a king

A light afternoon
glides like a caring king
because of the wails

this is art

watermark, is what's left
a splotch
onto dark paper

a bad day

a bad day is a day
when there is no room
for a folded smile to unfold.

a battle against tongues

I feel like I am running a battle against tongues
one my mother gave me that contains
enough expressions to make possible, life
with the others I have gained along the way

collecting like star-dust
meaning, word after word to make sense
of other ways to say the same things
but with gentleness, with vigor, with insanity

I feel like I am running a battle against tongues
that get out of the way when I love
because I lose language in seconds
before I fall

stammering at my basic ABCs
that are replaced by music,
butterflies and somber lyrics
one I call softness

I feel like I am running a battle against tongues
as one leaps to the front at the very minute I push it backwards
biting down on sailor language, wrong adjectives
in fear of the sharp blade it has

making peace in a battle is impossible
but living like siblings has proved a good use
for you cannot hate on your own blood
even if it flows through different veins.

human formation

today I saw with my own eyes
how a human is formed

tiny dot, black in a black space
that falls into a void

tiny dot in a black sack
will arrive with a stork

when we stop waiting.

Lifted

I get lifted, in comfortable arms
a little darker than mine

a little less sure of where they are placed
adequately to not cause me pain

a little heavier than me
but strong enough to make a house from scratch

this is a scene: I get lifted in the sky
you stay grounded to this earth that holds you.

A dancer in the mirror

Feet shuffling left and right
there's one rhythm,
does your heart beat to it?

Advised by the wrong weather

Shock the audience with the lyrics

said the musician 

with an unfinished song. 

Stick incense

Reminder of an India I have never seen
with my very eyes, the smoke rising slowly toward the ceiling
reminds me of an India I have never seen live
but heard in a northerner's Urdu wordings
a delicate Delhi accent, a Punjabi poet rising
like smoke out of ashes.

river-flow

without force, it will arrive
the flow of the river
that bursts in you.

verbs: remider

There are words about us
little children, unable to speak
to express our anger during the years

read and follow our launch here: www.crowdcast.io/e/virtual-launch-of-verbs/2

folding the night

It folds the night over
in the city
the music

In London, you apologize

Too many times you apologize
in London

when the train is late and you are early
because you think you've mastered the time

when you run under the July rain
three stations later to find the truth you seek, already exposed

when you accidentally race toward your favorite shop
to find it closing for tourists

when you use the old currency
that has changed while you were not following the news

when you bump into someone
who has bright eyes but thick hands

when you turn into a corner of a park
to realize this vastness can swallow you

when you stay near the roads that are lined with people
who speak your language and yet you refuse to share your tongue

when you realize that time passes and that you grew
older not in reverse to the days

when in your heart you know cities that make you apologize
have the potential to change you

in London you apologize because you are a stranger
with a most familiar face.

First rain

falls gently like it's not seen earth
falls urgently like children's laughter
the first rain that patters over my head

the power of three

There is something about the power of three items combined
a reason behind faith and magic:
three stars aligned in the talisman around your eyes
the trinity of holy, sacred and sinful
gathering like a storm that finds its end before it begins
the after thought that by omission
a grand touch of breeze will find you, near the river
with three books near you, with your hunger
gnawing at the power of trinities

Kindness

The orange on my desk
peeled
instead of these chapped lips

a point of light

There is a point of light
that gathers within dark spots
its is called a heart, most of the times

embracing freedom

Embracing freedom
with hands instead of worn-out wings
is bear-like, soft and dangerous

Beethoven, Havana Style

there's something like a late blessing in music

a tie, as if from a blue silk thread, weaving the heard 

the left behind. How do you play Beethoven, Havana style

Timba first, a flash of a dancer's rhythm in the steps 

you stop counting, falling as it may, 

the effect of the notes dropping in an empty studio 

but you are one blessed with a full heart and an explainable desire 

for listening to the noise of the city 

as it exhales at night, Havana, hub of the imagination 

this is it, then, how adventure gets written 

with a trumpet, with a soft beating of a drum 

no one can hear but an experienced night cat: a dancer 

tiptoeing on a melody, maybe this is all we are doing 

perhaps this is exactly what Beethoven would have sounded like 

having not been born with a pierced eardrum 

with stripped skin and less aptitude to genius

maybe a little drumming called the gods once 

will awake with the trumpets, a jazz at the edge of the night 

like swords clashing, like bodies fusing together 

in response to the late blessing of music.  

A state of mind

you discover it late, in your books
between the trinkets you collect as you go
it was apparent, yet lacking, like your middle name
a new way to smile, a different direction to your feet
a larger expectation of the sunshine on your face
freedom, is a state of mind