whathaveibeenreading

to listen without fault
is a power in itself
to really focus
in order not to
it’s there
because
it is
and
i
am
too

lahore

the single stem salvaged
grew at a slight slant,
the clay pot held a cup
of wet dirt from their drifting garden,
lime juice was the last aroma,
nostalgic of a home abandoned

each sweltering hour
burned permanently into memory,
trails adjacent, serving
tires and feet and tears alike
only blood to follow in succession,
the train was nothing but prayers

with the last flower in hand
nerves at the brim of rigidity
and his faith in contempt,
he lives for a land beyond
lahore 

a haiku

droplets flood scents of
senses, and I with closed eyes
view its true being

waiting

waiting
as if
time itself
never grew

the river.

on the river
the boy leapt
stone to stone
but never surface
feet shimmering
but never submerged

in the river
he wanted to be
taken by it’s fluidity
but never it’s truth
always trying
but never success

by the river
the boy lay
immersed in grass
but never waves
occupied by fruit
but never fish

to the river
he traveled
the fruits are yesterday
the stones are today
the river is tomorrow