What a weak will
can do
with a little help
from friends?
To the parched earth
first showers
of summer
do very little
but mean so much.
I was lost
to myself
in wilderness
of dried dreams
with broken backs
and then
suddenly
a downpour
without warning
swept me
to the edge.
It’s clear
Blue
Sky
Now
All around.
The sun has scorched
some and not other
plants on the terrace.
Not more water
but more shade
they ask for.
I am that old tree
on the road
giving shade to
passers by.
I am scorched.
I am free
with a big hug
to anyone who brings
water to me.
What a little bit of love
cannot do?
With the morning breeze
float in memories of
Home, far away, distant.
Her pace quickens
with the rays of the sun
to meet the day ahead.
She has to sweep
Clean
Cook.
Winding her way
through the lanes
she has to mind
the stray dogs
that stir at her footstep.
Suddenly words
drop on her
like a summer shower –
Words spoken in her tongue
in this distant land;
She looks up –
someone her age
but in t-shirt and pants
and shoes, going for
her morning walk,
briskly, talking on the cell
disappearing
in the morning mist.
There is heat
after a summer shower.
Image from goldencircle.wordpress.com
Image source: fromoldbooks.org
It’s by accident
That I discovered
I am an artist.
I want my work
To be just so,
not a line here
not a line there.
I don’t have time
for others’ ideas
in my work. It’s my
Creation and let me
have the freedom
to do it my way.
It’s a work of art
after all and not
the day’s work.
“All my life
I have swallowed
Your irritations
And carpings.”
Agreed, but aren’t
Artistes to be pampered?
Every detail has to be in place,
if it has to fetch appreciation.
The purpose of art is to
imitate God in controlling
One’s creation. My life’s story.
Not here,
the mind says
searching for
a stable footing –
it’s all sand.
All my houses
were of sand.
It was fun for
the waves,
for the sand,
for others.
Not for me.
This big thing
About building –
Why not simply
Be sand?
Have I lost it?
I want to get over it
- be done with it.
It’s gone too deep,
you know.
Will make sense of it
later. Let time take
care of it.
I will take care of it
and may pain flower
to bear the fruit of wisdom.
But no more words for now.
Just silence.
Image from flickr.com, source: Bains News Service, 1910
It’s the place
that pulled us down
and now
we are going
to pull it down.
A clean break
doesn’t come
easily
to either the young
or the old.
Only a cold
calculating machine
can do it.
But there’s something
out there
and there is some place
in the mind.
Mind is what we carry
and mind is not what
I want to lose.
Image of New Orleans lucky dolls from www.planetvoodoo.com
Inspired by Salvador Dali's Persistence of Memory (1931)
They spoke of the injustice
I meted out to them
over the centuries.
“Any history in which
We don’t figure
Is not our history.”
They made it simple and clear.
It’s like all your floors
uprooted and hurled
over back of beyond.
I cling to the only thing
available –
The walls.
All my life
I put up walls
To mark my ground -
My ground.
Here come the yuppies
To question my
Foundations speaking
Some alien language.
They can’t take a location
Ha! There’s no floor left.
I make a suggestion –
Let’s pull the walls down
And see if we can make a floor
Out of those.
The yuppies are still thinking
With their stuckness,
I have become the wallclock.
Image: www.apurposeforlifefoundation.com
I am intrigued
By the sheer idea -
Releasing ancestors
From the psyche
And setting them
on the path of liberation.
I am already lodged
In the deep recesses
of the mind of my
children.
How will I get release
If they don’t even know
I am there?
I don’t buy this,
Not on the 97th birth anniversary
of my father.
He passed away 24 years ago
Image from photobucket.com
Not happy with
The way things turned out
You tried to change
The world.
Nobody took note.
Then tried to
change your ways.
Nobody was interested.
Screamed and shouted.
Some turned to look.
You then got tattooed
On arms, legs, back and
Lower back.
They now feature you
unpaid in their columns.
The ultimate unclaimed
death.
Psyche Opening the Door into Cupid's Garden, by John William Waterhouse (1904)
The heat is getting on to me.
Been trying to open
My mind
With the usual key
Of solitude.
The lever turns
But the inside latch is on.
Never happened before.
Need help – the keys man cometh.
Open I must, it’s now or never.
I will be an outsider for eternity.
There is plenty of help
Coming without asking.
Try another key, they suggest.
It doesn’t work.
Nothing now remains but
to climb up, open the door
to the upper reaches and get in.
I can’t, but there is my
It’s so peaceful to be helpless!
Image by Tim Morris www.zianet.com
Power supply went off again.
There was no water in the tank.
We could not run the washing machine.
We waited and when power came again
The water wasn’t sufficient
to feed the machine.
These things happen here
and we are used to it now,
so don’t fret and fume about it.
Instead watch the match on the TV.
My team lost there too.
This morning I chose to read the
newspaper from front to back – after
many years. It only carried
stories of women and their grit,
determination, kindness and beauty.
---
I have never seen an oasis;
I don’t need to.
Image from www.abcgallery.com
All our philosophy
of millennia vintage
turns its back
on injustice of centuries.
The lone lama wanders
through the world
attracting attention
to the occupation of his homeland.
There is space for him in our heart,
and we lose sleep if tribals refuse
to make way for mines
leaving their forest land.
We have time for messengers of peace,
for strong men of development,
for weak men hankering after nuclear power
and for middlemen talking weaponry.
We lose no sleep when
Ragpickers’ slums are gutted;
the city got cleaned up.
We have discovered a formula
To get rid of poverty.
Recruit the poor in the police force
And get them finished in the jungles of Dantewada
At the hands of the militant poor.
It’s their destiny. There’s nothing
More practical than philosophy.
Image: www.liesyoungwomenbelieve.com
“Everything will be all right. Don’t worry.
Thanks for everything.” Words that put my
Mind to sleep.
Days passed.
He walked away, she chose
not to return.
“Given you trouble at this age”.
“We are with you, my dear.”
Years ago,
She walked away; I chose not to ask why.
Those times I slept well. Now there are
Nights without sleep.
I walk through the day
Telling a hundred stories
To myself,
all with the same ending –
Going away.
I surprised myself with this question
to my friends:
‘What will happen to these conversations?’
In another two weeks we would be gone
our separate ways.
The same kind of ache I had felt
After I came out the last time
The Board room in which
I had met friend and foe for
A score of years.
There are many ways of
Assuaging a distressed mind,
They say. But the pang….
Is real. The heart that aches
Is blessed in its throb.
I have learnt not to muffle.
Image by Richard Jennings from www.shaders.org
This morning the words
rose like bubbles
From the heart
And grew big
And bigger like clouds
till they stretched
beyond the garden,
The tree tops,
The flying birds
to touch the skies.
I clung to the inside
Of the words
And stretched
To become flat.
Then I disappeared
Under the words
‘forgive me’.
It’s so relaxing to
Stop breathing wilfully
And let breathing take over.
Whenever it happens
I decide to do the same
With life
And it takes time
For me to realise
That I cannot decide.
I can only let it happen.
This morning the little bird
Chose to nibble
The tiny flowers
Of the potted plant
in the balcony.
Then it moved away.
Image from www.potteryblog.com
Softness in myriad ways
Outside
But in my heart
I could not touch it.
The human touch
In pain, suffering and compassion,
In assurance and acknowledgment –
For my consumption.
I the potter moulding
The clay of relationships
Until the clay screamed and scratched.
Now I watch the play of clay
In the silence
of the cosmic emptiness
of the pot.
