september rain

smoking in
september rain,
egyptian musk
to cover others;
jazz sonorously
echoes slowly.
a box of verses,
ink driven hearses;
come tomorrow
where will i go?




being here

sandalwood smell
musk on entering
the rain pat-pattering
on gutter-tins
indian summer
breezes blowing
clean cotton sheets
across bare skin
being. here. being.
if only you were too.
if only
you were true.


last night, out of reverence
for olden days,
my girl on holiday,
sat around a kitchen table,
with the boys from school,
swilling beers, chowing
leftover barbecue.

driving home to a mellow
beat of dear coltrane,
sucked in sweet night air,
cooled by the now passed rain –
breaking the day’s humidity.

vowing not, to let
nature escape me,
slept in the grass
a shrine, a candle, and
a stick of opium,
a cigarette wafting me
to sweet sleep.

enwrapped in down cocoon,
on top of lounge chair,
keeping dry, from the still
rain damp grass;

awakened by first sun break,
transforms the sky from indigo
to a sweet cerulean;
saw a pair of skunks
dancing in morning dew,
scarlet cardinal chirps,
a morning mating

to a distant lover,
echoing back the call;
heard the first train whistle
from linden station,
taking monday commuters
to city jobs,
heard trucks, and automobiles,
on nearby highways –

morning had begun.