Where is Ravi?

He is late
He's late leaving home
Late to arrive
He's got stuff to do
(who doesn't?)
Stuff at home
To cook and clean
Wash and dress
Feed, make comfortable
Place water and lunch
On a bedside table;
Late to go home
To his mother.

He's out on an assignment
Who can tell what it is?
He's gone, but
No one knows where
We'll know when he's back
If we are still here.

Where's Ravi?
He's got a court date
He has a camera to repair
He has tests to take
Reports to get
Pain to endure
A smile he cannot stop
Children he hardly saw
Strength that ebbed
Love that shone
And tears to draw
From eyes that never saw him
Die.

Threshold

At the threshold
discretion mates with indiscretion
courage with timidity
embrace murmurs 'come'
rejection rounds lips for 'no'
union battles with distinction
heart and mind lock
and so
some walk in
and some move away
but who can tell
where love resides,
in breathless proximity
or distances beyond reason?

Words and eyes

So when we tired
of talking about words
we spoke of eyes
speaking eyes
and absent eyes;
others' eyes and others' words
script our conversations
fill our terrible solitudes.

Book Launch

When books are launched
and verse laden leaves
invite words and voice
a line from another day
uninvited and unseen
in a language unknown
softly
slowly
whispers
the nothings made sweet
by ignorance
and I tell myself
'what am I doing here?'
and add
'but where can I go?'

Moon Rose

The wind has ways
decorating moves
cloud-puff designs 
frilling the moon;
the wind has ways 
of denying too,
and one love-wisp white ribbon
whose caress along
the still, patient moon so desires
is stopped.

The moon has ways too
kind ways perhaps
ways of conspiracy
when with wind she makes a pact
to thicken clouds
to hide
but still leave a distant star untouched
a rose
a singular rose
bursting through 
an asteroid shower 
delivering sorrow 
more exquisite 
than love's shining light

And clouds have ways too
white ribboned love-wisps
that turn corner 
and hide
in that silent, timeless 
underside darkness 
as immemorial proximate
of invisibility 

Dust Ways

Go easy on directions
and forget roadmaps
for there's nothing more defiant
more arrogant and stupid
than a speck of dust

And nothing more patient either

It can wait for centuries
under rock or root
move from pathway to shoe-sole
a wisp of hair to lamp post
windshield to book cover
disappear in sandstorm or rain
rise and shine and footnoted
and yet find a way
to a heart, a thought
a line of verse.

Monsoon Eyes

In the monsoon of your eyes
the winds of epic histories sway
the hair of time and timelessness entangle,
wet with lament and expectation;
in the monsoon of your eyes
little babies are born
and are named 'Hope',
new signatures of being are engraved
on the faces of old men,
and lovers
caught in inevitable winds
dance and scream in pain
intoxicated with togetherness.