No wildflowers bloom on this side of the road
No sunlight filters through any gap between leaves
A maroon stretch of unwavering dirt
And lots and lots of unnamed trees
To walk through them is like walking in a mist
A mist of reddish green clot on the earth
Then distant sounds of birds could be heard
Not a chirp, but a screech, very unwelcome to the ears.
Rains pour like a cascade of muddying sludge
That leaves one briny- aching to be parched
But never will you see a water source near
No life form either, other than the unnamed trees and dirt.
Some walk through that road for fun
Some are destined to dither there
Some trudge painfully slowly, cursing the heavens
And the unavoidable circumstances putting them on that dreary path.
For they always look at the path and the uninviting denizens with dread
And walk with despair, but never look up-
I wished they would, for then they could see-
The galaxy beckoning them, giving them hope
Thawing their tired limbs, creeping in their dull senses-
Directing them out of the mist step by step
If only anyone had some faith, and looked up,
Up at the starlit sky, that the unnamed trees can’t hide.
-
Because the mind can’t be caged,
And the errant thoughts can’t be set right,
Why fear?
Some travelled through the lands of mystics and fakirs
Some glided in the concrete jungle lands
But then they met on flowery meadows and under sunny skies
Held hands and were one and eternal
Yes, but did they agree? On colours and food and history and sleep patterns-
Did they forget old loves and passions and homes and things?
Their gazes met and they saw each other inside out
With all their imperfections, insecurities and intentions
It was spring. The flowers bloomed, sweet scented breeze blew their way, welcoming the onset of love.
So divine. So meant to be.
So true…. But the mind? Thoughts run free, fleeting, leaving gaping unpreserved holes
That was why they made promises.
Keep them when the time comes.
Now its a waiting game.
Hearts expanding in exponential terms, immersed in selfless joy.
Walk the path together. Laugh, cry, wonder at the same time.
About love. About the future.
Mind over matter it is.
Controlling the mind is a farce presented to dimwits.
For the mind is as overpowering as it is benign.
-
Where are the heartfelt bygones at?
See the teary eyed faces with illuminating smiles
Hoping for kindness in ashen times
The breaking hearts that have been patched, held tight
By thorns of yet unbloomed roses, out of sight.
You will find them in the nook and crannies
Of a bustling city, high with spirits
Or in the serene abscesses of nostalgic emotions
In some secluded space where they fit.
Some hands will shake, some lisps are common
For they feel more deeply than you and I
The calmness of mind exhibits hitches in body, I’ve heard
Be ready for some frowns, some indifference and even sighs.
Then if you want to see where their hearts lie
See in the eyes of a disabled beggar, or a motherless child
Or in any living being living the life of a lie-
The most disorderly, pitiable, errant kind.
Its hard to walk alongside them cynics
Who wear their hearts on a sleeve
You’ll be bothered by their internal struggle with emotions
Traumas, forebodings, doubts that run deep
They live in a time where mystics equal to spiritual superheroes
Unshaken believers in these ruthless times
You can only wish their minds may accept the toutings of fate
With a little ease, mellowness and sense of grace.
-
The other day I disappointed myself.
I think of all the facets of imagination I use to escape my daily chores of realistic drama. Yet I wonder what once was, is ever going to set me free.
My grandmother was a little girl once, dreaming of nothing maybe, only fearing to leave her home to live in an unfamiliar place.
My mother was a girl once, older than her, and she let herself drown in family dynamics in the confines of her new home, forgetting the outside world.
And here I am, older than both, and a great deal wiser,
bursting with energy, deflating with mundanity
filled with dreams, empty of hope
caught up with life, marooned with my plans for it,
complaining, working up a rage, irritating others, shutting myself in.
My days are full, nights are spent in convalescence.
Sleeping is having snippets of happy dreams come to haunt me.
Didn’t think it would be so hard to manage, but time flees from me
like an impostor holding a peace sign.
Just one ever scrambling busybody.
The other day I was disappointed IN myself.
-
Darn that place in the cloth
Knit small pink hydrangeas around it if you wish
Where each perfunctory movement you make
Is supposed to give you peace
Kneel amidst the wet soft flower beds
Lie face down on the hard tiled floor
Let goosebumps make you shiver
Let hairs stand on the nape of your neck
Hold your gaze with a stranger
Look deep into those brown, black or blue eyes
Give away pieces of heart little by little
To others, to lose, to keep, to discard.
Weep a little, sigh, moan, scream
Nobody cares what you do but you
Be lonely and crave for company
Be a heartbeat, be a smile, be somebody’s light of life.
Feel the breeze, breathe in the mist
Let something move you to heart rending emotions
See the unseen, hear the unspoken
And believe in unexpected things.
Care about someone, want to be somebody
Maybe carve a little safe place in you for comfort.
But even if you don’t, may peace be with you
Live your life, for it is too short.-
I keep spinning on the balls of my feet
On a little flat stony surface in a shallow pool
Imbalanced, slipping my toes off on the mossy growth
Yet I spin, spin and spin around
Somewhere a harp is played
In soft mellowing tones
The wind is subtle, yet singing in an undertone
I swivel, I keep thinking that at last I am dancing
I am a lithe form, a supernova
But dreams are so fragile, and dreamers are said to be crazy
The water laps at my feet, tiny nibbles of pleasure
If I could just spin a little faster
I might ricochet off into the universe
My feet could be wrapped in gusts of wind
I would laugh and cry and turn the tips of my nose pink
How beautiful! Yet, I keep myself firmly planted
On the ground, slipping and steadying
Spinning all the while
Thinking if only I could go a little bit faster.-
I keep spinning on the balls of my feet
On a little flat stony surface in a shallow pool
Imbalanced, slipping my toes off on the mossy growth
Yet I spin, spin and spin around
Somewhere a harp is played
In soft mellowing tones
The wind is subtle, yet singing in an undertone
I swivel, I keep thinking that at last I am dancing
I am a lithe form, a supernova
But dreams are so fragile, and dreamers are said to be crazy
The water laps at my feet, tiny nibbles of pleasure
If I could just spin a little faster
I might ricochet off into the universe
My feet could be wrapped in gusts of wind
I would laugh and cry and turn the tips of my nose pink
How beautiful! Yet, I keep myself firmly planted
On the ground, slipping and steadying
Spinning all the while
Thinking if only I could go a little bit faster.-
Some home I had
In someone else’s life
A dream, a draught, a lesser known feeling arise
I spoke and swore
But I had no voice
They say silence is more powerful than noise
A plinth of stars
A canopy of sands
I see mirages of home in some faraway lands
The blink of an eye
The shade of a smile
Is precious to someone who wants to live alone in an isle
No catch phrases come to mind
No jest, nor jape
I pirouette, I prance, I wear my own red cape
Love is still
But it rippled within me
I marveled at the strength I had to set it free
Good things will happen
Thought I, as I waited
But hope didn’t work, for it was fated
Maybe that’s when I realised
What I had lost, for which I had paid in kind
In the home I had, that I have now left behind.-
What happens when you find something someone has left behind?
By error or by intention, you know not why,
Yet the myriad entrails of the something that was left
sparks you, in a sense inundates you, makes you wonder
A shoe, trod and rode over so many times that it has lost its original colour
A piece of clothing, maybe a part of a sleeve or a hem, dirty and mud streaked now
A shiny artificial stone, struck off from a earring maybe, lustreless and scratched-
Like pieces of an identity, shod here and there
Missing their counterparts, their days of glory, now lying sullied, ravaged in plain view
Till some other force (human or nature) get them moving in other directions
Where do they go in the end? I wonder, often
I discard my shedding hairs outside my bedroom window, watch them turn into a matted ball of distaste
Too loathe to touch them
When each of them had adorned my head as a crown
My mouth curls in disgust if I find one in my food, on the furniture, even on the floor,
As if I am being mocked for my hypocrisy, when I spend hours thinking of where discarded stuff go in the end
But never have spared a thought for one strand I lost
as soon as it parted connections with my scalp.-
They will always weave stories for you. Around you;
they will sink to new low standards everyday and you won’t know which is which, who is who and what is what. You will curse, let the ashes drift in sand, let stormy winds create a sandstorm, destructive, psychopathic. Who was knocking on you door in the middle of the night? Tapping the window panes?
You look around you and see no one, but now your senses are sharp, deep, intuitive. It’s exactly 12.45 am in the morning, and you hear water dripping from the bathroom tap, but don’t get up. Instead, you turn your head sideways and close your eyes, but what is it that’s not letting you sleep?
Them: the story- weaving kinds,
The late night- door knocker window- tapper kinds.
But miss, did you forget? Last June there was heavy rain and your street was flooded, a branch from the tree beside your window had broken, and your cellphone had a discharging battery life.
Sleep, you overthinker. Sleep, you selective insomniac.
May sleep flow like a drug through your bluish green veins
But wait-
Was that a twig snapping?-