Untitled. Or A Reporter’s Diary. (Written, 2017)

They arrive in darkness from the depths of memory of faraway lands and blood soaked streets. Shadows move noisily in the night. Fingers point accusingly Wails a cacophony of regret. Dismembered, limbless, sightless sometimes lifeless faces, bodies, voices questioning. Asking when I will return. If I will return. I am the itinerant, welcomed into hollow…

Silent River (Or Whose Side are you On? Written November, 2016)

A mother sings a lullaby. In the moonlight stars sparkle over the Jhelum. A father walks outside to lock the gate. And looks across the bund on to the silent river, black as night. Footsteps in the dark Stomp, crush Tar and leaves Dry as paper. Where are they headed? He wonders and hurries back…

Thoughts from a November morning, a few years ago

November Rain. (November 13, 2009)   A window opens just a crack. This morning it lets in the mist. It's wooden frame surrounds an impressionists landscape. A branch of Mexican Floss reaches through it For a swollen sky.   This is Dawn's tantalizing Choreography. Raindrops sparkle like diamonds on the pink Even in this grey…

To Addis, Differently

Eight thousand feet and climbing To the music of falling rain, Past rolling green meadows. Through clouds that brush my face, Cool, cotton-like, Like the soft creamy fabric on their back. I watch them in wonder Tall, proud, chiselled faces Walk rhythmically to the beat of nature. Some sharp and young, Ready to set out…