FREE VERSE

the poem is a train
without a definite
stopping station.

too much length
i understand is
a suffering

short is crispy

and just right
midway between
your hunger and your
thirst

i, too, like it.

if you believe that a cat
can be a dog by heart

or that the dog can
later on identify with the
scruples of the cat

if you think that a cat
can ask the fish for a dance
without licking its fins

or the kingfisher can for
an hour have a nice
conversation with the
catfish in that clear pond

if you think that an ell
can finally find its place
beside a ladle in that
old and dirty kitchen

if you somehow imagine
that a mice can worship
a cat for a god

then you are a deviate.
and if you are one, then
you are a revolutionary.

most of the people who
read this believe that
what i am saying is
fiction. And they won't
take it seriously.

if they think that this
kind of writing is poetry
then there is also something
wrong with them.

they too are revolutionaries.
they believe that something
impossible may happen
if it sound as beautiful as
the cat singing in harmony
with the mice and in that
orchestra the dog serves
as the conductor and the
rest are either doing the
drums or the violin or the
piano or the cello.

on the river the fish come
out with their open mouths
saying: what a wonderful
world could this be!

though our land does not
contain much water for
them to live and love.

we keep on blaming them
those who steal from us
whatever we have given
all by heart and mind.

we scheme for another
revolution and forgive ourselves
for our past losses

many lives, a river of blood
a broken bridge. a house burned
an explosion at the wrong hour
killing those not intended

vengeance is blind and terror
is so unkind. There is no name
for hatred. There is no address
for violence.

we lose sight of who are are
we sit on the river banks wondering
where this water comes from
and why is there streaks of blood
on the rock and sands

old age creeps on our brows
white hairs taunt us to stop
our legs are weary and our mind
start to forget where we are
heading

some new faces are learning and
will want to follow and ask for our
old maps

we look at them with pity
we cry for our misfortunes
then we have decided to move out
to secret islands and unknown caves
they lose contacts of us
and there we begin to write
what horror we have inflicted
upon our souls

weary now, we begin to really know.

did you say you
live in a box
where the entrance
and exit
look the same?

where the walls
are so strong
that to break it
you must obtain
divine permission?

did you say that
you were mislead
into getting into
said sameness that
you do not anymore
know which one is
you and which one
is them?

don't you know that
uniformity is their
design for peace?

that to deviate is
a rebellion punishable
by death? or stigmatization?

have you been isolated
and wonder if you can
still live for another day?

don't panic. There are
so many of us. If
you get out from there
we will be so crowded
outside the box
and you will surely
regret having come
out from there.

and those who dared
suffers the same fate
as those who didn't.

so keep the peace.
stay there and just be
quiet.Don't move.

Don't shake the box.
Don't hammer the wall.
Don't touch the door.
Don't nail anything
of the ceiling.

Just follow all the
instructions. Do not
ask for more. There is
nothing more.

I repeat, keep the peace.
Your life is short. And
the box is not worth
your struggle.

There is a right time.
To watch a sparrow
and then know it all.

What wisdom is left
Learn from the ants.

i have asked
so many questions

and all i gathered as
answers
are same as mine

i pretend i like them
and agreed with them

we go for a drink
from glass to glass
till dusk

our goal is the same

we must learn the
best art
of forgetting

IF my cat can only read i could have recommended the following books to read:

The Pelican Brief
Lonesome Dove
One Flew Over The cuckoo’s nest
The Maltese Falcon
The Eagle Has Landed
The Owl and the Pussycat
Cardinal Rules
Mothergoose
The Ugly Duckling
Lonesome Dove
I Heard the Owl Call My Name, Margaret Craven
Owls Do Cry, Janet Frame
But Where is the Green Parrot?, Thomas Zacharias
Flaubert’s Parrot, Julian BarnesWild Swans – Jung Chang
A Sparrow Falls – Wilbur Smith
Where Eagles Dare – Alistair McClean
Tommo and Hawk – Bryce Courtney
Black Swan, White Raven – Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling

BUT it couldn't so i decided to read them all myself.

upon my soft feet
i leave you

do not feel trapped
i am just

the usual fog.

listen to the rain

do not make it sing

listen to your heart

do not let it speak

you have spoken much
but never was one well said

words fall from the leaves of
books

but not much heaps of
ideas grow as
seeds

no flowers for tomorrow
no roots to expect

listen more like a fertile ground
that does nothing but wait

i promised my eyes
that i will love them all

like the way i cared
for the longings of
my tongue

i have given them all but bags
of burdens

sore to the mirror of my
morning

tryst to myself and to myself

what revenge shall they
give me?

ah, this blindness to what is
near to my touch
to what is pleasing
but so distant

what i touch is rough and ugly
far from what
i imagine things to be.

what we touch still turn
to stone
what we love are always
wings of departure
what we long for we soon
detest

we are full of love but no one
likes to have them

what we have in our hands
are bouquets of
white African
daisies

we wait by the door
we descend the stairs
we look far on the road

the flowers wilt and there is still
no one there

when we left for good
and then we are far away from where we come

they have arrived and turn all the lights on
it's their party and we are not invited.

THE FOOL

the one you love comes home
on muddy feet

you open the door
and inside the house

without a word or two for you
sleep soundly
comes

rushing to the bed
dirt lies upon the
the white linen which you have
laundered for
days

when the time comes for waking

again
nothing is said

what for are the coming days?

ah, still for the one you
love

THERE will always be someone strange

even if there is a name, or a place to go, or a house to stay,there will always be
strangeness haunting

it is like nothing else
it fells like no one

There is always some places where we remember the scent as though we are dogs
of territoriality

There will always be strangers even if we live with them.

The name of a place loosens. There are ropes that we do not honor.

There are stones that we do not carry. There are hammers meant only for
the keeping.

There are nails meant to rust. There are houses which never become homes.

Hearts that never become hammocks. Hands that remain fists.

There are familiar places which we no longer consider returning.

There are times of sleeping which are residents of wide awake eyes.

There are moments when we regret having mouths.

10:41

i mark this hour.

This is the tree
where my eyes
are hanged.

i mark this place.

There is no time here
There is a fish. No scales.
No bone.
No flesh either.
But i smell it just the same.

This is the fishy hour.
Where i speak about a rumor
and it is all about
myself.

now i look at my hands
closer than
before

near to my face i have ten
paths

i have these wrists which
are detestable
for many have done
what bad intentions they
have had
for themselves

i rush to the highways of my
ribs
and take shelter to the roof
where my heart
rests like man after he has
waded
in the river of his dreams

do not let me remember
kindergarten

make me remember father
with his pipe talking to his
workers in the fields

one rainy day when they have
to rush
to cover the grains of rice

when they have to drive the horses
back
to the comfort of their stables

do not let me remember the babbling
of my mouth

that baby whom mama left for the
house-help to silence.

it is too late
it is dark and
there is no more
time to
play

mother has called
and waits by the door
with a beating
ready on her hand

it is too late to remember
what sweetness is left
by youth

what pool is there to jump
upon
so we can be frogs
again

let there be distance
between us

let us be like pillars again
far from each other

to make this house stand
and strong

upon its four feet
below its wide roof

let the sky have joy
let the moon smile

my friend has turned into
an old sagging woman

but she knows her way
to cope up with time

she surrenders her mind
to the plunders of her past

she pawns all her dreams
to tomorrow's promises

on nights when there is
nothing worth doing

she sits by the window
and asks the wind to make

love with her again.Look
at her: strawberry lips

a winding road, a high cliff,
two mountains for breasts

waiting for your fingers
her tongue lands on your pelvis

her hair becomes the river
where you sing and sail again.