The Painter

The sun throws light over the subject.

The fiery mountaintops

heave and roll along the river bed.

Would a brush tame the wild green bush with new paint?

Artist fills the sheets with a figure-

in all fullness sprawled across.

And the dusk sets in to empurple.

Tattooed

My heart sways in wilderness as bizarre moon departs.

Surreal and shorter seem incense filled, insane hours.

Bound in your spell, a lava unleashes from the cell-

sizzles thru each vein - on my soul your tattoo engrafts.

On A Pier

Outstretched I lay on a pier wide, square,

gaze up at the sky which stares down at me.

When the dusk-sun, a different colour wears,

and eve-winds aid a flock of birds to flee.

Deeper, the long white sails lazily sway-

a romance with blue waters as they waltz.

And my mind saunters away from the bay-

if only the sand in the glass would pause.

Far, the sun dips further into the bowl.

Wonder if you too are seeing it from miles.

I look up and watch the dispersing clouds

to find your face flash and sparkle a smile.

Nor distance nor time can untie the lace,

forged by your memories - a boundless trace.

The Floating Village

Rolling over the foams of a river,

in a catamaran I cruised along.

To the beats of my heart chugged the motor,

and wind blew away the hat I had donned.

The sun shimmered hurling the yellow pecks.

As I sailed, the waters seemed to widen.

I dangled my feet over the front deck,

and looked farther to the blue horizon.

In the distance lay stationed a herd of boats

which housed children, families, numerous pets.

With schools, hospitals - a village afloat,

and people traded in floating markets.

Bare-chested young kids raced and sprang around

waving to each and every passer-by.

Their faces glowed with energy abound,

and I watched them with unabated sigh.

How well joy streams in thru places unknown,

and fills up those silent, unaware gaps.

My catamaran whistled with a moan-

signaling the time for our final lap.

The Willow Bows

Tonight, I might need a stronger heart.

Who will belt those red cherries?

With every thumping beat, it will ask

was it a myth, his art, as the artist departs?-

The willow bows, and I’m off guard.

Now, just a tale to cherish.

Lonely would be those twenty two yards.

The Shining Scar

On the deep forehead shines a bright scar

from her helter-skelter days-

etched by a bicycle and wild hours.

I touch the bruise, and muse, fills me with amuse.

And depicts the mischiefs of her youth.

Shy not away from it’s gaze,

it hoards old memories and the truth.

Scuba Diving (Ko Samui)

The sunlight pierced the deep blue waters

as I waded through the flaps of the sea.

Trudging, I hung onto my instructor,

who, with skill, glided along patiently.

Stomach churned with butterflies as we dived.

Soon a shoal of fish rapidly shot past

creating a ripple as we arrived

at their water kingdom - beautiful, vast.

Species of colourful kinds zipped around

those misty waters, that corals lit up.

I smiled but hissed out a gurgling sound,

and all sorts of images conjured up.

We descended into a narrow ledge

that spread like an underwater jungle.

Shafts of light cast shadows on the sand-bed,

and my instructor blew big ring-bubbles.

I touched the soft sand which escaped my hand,

like the blazing fishes of aqua’s pride.

Gradually we ascended to land.

And I felt the fear in me subside.