The Fuss About One’s Favorite Fruit

I never like them too soft,
melting with the first bite.
An occasional challenge,
yes, even with fruits-
those mute pleasers-
can prove quite healthy.
That first bite of rawness,
crunch silenced by flesh inside.
The reluctantly sweet taste,
eager in its hurry to leave.

There’s a delicate balance,
of surfaces and secrets,
of insides and outsides,
of defenses and welcomes,
of skins and seeds, to strike.
Like caramel eclairs.
Like a crusty sandwich.
Like biscuit and jam.
Like any other mundanely
analogous example.

A twisted little game,
a treacherous threesome:
Imperfect, uncared-for molars,
sly, careful tongue, and
difficult, puckish seeds.
A wicked dirty dance,
pushing and shoving,
dodging and side-stepping;
A battle ending in inevitability,
no winners on either side.

A single careless move,
thanks to the greedy mouth,
disturbs the players’ dynamics
and turns the game around.
A lone slippery seed
with a vendetta of its own,
preying on those poor molars,
makes itself a nice home.
No matter how much it’s coaxed,
it refuses to come unstuck.

The tongue tires of its trials
to extricate the stubborn imp.
The molars painfully impatient,
curse their fates and the game,
and the fruit, and ME!
As if it was all my doing!
And thus begins the charade again,
to promise and commit to and swear,
with fickle intensity and honesty,
that I will never eat a guava again!

At shut of evening flowers

>Florets of sinopia and xanthous,
On a bed of smaragdine.

Stains of solferino and ferruginous,
In a cyaneous sea.

Nankeen feathers on a columbine tail,
Aubergine blooms on lovat floor lie.

An aeneous blaze on a waking star,
Leads the son under a cerulean sky.

One Rainy Evening..

>The sun suffered a massive a stage fright,
And excused itself from our sight.

Shy fire, confused gray and a schizophrenic blue,
Cotton clouds, heavy and too full of hue.

Lightning threw a tantrum, thunder a fit,
Torrents after torrents, obligingly followed it.

Headlights blinked, traffic lights blinded,
Horns, yells and screeches, went unheeded.

The windows stared back, bleak and tired.
And back to their blinking screens, the ants returned.


>On a wooden park bench, brown,
they sat since the sun fell and fled.
Of Euripides and Aristophanes,
He spoke and she laughed.

Languages rolled on a heavy tongue.
Strangers from across three seas,
strolled under a coy sky. Between
fallen stars and shooting leaves.

Blackbirds and woodpeckers,
cold-blooded crickets and cicadas
Encore, one after another heard.
Music memorized, like math.

Blades of grass tickled the feet,
knuckles wrapped into a tackle.
Silences recalled, into a vacuum.
The lonely metal lamp shivered.

On a wooden park bench, brown,
they slept till the sun rose and bled.
Moons travelled into outer space.
He snored, and she sighed.


>A crowded room,
an empty cup,
silence and its names.

A broken nail,
a forgotten lock,
blood and its traces.

A handful of sand,
a glint of sun,
fire and its embers.

A garland of flowers,
an album of uncles,
memory and its voices.

A string of silk,
a patch of sky,
rain and its scents.

A fallen leaf,
an open window,
time and its places.