(apathy)

scanty rain

against a breezy window pane

 

po-e-tree running through my vein

 

I am no farmer 

to complain

society woes

now that we have killed

the pigeons who made

a lot of shit on our window

sills

 

we got after dogs

who piss in the vicinity

and bite our kids

 

and then when the dogs

are finished

but our anger isn't

we shall kill the children

who make noise on the swing

 

then the old people

who don’t seem to

rationalize

or materialize

into our game plan

and keep ringing the wrong doorbells

 

that leaves us with just us

wise, middle aged men -

we shall party through the

night and enjoy barbeques

till our laughter reaches

the wild, new morning

 

and we reach home

to find our wives sleeping

with other men

who have kept a glass of poisoned tonic

by the bed side

for us to drink

 

© Rochelle Potkar

June 2009

rocking chair

she scoops the cleavages

and concaves of news

- city news, world news, 

town news

village news

 

but the day stretches

long before her

as more news is being

created, churned, rehashed

by the world

to be breakfasted upon

the next day

Home

a mystical land

a fictional place

opens up through your plane window

mountains yawns

trees slide down

making way

for your bird to land

clouds play 

havoc

over mountain top

flat land

the mechanical bird

is warm, silent

crowded markets

colored streets

hawkers yell

dollars deteriorate

the sun

has a special place

to the left,

unfamiliar

from your own land

the roads are tiny

zipping through

breasts of mountains

goats stand tall

eating grass

the wind shaking

their food

its hunger time

you quiver

with the nostalgia

of thirst

flags flutter

calling for the dead

to return

there are chants

mantras

in monotone

the mountain reverberating

in its own echo

till you reach to pay for

toll

you are 

2000 ft above

the valleys

the sunlit paths

the birds flying below

the muffled air

the disguised laugh

echo of your own heart

"home"

"om"

"om"