was bound to transgress tact and civility
they had spent each other entirely
calling names in a fitful blitz
until she heard the sound of thunder
the man he was had to reprimand her
she felt she was treated all the same
they heard the trumpets play the illusion of love
and the pipers let out a hankering for both sides
to employ society’s only cultured offering
on how to put an end to years of icy silence
the light had shone, he took his freedom
and granted her her preference
to fulfil papa’s pocket
with a precious precious grandson

…and he wept for whom

if the man of torn reputation
is a ghost you don’t see
until the maiden’s blackened name
spells out golden letters

if the man in a crown of thorns
provokes no thought
until the woman he bedded
critics his stretch marks

if the man who couldn’t cry
then cries for years and years
after his wife left him
in his rusted car

if the man who sought solitude
is now alone and brooding
he wonders where everyone is
in vain awakened Buddha

if the man who read the holy book
leaves no flower in it
does he create the sky above
the view of his grave