Day keeps his tryst with winsome light
under the golden dome of the opulent morn,
still shamelessly eyes the leaving jealous night,
with the glad eye, reserved for a concubine,
to whom at sun down he stealthily returns.
This illicit affair both consorts are aware,
hasn't it sustained both, with him as the buffer!

Evening light is gentle, slow
Caressing leaves, metal roofs, soil
Plants, flowers, pavements and gates
Clouds are the mothers - they shield us
Lest the sun shines too much.

Take a breath and look around;
The sweet and tranquil garden will take it away.
All colour blend in synchronised harmony;
Blues and browns, pinks and whites
Crossing into and over each other like
oil paints,
Warm, welcoming, beautiful.

It is soothing - the sound of nothing
That disrupts; razes; hates
Disturbs; curbs quiet insight;
One's imagination is the lone
source of maximum sound
That vibrates through the garden.

My grandfather, my grandmother's brother,
Smiles as though the sun shines through his teeth
Dresses in a pale blue shirt
Black shorts
Both well-worn
Ready to play
some basketball.

Oh, the joy, the fun
The refreshment arising from this game in a courtyard
In grandfather's garden
Among young trees, leaves and other green growth.
There stands a home by hand made
Basketball stand,
A concrete base with metal support hands
Floppy strings of hoop
To shoot the ball into.

The garden has been bathed, it is fresh
It is refreshed.
Grandfather demonstrates, I listen and follow,
To throw the ball into the hoop
With precision and care; throw some force
Into the air.
The ball dances around the circle
then drops to the concrete floor.

We take turns
As I throw and grandfather returns
9/10 of the time my aim's bad
but the ball grandfather throws, I actually catch!
(Or it will tumble on wet soil)

Exciting, the thumping
of rubber ball against ground;
Keen eyes and agile hands and feet
To catch the stray ball;
With swift movements the ball flies!
From sideways, afar and near,
Into the hoop successfully, finally.

Back into the house we go,
As the sun leaves for home.
The garden prepares for night;
So do grandfather and I;
Grandfather washes up; I talk to
Grandmother in the garden;
waiting for night, to
fall
fall
fall,
into infinite darkness -
poignant memories

You gave dusk
A whole new meaning.
The coming of darkness
Has become my greatest
Most terrifying fear
The one that knocks
On the door
At the end of every day
And that creeps past the threshold
Welcome or not.
And it all become a game
Of hide and go seek
As I run from the pain
Cower from the emotion
Flee from the memories.

                                              tsk

I have a time zone of my own
I can stay from dusk to dawn
I feel like a dead meadow
I can't sense life,
I can't even moan

Many nights have passed
                       in deep slumber,
O’ how I missed my muse
        that came alive in sheer darkness.
Wide eyes of hers-
            black lashes that
slowly unwrapped themselves
              from one another
and became the flicker
       of a distant fire in the woods.
Tonight, I am finally awake-
           to witness how the
crescent moon waits silently
           for her starry poetry
before the world spins again.
          Truly, hours of darkness
made their home
            on her soft skin.

O’ beloved, the way you became the night
        and how the dusk
embraced you
       along the arches of your collarbones-
left this soul gasping for more.

My mind formed many more verses,
      To sing to you-
For I have finally found you-
          Amidst the thousand lost stars.

I remember how
I miss this time of night.
When the lights are stretched,
all the world looks black and white.

There are winds that don't blow, but cling
and sounds that don't break, but fall
and voices that don't call out, but trickle along.

I smell the murmur of cars as they sift through the dark
and I catch flying shadows
as they chase shadows that hide
in the silence for warmth.

This time of night I remember
there are things that listen without hearing
and there are things that whisper
without speaking.

It is cold, but only to the touch.
It is dark, but only to the reader.
It is quiet, but only to the sleeper.

It is the death of day
and it is dignified
ever deeper.