the thunder growls above the scarlet flowers and walls
the leaves glisten poison green
the trees in their splendour preen
and droplets roll in graffiti scrawl
the green of a snake’s scales
your phosphorous glitters burns the air
like green ice thrown here and there
a dance to the siren’s banshee wail
green hardened to emerald burns
the traffic lights catch the fever
and throw wide their arms
green green and green forever
At dusk the bike stream’s commotion
sets up an endless new vibration


The look on those faces of those men in white
Who have gazed too hard within the maelstrom
And had it gaze back in a withering blight
Fisted hard behind the ominous thunderstorm
Above their heads the silk cotton tree
Weeps its scarlet tears slow shed
In a green landscape that flames with ferocity
A burning that signals forever the death of red
This is no country for starched white men, a created waste

Of promises broken and lives ruined in haste
For them remains only the recriminations
Of defeat and time met with resignation.


Nothing beats the flare of red
It draws everything into it
The moving masses
Flags fluttering
It has the hierarchy of horses about it
Something stately almost monumental
Red men dead men
Or otherwise in motion
Red coats or waves  of the red flag
 Power of the same sort
One gone to earth, the other vanquished
Power mud blood
Shed in the dust
Where no grass grows



Sitting in the corner of my room on a full moon night 
and finding no ink in my pen
I dipped it in the spill of silver 
all night my my pen raced over the paper 
in streaks of white fire 
the heat of lost love
my mind’s turning and churning
in agony traced and retraced
day rise came without warning
its gold burnt the page

the bracelet you forgot you gave me has grown claws
under the smooth patterns of silver


the coals of summer burning embers that glow only in the light of day not lighting the darkness with their warmth or your heart that needs coals to stir it into some affection these coals garland many on their journeys through or around the fire commonest of all gold, all ruffle petalled flowers the marigold burns in the heat of summer but are winter’s small balls of sunshine a distant promise whispered of a warmth that never glows 
a halo of ash underneath the embers smoulder
and catch the morning sun yellower than the beams
more like marigolds than the ends of coal
a memory of garlands strung from the ashes of the fire
the pyre of love
life’s cigarette has been smoked out the ashes remain
of a loop of marigolds around a careless neck
and the heart’s embers burning till the end
a cool wind blows over the marigold saris and stiff folds of fabric, the  small petalled sunlight distilled in garlands a day for love  strung on the seven strings of wisdom that no one wants to play instead the yellows stalk and circle in a parade heat rising through the wind blows soft and cool



the weather calls to me it tells me stories of hills folded sheets of sunlight points of the young moon at the back of the south wind tears lie in wait when the evening smoke hangs lower than the clouds this is the season of change a yearning time when the children are shoulder high and the man has danced away the long ago the once upon a time forgotten but the stories still blow in shafts of light

october’s yellow leaf swirl
the last sulky rains of the monsoon
before skyfall