michael_kenna_100 Copyright Michael Kenna

dying is certain there is no escape your whole life moves unto it this rigmarole, the breathing seconds count your remainders as the veiled robber beholds to snatch away your precious.

the accompanying days remain cold landscape barren white, frosty in the middle a forlorn sight still towering high with youth arms stretched afar and aplenty the cries piercing the icy air and leaves roll down trepidatiously.

many days pass by, many seasons fleet none visit, no bird whistles along horizon is white and long no sights remain unseen the chord is stuck at G sharp the pain numbs the soul.

alone he composed poetry there was no one to read it out to.

alone he composed music there was no one to sing it to.

alone he died there was no one to mourn.

your body

your body is not your own,when it is owned, it is owned. not by you, by your patronymic name and when you grow up, by your wedded name.

your body is not your own, when it belongs, it belongs not to you, to your husband when he plays and when you give birth, to your birth helper.

your body is not your own, when it pains, it pains not because of you, by the glaring gaze and when you dress, by your invitation to play.

your body is not your own, when it bleeds, it bleeds not because of you, by the masked vigilante and when you cry, by the misery of your doom.

your body is not your own, when it satiates, it satiates not you, the hungry passersby and when you crumble, by the masochist ego.

your body is not your own, when it breaks, it breaks not because of you, by the Suleiman's hand and when you fall, by the megalomaniac.

your body is not your own, when it is chained, it is chained not because of you, by history and when you die, by the daughter you leave behind.


the marginalized

xiaoCopyright Hè Xiǎo Hè


they walk in tatters, a worn shoe, a broken umbrella a heavy heart, a fallen soul they drag along years maybe even centuries of history burnt to ashes.

their story was never told, buried under the great wall hidden among the murals they become Samson and Delilah nameless, baggageless, with no place to hide, except their shame.

they live among us, as one of us, you and me victims of the sway and glitter of power nobody knows their name, they live anonymously and posthumously their presence invisible.

they live to see the end of a tunnel, not as a bleak of hope, as a liberation from reality. the dark corridors of the tunnel sing about their unglamorous past, their struggles to make a living, to be recognized as someone, with a name, with feelings this light, at the end of the tunnel, that light is them.


you said you couldn't stayit assassinated you, this tedious game we play in your complacency awake, objectifying the nameless life, as we know it towed away unceremoniously.



a decade is an epochwith ebbs and tides, some bruises, a little scar colorful balloons flying past the water boats and silliness.

a decade is an aeon, with books and papers some accolades, and failures traversing long distances the new hope and life.

a decade is a juncture missing pieces and chords connecting the dots, the road ahead is the road left behind.

this is how it all ends

this is how it all endsa few broken glasses some hurtful words the paradoxical existence the purple eye the man who loved only numbers the mausoleum of hope and desire the late thin may air drafting through the conversations.

this is how it all ends, where it began in the origin of words and the musical tune of melancholy the science of contention the humility of the intellect faulkner's yoknapatawpha the chaotic web weaving itself around us.

this is how it all ends the parallel existence the holy quark some meropes in pleiades black, white and binaries dust and dawn colliding the figures of hope succumbing to the cosmos.

this is how it all ends in a whimper, not in a big bang.

the centipede

a centipede crawled the muddy pathin the whimsical daylight unconcerned of issues relevant. it dragged on a thousand year's suffering in blatant buckets of pain, tied to each of its tiny legs. it could barely move, yet, head held high, it still marched on to destinations unknown epitomizing the journey of human progress through centuries.

an ode to silence

the atmosphere was calmmachines inactive, vehicles deep in slumber a pleasant breeze shifted its course meandering its way through the pile of junk, whispering sporadic words of infinitude. curtain leaves fluttered, papers flew into the air, as the breeze passed by.

the holy cat of peacemaking tipped a glass of water over, water spilled like a mirror breaking and breaking into infinite mirrors. drops lay apart some coalesced to become one.

one drop wandered away on its own yet another joined a stream, of similar drops following thus like a smitten fan.

a torn book lay open on the armchair, robbed of its leaves it had no tale to narrate. a page lay half torn on it a date etched a reminder of the day, when everything was lost.

nothing has remained since then, mind like a decayed vegetable, plays its tiny instrument. ears deaf, eyes sightless, nothing can be heard, only the silence that speaks louder than the voice.

le petit prince

go back home, my lovermix your tears with blood this world is not your home nor the people, your friends.

your eyes capture the sadness painting the frame-less heads beautifying their hollow souls these strangers you meet.

they don't care about you, or, the paintings you create only their selfish existence magnified to justify their evil doings.

this world is no place, oh lover your creased face, nimble hands the beauty of your soul the magnanimity of your doings.

run, run away while you can, to a place yonder, there, you will be king and the universe will be a mirage.

go back home, my little prince never step again on this planet where your sanity is deemed insane and your divinity, madness.


the winter is a fading memorythose icicles, little pink snowflakes vast barren white sheets of crystallized water fallow trees, desolate roads and the hope of a bright new tomorrow.

spring is a neoteric memory those blooms, little yellow budlings a limitless cover of vibgyor leaves bustling trees, satiated roads and the prospect of midsummer.

But, april come she will with her cruelties and ferocity arousing the inertia of the vicious circle that begins with her and ends in September, to go round in round the cornucopia of memories na jayate mriyate va kadacin. 


the possible worlds collided aforeconsummating supernova galaxies, millions of lightyears away and thus, we were born, an insignificant affair.

the blue sphere hung on a silent, invisible thread hanging precariously holding us precious life forms a significant affair.

beneath the atmosphere days and months rolled on effortlessly, striking the destiny time's illusory prowess a reiterative affair.

on the terra firma huge habitations mounted gazing above at the firmament oblivious to the passing epoch an egotistic affair.

underneath the euphoric plethora of water swam fledgling and sea horses a cold, dark reality this courtroom where everyone is equal a primal affair.

at the deepest core resides a revelation, all these levels primordial are congruous faces of the vast macrocosm a stellar affair.

the ocean resonates with music the ground with love the firmament with beauty and, the universe with expansiveness the eudaimonia affair.


i. packs are jumbledodds levelled. in this mighty ocean, a small grain of dust meets another small grain and there is thunderstorm.

ii. along the pathless wood a lone traveler once met another lone traveler they touched each other's hearts and flowers bloomed.

the ant

in the daylight, I sawa red ant tugging at a leaf. it seemed to me, the most absurd thing I ever saw, I laughed aloud.

I shook the sapling in vain pretense of my superiority devil's ego played ditties to show the tiny creature, my enormity.

the ant still continued to tug diligently with earnest persistence as if, it could accomplish the gargantuan task it had set itself.

I pondered awhile. did this act of absurdity remind me of something? ah! my mind stuck a note.

the ant was synonymous to humans who go on hoarding, accumulating, trying for things we can never achieve nor which we ever need.

in that absurdity, everything seems real like the characters in a storybook going on with their vague roles thinking, all's well that ends well.

illusioned minds, laughing at the disillusioned mocking hearts gaping at the hollows, the deep trenches of mire inside the hearts amalgamated down the centuries.

tug on for what will never be yours, surrender to the games of the mind, stay alive and remain bereft of life, remain like the ant I saw in daylight.


of abundance they were sure,the city dwellers: the extending metaphors of sentience how well they implied, the plethora of this firmament. when in a corner of the street, sat an homeless man with his feet in a cardboard box to protect himself from the harsh elements, they strutted along peripatetically oblivious to his existence, peering queerly into their hand holding the device to unlock the key to the cosmos.

the man sits still noticing all the hurry-burry, the human drama unfolding right in front of his eyes, no tickets needed, this is a free show.

imminent is the reverse, when the plentiful horn empties its contents slowly disintegrating until there is nihil. the homeless man still sits still onlooking the drama, smiling, for his cornucopia is forever bounteous and satiated.

Roads left behind

how often have I passed these roads?sundry and vague with places worn, of profession, culture, and new superstitions walked on by men and women in high expectation.

unwilling my legs divert these roads as some camper would trespass a strange abode, for succeeding in reaching the destination is rare I might find myself soon before, in a lion's lair.

to pass by these roads in sweet hesitation willing off the strong desire to see in trepidation unknown faces, names of mysterious strangers like wading off a penchant for lurking danger.

something pulls me away as I alight a force primordial causing my heart to ignite unable to move in the paradox of questions stuck in a maze of patterns and bastions.

therefore do I pass these multifarious roads, labelling them as destinies of wearied souls. and I, in my pride pass them by little knowing the precious treasures I leave behind.

nothing new under the sun

the day is quietthe sun bright

I sit in my dissolving room in the accompaniment of the ever whirring fan.

my thoughts surmount from the depths of my inner being I shake them out through cobwebs and dirt accumulated the past couple of years, for fear of standing out and hackling over wanton pleasure, by following the rat race.

this marvelous globe surviving the onset of generations souls ignorant walking the luminous face of scarred earth, through bountiful nature sowing seeds to reap the future.

year after year, the practice continues hand in hand with progress, to climb up the rungs of the great evolution ladder, centuries pass, technologies advance, yet, man remains eternally the same.

the greed, the jealously, self-righteousness, ego, pride, prejudice, brewed for centuries now come in new packages like old wine in a new bottle. time- the illusion drawing into itself a circle of misery, all of us, writhe in pain inside, sins transcend generations.

habits pass on characterized by repetition, oxymorons and the birth of halflings. on the verge of birthing again the earth begins its revenge and as the dinosaurs who disappeared into extinction, we, the humans, shall once succumb to the deadly doings of our own consciousness.

and then no more, we shall be, extinct humanity, gone down the drain.

men, women, children, reduced to ashes, only these particles in dust survive, and as the Old Testament reiterates: "There is nothing new under the sun."

Institution of religion

I was born a hindu, or so they sayAnother addition to the majority My caste gave me power, and my religion, authority. Saffron was the color of my heart. I was taught to pray with my hands folded And eyes shut. I had to chant mantras, which had the names of my uncles Narayana, narayana and Om namah Shivaya.

Temple is the house of god, my grandmother said, But, I couldn't see god anywhere. All I could see was a stone idol, dressed up like a doll. The image smiled at me, and I prayed fervently, "Where is god, is he hiding?, or, is he a 'she'? Does god have a gender?"

Pujas were performed to please the deity, Prasad was given after, chandan and kumkum, with appam, plaintain and flowers. sweet smelling sandalwood evoked a motion picture of images that trailed my eyes and arose a sense of imagination. red blood color the kumkum tortured me with pain and thoughts of suffering. both intermingled to give solace on my forehead.

As my eyes darted left and right, I saw old men seated on a stage talking about worldly matters. before me, there were women middle-aged, some old, others young. it doesn't matter what age, women at any can still gossip. and I thought only devout worshipers came to the temple. All the men and women were guests, at the temple of God. Come, let's have a cup of tea, chat and then go back to your illusioned world.

Ruthless traditions, robbing us of our individuality, binding us to society like poison to the body. religion is like an iron chain that rusts, chortles my throat, neither can I spit, nor swallow. Like a shot of morphine, that brings delirium, the disorder, that gives birth to violence.

Burn all these faiths, the cross, the star, and the idols what for is this faith, that hides you from the truth. God is not a religion, s/he is a be-ing, you and me, break away all ties, and raise your hands and say yet,

"Yes, I have a  religion, the religion of mankind."

aham brahmasmi


JM5‏ברוך אתה ה' אלהינו, מלך העולם...Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam...

her eyes speak the silence of how they left a long time ago with wealth abundant clothes, books, and a pinch of mud. the shelves lay bare lifeless and open waiting to be filled, no one brings anything. the walls yellowed, mouldy and cracked smells of unwanted longing. unkempt belongings, lie hither thither no order prevails, none exist. outside, the world moves tourists come, peers inside her home, the ruins. they look through the looking glass amused at the kippah and mitzvot seeing the remains of the day. seconds become hours, when there is no one coming her frailness is the culture's doom, her silence is the mischpacha's death.