On the day
her body burned
she asked the
winds to be
her friends
and they
picked her
up and poured
her through
the fingers of
their hands
like a river
without ending
that won't
be tied or
bound, until
every trace of
dust embraced
the freedom it
had found.

I run my hand along the traces of him.
I feel the blood rush through my skin.

I grip my shoulder where your head once rested.
I tear at my soul just to feel connected.

I feel the rage I should have felt eleven months ago,
I feel the desire I ought to forgo.

You were the best of all the others,
Their traces remain, but they weren't even lovers.

And neither were we, almost but not quite,
But you were the closest I have been to the shame free light.

I want to be clean of the stain he left,
I want to be clean of the desire I regret.

But as I look at this mark that you left on me,
I am not so sure I want to be free.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Girls like me are so hot
We are the sun burning into oblivion
Causing fires in the sky of your sheets
We're ghosts with beating hearts
Our minds concrete fires,
Wordless books, eroding cliffs.
All the things you started but could never finish.

Girls like me, we're unattainable.
You can only pretend you had us.
If only for a second before we disappear.
Moving like quicksand through your fingers.
Leaving you grasping at the air for nothing.
You'll wonder if your imagination
Struck cruel again.

Our lips won't offer you salvation.
You won't find peace in our bodies.
We kiss with scarred knuckles
We do not love gently, if we love at all.
You can hold us tightly but we won't break
Girls like me are made of marble;
Not even fire can **** us.

Us hurricane girls are the devils delight.
We consume souls with delicate fingers.
Nails red and perfectly manicured to a point.
Our lips plush; the taste of cherry and blood.
We paint our desires on our fingertips
Leaving traces of them on everything we touch
We're disasters but we're oh so beautiful

you took time to write down
your poetry
and within your poems
you seeded
a thousand generations

It's unseasonably warm
for a January morning.

I was dreaming of a girl
and blue western skies

...a faded bedsheet
sideways in the breeze
on an old clothes line.

I was dreaming
she was mine.

there's almost always
an ambiguity
between what my words mean
and what my mind intends them to mean.

like, with loving intention, i tell her
i can't praise you enough

she smells a ploy in praise and enough.

she interprets them as
she hasn't done enough to deserve my praise.

then, when i tell her
with age you're maturing in beauty

she takes them to mean
i'm digging at her age
and her beauty is in doubt.

last, but not the least
when i compliment her thus
you've made my life full

she retorts

no more fooling.

around the hut gathered a crowd
the Englishman had made them proud
by taking an Indian wife.

what kinda man he could be
a white skin yet unhesitatingly
embraced a native's life.

they viewed him with awe
to his kin a flaw
living and loving in a thatched house.

he was a bishop's son
that made an alien land his own
and Kosibai, a Gond woman, his spouse.