What is friendship?

What is friendship but the sound of shoes pacing
on concrete pavement, the heightened sense of new colors,
the glaze of marble on the floor,  the white from teeth
on new faces,  of unfamiliar conversations going on
here and there, the clasp of hands, warm when grasped,
and  dozen pairs of eyes locked at you peering,
wondering, studying, until the moment stops
and a stranger says 'hello'-

What is friendship but the strength of a hug,
locked and held, and arms that would not release,
on pavement so familiar, the hardness of marble,
its glaze softened by tears that fell on it, by shoes
that walked on it, blurred visions and cheeks doused
with tears, warmth of bodies that one will miss,
in spaces they fill, in one's heart,
until a friend says 'good-bye'-

Stitches

The rooster crowing fills my ears,

in a few more twist and turns daylight
will lit the pavement of a wandering mind. 
But sleep slipped away,  unwilling to look behind,
at dark shadows from last night.

On the ceiling I saw scenes,
familiar faces and dialogues streaming
like a downpour overwhelming sanity,
vanity, drowning with fear, and catching
breath- raise the hand, signal for help

but from what? From unrealities stitched

to fix the holes of an existence, to restrain memories 
from spilling  onto the bed,  disoriented from

restlessness, from the ticks of the clock, 

from yet another morning.

This is a love poem

Trying to birth itself along a path poured over

with rain water on a late winter night. There is light

from a lamp post reflecting from a puddle, an opening,

distracting my reflection of you.

The thoughts shivered in the breeze, as it rushes in

to seek shelter in words, recalling, linking memories

from a past, warm with embrace and kisses. Upcoming  

are sub-zero nights. Be here to share my shivering.

This poem has reached its highest point after coming

down the Whistler's snowy peaks. I confess my affection

is as beautiful as scenic mountains white with snow in the sun.

I am no Moses but you make my face shine.

Unwashed

Such memories don't get washed out back to sea, 
to be unseen, lost in the turmoil between 
once a road and network or paths or labyrinth
but there is no power to lift up the darkness 
from the heart or the dead, darkened by the sun
from a blue sky where once a wind howled 
with belligerence, road rage, red-faced, pummeling
but of course, there is no remorse
for a hit-and-run victim, bloodied and abandoned 
on the beach like pebbles, shells, white sand, 
overrun by waters, moving to and fro.

* Written with the super-typhoon Hainan Filipino victims in mind.

Of dust, paper, and steel

There is silence in the white space where there are no words to read,

unsure where is here or there, the near or far, the up or down.

Only stillness where time appears congealed, undefined. Am I

floating? The pavement, unseen, sticks to my feet.

What is the sound of black smoke when a poem burns like Twin Towers,

its lines give up, collapse into a heap of bodies of pages, dumped

from the sky, into that open space, with unfinished thoughts?

On the ground, the words had split apart, paper from meaning.  

Is there art in twisted metal, shooting from piles of concrete and shards 

of glass? Or in the new daylight against pale walls and broken windows, 

piercing the left-over mist among the quiet dead? Here, the brave

races to a black door, to enter into white, undefined spaces 

where no sound escapes, no colors are seen, no memories

of black smoke and the weight of onrushing ground.

Boston from where I sit

I-93, red and orange, leaves shift, fall
with the breeze, cool, warm, between them
the early light speeds like cars against
a morning sky, a golden dome, where freedom trails
a youthful smile, the pavement under shades
of trees, the coffee cup, bagel, in open air
the turnpike, to say good-bye to clam chowder
to Denny’s, to autumn, red trees,  red socks
the red, bloodied earth, and to a hundred
pairs of feet.

To Measure a Woman

There is no physical equation, 
invention, or mention outside 
of dimensions, of lengths, of depths,
of curves, in fairness, of fair skins, 
of long eye-lashes, of duration 
of glances, of swinging hips, of lips,
red and wet, glistening in the light, 
like an object of study, peered into, 
hoping to measure and predict
the consistency, inconsistency of you.

Denied of tools, formulas, or numbers, 
with myriad variables, changing 
constantly like weather patterns, 
still I, fool-hardy, walk your days 
promised as full of summers, 
but cared less for thunderstorms 
that came instead, soaking these hands
that held yours I would not let
slip off mine, wind-blown away
like rain drops.

Against a Blue Sky

It has been a while
since I let go of words like a stone
shot against a blue sky.

It must have been hurtful,
to darken this sky so long,
and to keep pouring over me, gloom.

The stone returns and the sky is broken,
with its shards falling on my head.

Siesta

head bowed and silent-
in the afternoon's siesta,
breeze flips the book's pages.

Like a dog

The poem hangs like a dog,
its entire length suspends from the edge,
held by a lanyard on its neck.

The readers are like passers-by,
watching the immobile body hang quietly,
until the dog wags itself and wails.

But, the owner is not around,
and the house is sealed; the entry
is only by climbing to the front porch.

No one feels it right to make the climb,
and so they wait until its neck
gets broken and leave.

But, as fortune would have it,
the writer pulls back the poem
from you, out of view.

Intersection

Not wanting to lose his way
in the labyrinth of lines,

an intersection offers a distraction
from semantics and antics,

of word picks complying with rules,
assuming roles coerced on them,

as symbols or signs isolated
from this and that.

But, how does one move away
off the fringes of a Venn diagram?

Chiaroscuro

As a photographer, it caught my eye
this pathway by the road
that brought me into these woods:
the color of the trees, shrubs, and grass
are subdued, with their details
muted in the shadows
as light streams from above
passing through branches and leaves,
down to these violet flowers
whose petals glow like charcoal embers
from last night’s campfire,
whose color mimics the pale afternoon sky.
I stood there while it lasted
with only my senses as equipment.

Reflections on the bench

I think I saw you (again)

like a cool breeze, swift

and uninterested,

Reducing mirrors (not mine)

to a fisherman's unlucky net.

Call it  a bad (hair) day.

This lady forever laughs

despite the sad news

below her waist,

blood on the pavement

caused by another

motorcycle accident.

Another breeze,

and she was carried away

with the fatal news.

Occupy My Thoughts

Words fell away too soon like monsoon rain, my thoughts dropping like ink

blots on paper. There is no basin to catch their flow.

The dynamics were as simple as shifting the weight of one’s butt in a chair.
It’s the air but it’s not about fair share. Is it economics?

Can a poem like a dog chase its own tail, as they say, about LPAs and ITCZ,

until it spins fast enough to cause a whirlwind?

There is no structure left visible, only fractures and remnants from dispersals.

Pieces have their own randomness like words without season or reason. 

Infrastructure Change

On this pavement, noise and dust are the norm.
They hit the ears like a slap on his face.

'Sorry for the inconvenience' felt like it referred
to him. But his note is in pink.

Neither can he park his car on this lot.
It is giving way to skyscrapers of glass and iron.

The business reasons sounded like a heavy jackhammer,
drilling the numbers on his skull.

A Matter of Fact

Waking up is greater than walking up,
if and only if the length of arms
else reach out to get ration.

What if they were reduced to fractions-
arms, legs, eyes, heads- can blood drops
re-assemble the whole from a pool?

Fool! It is the number that counts.
To kill or keel over is just semantics.
Watch closely the substitutions.

Sorry, the final answer has been rigged.
The equation was just to distract
from the matter of fact.

The Chinese Red Flag and Foul Air

The Chinese raised a red flag
on the island but taxi cabs

ignored each other weaving through
traffic jams. Crab bucket syndrome?

Grab one yourself. But don't forget
to bring your crab cracker.

For the health conscious, stay away
from crackers. The gas side effect

is not toll-free. You pay
with isolation the violation

of ecosystem balance, by fouling
the air with hate speeches.

Straight Lines

But the shortest path between any two points
is not the point. A straight path does not exist

for all surfaces. Sour faces are not attractive.
In fact, no face exists for the humiliated

But that is pointless despite the pores.
The bottom line is a collection of points

under the table, a flat surface generous
with straight lines. Are there gay lines?

Visual Life

I see myself again walking
in a corridor or alley

lit by reflected light
off the main street,

from where children in their bare feet
run, passing by cars parked

on both sides, and in an empty slot
a throng of women sit

around a bingo table, their cards
with numbers marked with stones.

Or in an avenue of a business district
with buildings, tall on both sides

slicing up the sunlight
in patterns of shadows

across the faces of crowds
in their branded shoes or sneakers,

as big SUV cars, one after the other
unload their VIPs on the side,

and before big glass doors,
smiles and hand shakes.

I can hear from the glossy surface,
across the entire scale of grey

the shrill of children,
the honks of cars,

where I was in one moment of life
immersed in its pulse.

This summer has ended

When reds, yellows and greens
have lost their brilliance,

and the lake's deep blue
has turned into shades of grey

While on this ground, brown and dry,
falls the first rain showers

mixing you, earth and tears-
a good-bye to many shared summers.