Not that lovely at its seventy

The laburnum is in yellow bloom.
Dogs under it have score of years.

I have four or more to a Bible life,
My springs less for more blooms.

The dogs may have four or more.
Tree was lovely at twenty of years,

And not less lovely ,at my seventy,
But not that lovely at its seventy.

(taking off from A. E. Housman’s ‘Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now’



Our senses cry like ignorant crickets
In raining dark with many new frogs
Raising throats to night in orchestra.

Our faces are duly contorted in love
Like exaggerated gestures of dancer.
Our eyes turn up in repeated brows

But in the end they sound like of air
Like breeze rustling in yellow leaves
Dealing with dead past of the trees.


A picture I get of self loose on things.
The nerves are taut with expectation,

An entire escape bid from plain truth.
Their wordy beauty haunts as ghosts

And cultures a melancholy in depths
A despair wrought by the otherness.

Words are metaphors for our escape
From body’s prison, its thought limit.

We propose land to buy and border
And let imagination set fancy price

At a far future , for gold it will bring.
The metaphor of the six by four plot

Comes to us so easy, to our borders.
A metaphor blurs borders so much.