Category: Poems

I’ve nothing meaningful to show
For all my claimed “experience.”
The landscape changes everyday,
I lose that day in making sense
Of what I knew with what is new
And what’s my latest point of view.
In all of this, I question me,
“Now, where’s that cocky confidence?”

This isn’t working. Not at all.
I’m tired by the afternoon.
I use up all my writing juice
In morning meetings with my muse,
Who’s helping me with novel drafts
Which end up going nowhere soon.

The coffee keeps the sleep away
At least for hours I need to write,
Beyond the hours I need to work
On projects I’d would never take
Except for emergency’s sake
Which keeps me up throughout the night.

The more I write, the less I’m sure
If there is any point at all.
I’m hoarding all these empty rhymes
Instead of staying with the times,
And making things that market well,
Like spammy apps that robocall.

They promised all a magic trick.
They put some pebbles on the ground,
Proclaimed the heap will always grow,
So long as you leave fifteen hours
Between your visits to this place.
And if you add a pebble now
You’ll get a chance when you return
To claim as many pebbles as
The heap has gained in unit height.
The people laughed and walked away
But there were those who dared to try.
They pulled a pebble from their belt
And placed it on the paltry heap,
Resigned to losing it for sure.
But every fifteen hours or so,
They came and saw the heap had grown.
The others saw the magic too
And rushed to add their pebbles too.
And there were those who opened shop
To bring and add your pebbles here
Without you bothering a bit.
And as the magic took its hold,
The smart and fearful grabbed their due,
While others, greedy, heaped ’em on
In hopes of gaining even more
And even more and even more,
Until the day the towering heap
Came crashing down in muddy streams.
The rain had washed the very ground
Upon which stood their lofty dreams.

The afternoons are getting longer.
The garbage smells of mango peel.
The boils in my hairy corners
Are softening, about to leak.

I get no sympathy from clouds,
Which come but do not rain a drop.
My solace is the scratchy “aahh”
I steal when no one’s at my shop.

I’m setting sleep aside in bags
Of darkened folded facial skin.
I plan to use these savings soon,
As soon as I can claim a win
Against alarms throughout my day
That tend to drive my patience thin.

O Energy, O Randomness,
Eternal Force of Human Faith,
Do help me find the courage to:
Arrest my wrathful inner wraith;
Accept my pain without complaint;
Advance my walk without the crutch;
Enjoy my joys without the guilt;
Extend my hand without the grudge.

It starts with blurry-eyed-ness,
A gradual whitening of view,
A reeling in the ear canal,
A feeling in the upper chest,
A grip over your barren throat,
A dip under your usual low.
An all-is-lost-or-’bout-to-go.
An all-is-pointless-anyway.
You pinch your thighs,
You punch your palms,
You bite into your lower arms
You hold on to inflicted pain –
Your lifebuoy in the mental storm,
Awaiting waves to rise and roll,
A weight impressed upon your soul.

I do not count my blessings, God.
Forgive me for being pissed at you.
I know misfortunes are your way
To help us find the Truth in us.
The saw that grinds against our grain,
The daily wrench that drives us nuts,
The power-bit that screws us up.
Forgive my lusting for your tools
Without the worthiness to wield.
The tools you use to keep me man.
The tools that fix your masterplan.

A quiet force, this Happyness.
It’s not a leap of bouncing joy.
It’s not a ribboned festive mood.
It’s just a wholesome emptiness:
The kind you find in Zen koans –
The emptiness of filled balloons.
Invisible, except to touch.
A levity of earnest weight.
It grounds you as it lifts your soul.
Thank God I still have Happyness.

A phone call stirs your smoky sleep,
Reminds you that the candle’s brief.
A friend admits he pinched his wick:
The thumb is burnt, but flame is thick.
You thank the Chandler for His work.
You thank your friend for calling up.

You cup your hands throughout the night,
The morning passes by your side,
You walk about two-digit miles,
You charge the phone not once, but twice,
And yet, you barely even know
How long the tallow runs below.

You fix it to a corner shelf.
You wonder if at all you’ve helped.