Through the long ,

Second story window

They watch happily.

The sun is up

And the children going

To school can be seen

Down below,

In the street.

Some walk together.

Some walk alone.

Carrying their bags,

And books and toys.

Only one will stop

Every morning, to look up.

He sees through the glass,

He waves his hand.

They wave back,

Though no one notices.

In any case, it is long before

Opening hours.

They do not know his name

But those of them

That have been there long

Know much about him:

He has a pet dog,

He enjoys flying kites.

And of course, he is

keen on the classics.

He came inside a few times,

Bought nothing, but

He knows them all by now,

Though he speaks no French.

Yes, he knows them all

Up at the art gallery.

Sometimes his grandfather

Walks with him to school.

The boy’s waving

At the colorful friends,

Seems odd to him.

But this is just because

He knows nothing at all

about art.

A watched pot never boils.

The ancients said this.

It is true.

I fail to mesmerize

The thing.

It’s plugged, water’s in,

I even flipped the switch.

And yet the viscous rattling

Of the water does not reach

My ears. Showing also

That this wise rule applies

To audio as well.

What to do?

With no water,

There is no coffee.

With no coffee,

There is no future.

I’m trying a new approach:

I watch this Nokia,

And see if by acting coy,

I can get the pot

to come to his senses.

Resting by the tree,

The wind blowing cooly.

Perhaps it’s a good place to stop.

Legs are tired, bruised shoulders,

From the haul.

I look up, as the crispy fruit dangles.

are these ripe?

Surly it is a tad early...

Is this tree someone’s property?

I can’t control it.

I stand up again, and the pain leaves me,

Replaced by hunger.

I reach out and take one.

It feels coarse,

Safe to eat then,

well, in moderation.

Salty and fat, and crispy.

The fruit resists ,then yealds.

I die here, my stomach in misery

After so much, that I inhaled.

This is why fruit picking

Should be done in groups.

But no matter, and it serves me right;

The seeds will find

A rich, bloated corpse

To grow in.

It lures you down

With coins and forgotten keys.

Dangling that pen ,

In front of you.

That memory stick,

That you were desperate to find,

Turns up auspiciously.

Hopeful, You go down,

moving the upholstery.

Then it snaps!

The soft of the cushions

turns to hard and sharp

And you disappear.

Whatever you were holding

in your pocket,

will lure others.

What happens

When kites get stuck,

Entangled on a branch?

At first there are attempts

Rescue might be sought.

A long bamboo pole

Could be enough to reach

But not release that

Which is stranded.

And the string, as the beating

And the shaking go on,

Make loops and eyes

And fastens tight.

And there is crying and despair

But that too will not make

The kite any more free.

So in the end, the kite is left

Fluttering in the cold wind ,

Until night, when the kite-eater comes.

After that, it’s all a matter of seconds.

What bamboo poles and pulling

And twisting and shaking and finally crying can’t do - the kite eater does with joy.

After the meal , he sits at the top and

Picks at his teeth and smacks his lips

In satisfaction.

If you stay in the store

Late at night, and hide,

You might see the Visigoths,

Doing their thing.

Now , of course you should be

absolutely quiet;

A sound will tip them off.

But a bit of patience

And caution

And padding you feet.

It could work, believe me.

In the darkened hall

Walking among the isles

They slowly emerge

The Visigoths.

The Visigoths.

They hold their council

For a moment

Make sure of what needs to be done.

Then they spread out

By department, and get to work.

Cause someone must make sure

That the potato chips are crumbly

Not a chip should be left whole

And the milk needs to be placed

the oldest date, in the fore.

And things must be turned around

With labels out of sight

And put laundry soap

in the frozen veg.

And ketchup by the toothbrushes.

It takes a keen eye

To set things right

As they do.

Would you know,

That peanut butter

Needs to be just on top of the stationary rack?

And a pack of melting popsicles

Must be dispalyed by the detergents.

And the wisest of them all

An old one, to be sure

Walks among the produce

And pokes at the tomatoes

With his long withered finger.

Making sure even the green ones

Are properly bruised.

Then they meet back

At the clothing section

And try out each new pair.

Make sure it's cosy for us.

The also water the potted plants

With orange juice,

and the goldfish too, of course.

They take their time

with the freezer doors

to keep them fogged over

And that spot, that's always sticky

Does not maintain itself.

Such is their way, passed down

Through the ages.

It's a thankless job

The Visigoths have.

But they know they must.

Because who would

If not them?

They ask for nothing in return.

But one thing they dare not touch:

The impulse shopping by

The cashiers.

The centipede-sheep

Or just shentipede.

It's long, fluffy body

Curving gracefully

Along the pasture

In the spring air.

It's hoofed legs Clomp

As it gently treads .

Led to the sheering.

A single shentipede

Provides a lifetime's worth.

Of course the meat is

both tender and endless.

A rack of chops

as far as the eye can see.

Mouth watering as it sizzles

And crackles in your mouth.

All completely kosher.

It's not a flower, with its sweet perfume.

it's not a citron with its rich aroma.

it's not chocolate with its distinct fragrance,

It's not the scent of the ocean breeze.

it's not the fresh air after the first rain.

It's not fresh-cut grass,

It's not sizzling Bacon.

It's not that pizzeria,

It's not that hot pie.

It's not the cologne Da used.

It's not the car, when it's just new.

it's not a newly opened bag of Nachos.

It's not the chestnuts roasting.

No! enough. all these smells , scents and odors are wonderful.

But the best smell, the one best of all,

Is that of books!

Books have a rainbow of smells.

They smell crisp and new,

They smell old and age'd, like wine.

Oh, that ancient paper,

Oh that new print.

A hint of metallic,

A vapour of fallen leaves, in autumn,

A remenant of a cold , snowed-in day, drinking Coco, and smudging.

The excitment you feel with the new-years books,

The joy, of hunting for a thriller down the shelf.

A paper book is a jungle of smells,

The smell of unicorns and dragons.

Open your nostrils, and read the book better.

All my friends have left the tray,

That party, to fill the pitcher,

He wanted to make ice tea.

I clung on, and resisted.

So he gave up on extracting,

No time to play a bit,

He had to entertain the guests.

But he did not refill,

Just put me back,

And closed me inside again.

And so, what am I to do?

I'm here alone,

The hum of the machine,

Is not comforting.

I whistle to myself,

But it's no fun.

And if he fills the tray again,

It will not be the same:

The new guys will not like me,

Misted over and cracked.

They will call me 'gramps',

And humor me,

But I'll be that guy:

Alone in the corner.

The fire was blazing, Oggo threw in another stick. Not much firewood i thought. Hope it will last until tomorrow. Not much food either.

Oggo took a burnt stick. He placed his hand on the wall drew his hand by tracing the charcoal along the lines of his fingers.

He then came close to me, and i figured he’s got the beast with two backs on his mind, but i was wrong. He took my hand and pulled me over to the wall, where his hand was. He then took mine, and placed it over his drawing. With new half-burned twig, he traced the lines of my hand, moving between the fingers. The rock felt cold but his dirty hand was warm.

He smiled in satisfaction after it was done and i removed my hand from the wall.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s something I’ve been wanting to do all day. It drove me crazy thinking about it..”

“You should not let your mind stray like that outside..”

“I know, i know...dangerous... But i couldn’t help it. And after i came back with the antelope.. Busy...only now we both had the time...”

“Ok, ok...got it...but what is it supposed to be?”

“well...I’m not sure. But we have my hand.. My fingers..and your hand and fingers over them...it is now part if the wall..everytime we come in, we can see it...”

“Ohh...i see...”

“Yes...i think we should do more of these... I think I’m going to call it kissing”

"Oggo, you're so crazy.."

"Tell me that you don't like it. I dare you"

I said nothing. It did look. Funny how a smudge of coal on the wall could mean more, after you talk about it.

After that, we did the beast with two backs, but somehow it was different...very..