The coconuts rub their sleepy eyes,
In disbelief, in their crewcut fronds.
They love their new home on beach.
Cool waters slosh in coconut’s skulls.
Back at home they had feet in earth
With endless blue emptiness above.
Here ,sea goes up and down in blue.
As the waves break they hurl winds
From far seas where they meet a sky.
The fronds now dance to a sea wind .
(An entire coconut grove has sprung up overnight on our beach ,having been translocated from another place as part of beach beautification )
The rain falls in window’s glass
As the sea moves up and down.
The crow caws after a new sun
As clouds shut the world down.
We witness our yet another day
As a sea is bursting with waves.
We are a witness to world alive
Being alive for yet another day .
Pinch yourself hard ,on elbows
The mark of new dawn on you.
Sea is alive with waves bursting
And fish at usual frisking about.
Let a sea blow its vaunted glory
With the beach agog with men
Who are still alive after waking
Along with a new sun and you.
In the beginning a rock was spiked flowers
Then it worked out to hung marble arches
Catching the sea in its frame like a picture.
One sat down and bent to focus the rock
That would carry entire sea in its bosom
With sea hitting it in mother’s playfulness.
The rock was green and mossy in overall
Turquoise sea with diamonds of mollusks
In body like polka dots on sunny holidays.
A fish jumping man would point a corner
For squatting ,to catch essence of the sea.
The sea continues tirade against the rocks.
The sea never ceases to splash
Shore rocks waiting in a night
As crows are waiting for dead
But the fish seem on vacation
Waiting for little pieces of luck
To rise from sea’s inner depths.
There is a commotion, all over
As if the waiting is finally over.
These stones shore us up against time.
They save a killer machine from death
A monster that sits lazily on past glory
These stones are poem against waves.
The machine has turned poem at sun.
Sky becomes Cerulian poem at dawn.
Breaking waves month after month
On the generic sadness of mankind,
The sea howls in the door’s crevices,
August or November, all year long.
After a November comes the ritual,
A sea-laden August of wet memory.
August or November, grief is ritual,
Two doors down and two waves up.