he panted heavily
muscles twitching in his naked body
running frenzied, without looking back,
he shouted, “He is after me.... my life”
a rip roaring cry....!

the traffic halted
pedestrians stopped
people from shops came out
women through curtained windows peeped
children stopped their play

“so drunk”.... a man murmured
“A crack”.... someone shouted
“coming right after an ****”
sneered, an oldie...
“pity on him...! Take him to an asylum”
one gentleman suggested.
he needs help, majority opined
‘nab this plague’, the moral police quipped

what is he running from...?

an Assailant....?
corona virus....?
his own phantom...?
two sane men staying,
at a corner wondered.
they had masks on their face

“must be a health worker”..!
one of them said...
“yes, the subtle nuances of an agonized mind”
the other agreed!

as the scene on the road,
had grown into a high voltage drama,
dissensions grew and multiplied!

Loving someone despite being disliked is a great virtue

We deserve sounding boards of truth,
Not sponges of deception.

My head is full of lies, equivocations and beguiling stories.
Who can I trust?
The poor?
The limb-lost warrior?
Residents in Cell Block A through Z?
Patients found out but can't breathe.

We must be sound,
And let the voices of truth echo.

My new windows are transparent,
Free from smudge and tarnish.
I was clear-eyed gazing out,
Reflective peering in.
Two-sided.
Finger prints have been wiped free,
But around the edges there are still ridges,
Evidence of being opened and closed,
Unbroken in their sturdy frames.

But time is no friend to glass.
Winds assail it, birds bounce off at break-neck speed,
Dust accumulates, it becomes opaque.
Missiles assault its permanence,
Shattering the pane into foreboding shards, like a shell.

Some desperate glazes never get replaced,
They invite stone-throwers.
Then the building becomes derelict, untenable.

One stone can break a window,
Or fell a giant.

There will be two epiphanies
On January 6th.
Christians around the globe will celebrate
Little Christmas, The Epiphany,
The Word Made Flesh,
The arrival of the three wise men, The Magi,
And they reveal to the world
The Savior has come.
The same will happen on the Senate Floor (sans three wise men)
When the President-Savior
Is presented to the world,
And his detractors will bray, cackle and neigh
As he is adorned.
Saviors don't build walls,
They raze them.

I know I'm not alone
Knowing readers like good-feely poems;
Not poems on politics,
But on love and gnomes,
That offer happiness to you at home.
I'll forgo writing verses on death,
My lovely images will ****** your breath.
I'll ink lines about an old flame's door,
The hesitation to knock once more,
To see if she, like me, is free,
And re-ignite the flickering light
That rained down from our starry night.

People want to feel good more,
So I won't write about Civil War;
Or Armageddon on the horizon;
Millions dead with a final solution;
A leader devoid of absolution
For lies without resolutions:
For a sin that should not be.

I'll write about aging well,
Finding water in a dried out well,
Overcoming not feeling well,
Lifting a grandson with Well, well, well!

These be poems that one reads well.

I heard there's a shot today.