Making friends in the park. The other day ,as I entered the park gate for my morning walk I suddenly noticed that I had unconsciously turned left to make the usual rounds in the track . I wondered why I unconsciously chose to walk clockwise in the oval shaped jogging track. I found everybody else did the same thing. I therefore made a conscious decision that I would change my routine for a day and walk counterclockwise. Turn out to be my acquaintances.

By the sweat of his brow. Making light of serious stuff. A poem a day by A. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. Dad would rather not part with. His daughter into her marriage,. Spinster daughter,not a virgin. Her marriage is not important . Daugher is ,for doddering dad. Concerned about his hard shit. Everything goes down to shit.

Short verse dealing with the funnier side of life. The long arm of law. The purgatory of Indian traffic. Quirky news from the world over. Thank God ,our little Einstein has got her place in the kindergarten. Her percentile is high and she knows all about the cube and rhombus. She should better get ready in uniform and tie to board the school bus. Her cram sessions are thorough and she knows even sphere and trapezoid. The New York Times is our.

Making light of serious stuff. If you are a bored Brit, here are some shit jobs for you in Australia. Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock. Thinking high and living simple. He is a little hot man,looking not bad but has a good mind for his wife.

A most exciting photo opportunity. Basically we have to photograph an absence of people, not the presence of broken buildings. We have to re-construct history, an entire story of whatever had happened in these ruins. This we do not do by narrating chronological events but by invoking the imagination of the visitor by linking dead people and voices with the physical environs.

Poetry posted as and when it happens. Sounds come from drums and pipes. From silences ,vacated by crickets. Men turning in a sleep, from dreams. The wedding sounds are of joint sleep. Of many liquid nights and tear sounds. From black-lined eyes, red hurt noses. Sounds of two bodies sleeping, rising. Posted in poetry by A. We hear about the boy who stared in the hospital.

Poetry about the Indian situations ,Indian memes. In the midst of our presidential confusion. We may mention his passing of yesterday. Lecturing a bunch of north and east kids. To the management kids on wings of fire. A fire shall now bury president of all time. An old paper boy had aimed upper story. With news missile to reach morning cup. Later he made missiles for the high skies.