i hate my poems
i hate waiting for words
waiting is cunning
and time smiles

Rain

Rain always changes the game

I would be nothing if it were sunny and dry
but then it rained
and the light was low
around us

we shut our umbrellas
and we took the long way
mother and daughter changed the story
drenched with a bagful of vegetables

every time it rained
around your house
I knew
you told me about
the different sounds it draws
on your roof, windows and door
It never rained when we were together
rain had no plans for us

It rained the night we had no room
we sat near the white pebbles with a glass wall
we counted snails that night
on a wooden bench
trying to touch  fingers

Then rain was around out life
in the trees, in the breeze
gathered around us
and we stood
walked together slowly wading
to make another story

It rained again
 I was moving
and everything was white
I couldn't think of one person I would want
with me in that moment
rain caressed my face,  feet and thighs
I have been replacing memories
with temporary music

Only rain can change my plans

Twin

The look alike of some day
of a street left behind
 a telephone booth in waiting
of rainy, balmy breath
and one such day here
with a voice in hestitation
and fingers touching only weed
 smoke and rain crept up
broken by feet
I know
the past can creep up
                                                                                   on silent streets

                                                                                  looking for a light

Ice is the name of the night
 pale prints
stolen bookmarks
sugar cubes
and the rest of my questions
are melting slowly
in front of the electric heater

in another icy land
walks a wind
flowers in his pockets
and cozy poems
that begin with a kiss
my questions will be clouds
when spring
will be right around the corner

Dear friend
I have only one picture of you
the one with the lady boxer
which I had turned gray
has come to life
in metallic shades
of red, black
and all the white light
at the feet of a rust dream

a storm is coming
endless black days
rising with dust and darkness
wont you remember
orange afternoons
the diagonal shop
outside which the storm waited
inviting the  black.

Evidence

under your tea cup
i left my mark
while you wrote stories
about others
the stain never left
and you ceased to bother.

Letter 2- To Dream

.

Dear Dream

You have a new face

in a familiar frame

You have come back 

a hero

in empty wine bottles 

making rainbow at my sill

You have come

like a liar's scrapbook

and  Blek's rats 

are looking for it now

You are back

like the empty house

looking for a tenant

dealing with dust

and the month of May

Dear Dream

you are back again

i gathered more white

all this while

wake me now!

come, say, leave
it would be different
if you knew
i was deaf.

stay, look, love
it would be the same
if i knew
all the reasons

How Odd

From the first time I saw you
I have sown seeds each day
and connected
the dots our way.

From the last time I saw you
I have dreamt of an elevator
hung midway waiting
for lights to go out.

Since then

Every time I have seen you
I have plucked out one key
from the piano I wrote songs for.
.....................................................................