Poetry Is Late Poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri

Poetry is now the late breeze rustling in the tree
After the temple tank's mossy stillness.
On consciousness had luminously arrived
The phallus god, in brown beauty- hues
And cyclical eight faced phallus, in turns,
Tranquil-white and angry-red in stone eyes.
Polished now as God, a washer man had used it
In rhythmic beats, all for beating laundry.
We have our myths, carefully polished
Over Time's washed stones of the riverbed
Our accumulated minds enormously meshed
As a haystack of shared consciousness.
Our gods have uneasily existed all these days
With spirits who have to be driven out
From darkly lonely houses and fearful men.
On the hillock pallid ghosts come haunting
In moonlit houses amid systolic blood-chants
You know our god is fear, not rain's beauty
Or lonely jungles with the fall of cascades
I keep thinking, while my glass eye twitches
For brown beauty and pixelated praise.