October

There is a feeling this October

that the winds will be harsh in the

winter of uprising. The birds will fly

into another world and our winter of longing

will climax. October is autumn, the leaves

are dry. October brings with it winter’s

wistful coming. October is nostalgia,

school is coming to an end, gathers momentum

of dust, and trees withered are left at winter’s

cold feet.

October tells tales of desiccated fields

and the wind reminds that the cycle is complete.

What if there is no October?

Will winter’s onslaught be harsher?

I take a turn around. Memories.

October seems nearer and nearer

close, close to unfulfilled desires.

And somewhere the head rattles

into impassive silence.

October.

Me, You

If there is anything that

memory cannot

it is I.

If there is anything that

memory corrupts it is

You.

If there is anything in the past

which we call Memory

It is subaltern fears

And, if there is anything

that causes death of memory

it is me, you, circumnavigating

in shores of seas.

Childhood

Look at the child who helps

in selling tea. She ‘ helps ‘

does not sell.

We sell our souls

and she sells her childhood.

Expletives

I am forever in the shuttle

of a verb, the feeling and ego

of the noun.

My adjectives are expletives.