Maiden like a Sage

My housewife is a Buddhist Queen
She sweeps the intimacy
Of our colored blooms with compassion
Dropping amber threads

Where I may have failed so –
She litters dust of emeralds
On our sleep bed, and lights
The candles for our meditation-bath

My housewife is a Buddhist Queen
She dreams vivid messages from
Lives before, and abolished all my captivity
She endears my fate to Gardens & birds

And speaks the dizzy Music of the Mandarin
That I pretend to say, the Ripest Rose
Of Jupiter-in-pink before I leave for work
My housewife is a Buddhist Queen

A logician of the deeds of the mundane
She cooks with righteous vegetables
I have never seen before, spicy mushrooms
To complement my idle touches

She washes my Noons with fruit-basket-care
With the algebra of hope in her yellow veins.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Hetalia-Taiwan-162202623

Such Anniversary as Language

Many a phrase, I will never say again
How fruitful are the crickets
In the evening, the darkness itself

Speaks a Billion Suns
How lovely, is the Thunder’s tongue
That cannot spell lightning

But forgives the fact
For many choirs of the winds
That dance along the Tide’s tail

Breaking in bright mornings
Along the sleeping shores
Many a phrase, I will never push

With joy, out from my humble mouth
With a hush of English so deep
Romance is fiction, poetry does recall –

How fruitful the silence of the sun
That warms not by sound, but by waves
To spell slower glory would be to die.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Flowers-in-December-VII-412112014

Debt to Language

Words are a blameless hum
Language is insufficient ultimately
Flowers of through that float
With petals of fluff and wings of air

The thread, that has no needle
Laughter, that has no conclusion
Words are the mischief of myth
A whistle that imitates a bird

Knots of identity that do not fit quite right
Words zigzag and often hurt
And dream of something perhaps unreal
An expedition with no end

Only stories to relate us to the wild
Words defy topography, mask intent
There are no end-time mnemonics for alphabets
They cling to our duality and separate

You from me, us from the universe –
I pity the poets who can only taste
Their own subtle liquor in one language
I for one, am a poor translator of the human soul.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Unikorn-412093929