Writing

Poem: A Work in Progress

I look through my window, 

upon the city

from my safe Retreat, 

clutter in the street,

distorted twists,

white

wet 

towels,

saris, bright with embroidery 

haphazardly strewn,

sway gently 

entangled

right under the moon.

 

Three-wheeled rickshaws parked in lines

form a grid under a no-parking sign.

Moist burgundy mud,

leaking pipes,

traces of fungus 

and cinnamon in the air.

 

From deep within the wells of memory,

simple village structures manifest:

gently inclined roofs,

scalloped marmalade-colored 

mangalore tiles,

cow dung brewed with hay,

splashing colors scattered around a market place—

a temple: 

bold, quaint 

in the midst.

 

Dreams, visions and experiences

architectural designs of some cosmic happenings:

 

Nimble fingers probe and rearrange,

each sculpture an accomplished masterpiece

comprised of cubist rectangles and squares.

Walls and rooftops recombine—

 

Then once again I erase

ideas rubbed against my mind’s own grays.