A wayward song

Itchy fingers

need to write

not tap

at a keyboard,

a screen…

Need the yoga


wrist, hand, thought, mind

what moves

and what remains


what feels

and what words


This page

Empty to touch and eye

This pen

Marking its empty sky

It unites

It expands

It forms

An untidy multitude

Within which


a wayward song.


This evening…

This evening

flickers with

a strange restlessness…

Is it the pigeons

fluttering within the roof

the birds


in glossolaliacal tongues

across this valley

Is it the

grey warmth

of the fading sun

that lies heavy

on the

cheery, sunny green

of these unfolding hills?

Is it

the waning energy

of children at play

tiring of their games

in this quiet twilight?

Or is it

the Friend

who went away

who receded

across the mountain

like the sun

after a grey day?

A Himalayan Wanderer

A wanderer

ashen grey

rises from the east

and finds our

emerald green valley…

Shiva, as if

spreads is matted locks

over our quiet world

and descends

from Himalayan heights

to watch

our small stories

our laughable lives…

In this

mountain retreat

we laugh

we love

we eat

we struggle

with roof leaks

and water works

— the taps have too little

the floors too much…

We too dance

the dance of life

a being and becoming

a staying and wandering

In our own way

we keep pace

with the cosmic ascetic

that ashen grey

cloud of a yogi

who sometimes throws

a bolt here

a love there…

A little girl

A little girl

brushes crumbs

off her skirt

Carefully, patiently

gathers them

in her tiny palm

And squats before

a line of ants

weaving their way through

the single-window room.

Here, take this,

she whispers,

in language

that’s still babytalk

and folds her hands

and bows her head…