Poem: A Work in Progress

I look through my window, 

upon the city

from my safe Retreat, 

clutter in the street,

distorted twists,




saris, bright with embroidery 

haphazardly strewn,

sway gently 


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.