Ugliness

Is there a limit to ugliness?

Well, I don't think so.

When it becomes too much,
I shut down.

Ugly is when I stop paying
respect to the tiniest insect.

I am careless and negligent
toward inanimate objects.

Then pomp turns hideous
and Show is hollow.

When the most painted face
puts on a fake smile it turns ugly.

The dead the faded the tattered
are not ugly, they still
carry a dignity within.

Walls disfigured aren't ugly
they are screaming rebellion.

Will he....

Will he let me walk alone?

When I stumble and fall

And want to get up

All by myself, will he

Just let me?

And when I grow up

And need his hand on my head

Will he do it silently?

And when I want him to say

Those comforting words,

Will he just say that much?

And when he wants me to

Pat him on his head,

Will he just ask for it?

Aging without....

-->

I feel like a wise old man

When youngsters bow in reverence;

I know they are looking for

father figures, not me.

I feel like a brash young man

When youngsters brush past me

In a queue at the counter.

I know they are in a hurry

To get things from life.

I feel like a junior

When senior citizens ask for

A helping hand;

Have I grown at all?

It is fun to age without

Maturing..

The ticket to....

Was that my voice,

so soft and warm?

Were those my words,

so straight and tight?

It’s as though

I have never known

this creature called

Myself.

Did I push him out

of my horizon?

I don’t even know

what and how I dealt

him. Nor what happened

to and of him.

Now as the journey

comes to an end

the Bus conductor

is asking if he is

carrying his ticket.

“If a man has paid

with his life, his

Shadow is free”.

The conductor was

gracious not to ask

who was the man and

who the shadow.

Questions unanswered....

Some questions

are best left to time

to answer;

Time is capacious

to carry all

possibilities;

The great director above

chooses the scripts

He wishes to play

on the stage

at particular times.

Time always selects

the role of dwarf

for Logic

whatever be the script

and whichever the play.

Colours off....

They scratched their heads

and screamed;

They strained their veins

and vented,

They shouted their guts

and shook their fists.

And then they

saw what they were yelling after:

the colour of money.

And all colour drained from their

Faces

At

Once.

Money took away

what life had gifted them:

colours of life.

In Stillness of Time.....

It has been my lot

to put life back

into Clocks

that tick not

any more

They don’t like

the ghastly sight

of a Clock not moving.

But Time hasn’t stopped.

I suspect it never will,

except for the living

who keep repeating

the same script

from childhood to

oldage, of eat-drink-make merry

and marry-carry-tarry.

I am happy putting life

back into Clocks, not

having to dirty my hands

handling the living.

Not practical

Image from goldencircle.wordpress.com

Always taunted for
not being practical
I repair appliances
by telling the repairman
where the fault lies.
This morning
I mistook
in the market
gourd for
cucumber
only because
the paper slip was
not written legibly.
It's quite
practical not to read
what you once
wrote
famously.
Poet it is whose
finger moves
on having written...

Walking on water

Image from made-in-china.com

I am stranded this side
not able to reach out
to him and to her;
you are already on
the other bank.
Did you acquire
the power of walking
on water?
Anything is possible
for you -
the milk of kindness
flows
through
your veins.
I check from
time to time
if my heart is
still in place.

dolls

Image of New Orleans lucky dolls from www.planetvoodoo.com

What better thing
to do
on a weekend
than
to clean up
your masks?
I took them out
and while
doing it,
a faded
newspaper fell out
too
showing
the faded dolls on it.
A cord floated in
from nowhere
with words
strung into it.
Even faded dolls
can be attractive
to children,
it said.
I couldn't stand
it, but then
one of the masks
said,
hey let it hang
in there;
it livens up
the room.

There is this....

Image by Laurent G from designldg.wordpress.com/tag/benares/page/14/

There is this thing..
about life
that stops
you from stepping out;
makes me feel
guilty
to miss my exercises,
to stay a little longer
in bed,
to have another cup.
I hear a stern voice
from the past
that says
Miss your meals
if you miss
your studies.
I miss that voice,
for it never meant
literal.

Love and care...
give a little of it
to yourself
and add
a little respect.

A woman in oasis

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.

The ache

Image by Rob Myers from robmyers.org

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.

In the sky

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’.

Welcome

As always it is a friend who prods me into it. Last year it was Theresa Williams who asked me to take part in the April Poem A Day project. This year it is Sandeep Apte who prompted me to participate in National Poetry Writing Month project (http://www.napowrimo.net/) and so here I am.

I made a determined effort last year to write every day. But after half time, I became irregular and then managed just about to write. This year is going to be different. That's what I told myself. Let me see how to make it work. The easy way out is to dip into collections of the past. But the intent is to write something fresh, of the moment and for the moment. That way the spirit would be alive.

I need your support in the form of comments - good, bad or ugly. Friends and Diamonds are forever.