6th February, 1966

My light,

I shared your picture with the boys in the bunker and they are mesmerized. Thank you for walking into my life. Your thoughts intoxicate my days. Strangely, I am smitten by your silent ways. I wait for the day when I am beside your tender heart. Until then, do write back and time will not keep us apart.

p.s – You will soon receive a colorful paper mache’ frame. By the way, do you like my very own version of your name –

Jyots, I love you

I will see you soon,

yours

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

Poem on a postcard

 

it was the 201st day of 1998

the tutor, on a schedule walked in

and crumbled suddenly uncontained

“no more classes Sir, no more complains”

he encased his notebook close to his skin

 

how come, what and why

multitude of questions outpour, “why oh why”, he asks

bewildered, he wears a shocked mask

he ponders, he squints, trying to not openly cry

 

doubtfully delivering a nod, his eyes turn towards

the groping father putting his tall boy to rest

with pieces of his heart, weaving memories into wreaths

stumbling, the tutor tries a word, instead gasps escape his chords

 

he turns around , then halts back and pauses

places gingerly the notebook on a side shelf

scribbles with a shaking hand, makes a mess

with a brief glance, he absorbs the air and its bruises

 

curious, I linger to take a teary peak

scrawled I see , “Be a man buddy, being dead is a cowardly trick”

words that chafe, incinerate into every pore of me

slouching within, I clench my fists into my knees

 

you, since emerged, in every cosmic breath

your debtless soul, is the tapestry of our strength

we sturdily toil through in our fragile caravans

you, endowed us enough joy to last a life span

 

the tutor came back the next day, and for many days

we talked about your stories, he said they were ours anyways

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

Feather soft droplets, uncertain and fickle

Surprising sounds, glassy sheets of revival

Gushing in to announce an awaited arrival

Initiating a standing ovation, trickle by trickle

 

Rooftops lay flat against a tiptoe dance

Hummingbirds listen to the symphony, in pleasure

Flapping away grief, to euphoria of tingling treasures

The wet night sings to the darkened drapes, in a trance

 

Aroma of a lightening struck earth, engulfs the dawn

Wholesome colors tattoo a game into the washed blue sky

Desire blushes bold, flavors leftover in boxes of thai

heartbeats rescue each other, inhaling moldy smells of the lawn

 

Howling death sounds, drown raging kisses

Purple streaked canopy, mirrors teary  black eyes

Crushing raindrops, into hot mocha keeps passion in disguise

pittering and pattering, pours remorse to a deep abyss

 

Soaking into its torrential self

each bubble a drop, of hopeful smiles

lusting between sunset and sunrise

streams chant seductively to themselves

 

Unleashing colors with dripping crayons

Breaking horizons , into a bellowing bronze

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

5 Senses

 

 

 

 

 

When they break in and through

piercing into the insides of you

insistent voices that break a chatter

shadows recede into their own black matter

 

entertaining Satan in psychedelic colors

ultramarine blue alternates with yellow dirty squalor

pacing breaths blurring moments together

eyeball to eyeball, on a tight tether

 

hours rip through asphalt walls

speech clusters into a slow drawl

pounding dreams to a maze of doubt

pills and potions lay scattered around

 

festering inside a cranium shell

a splitting of the face I can fortell

piercing stars give way to a dark moon

clustering synapses pierce like a harpoon

 

writing Day 25 in the despairing dark

may just be a failure before it even starts

warning is to be prepared for a hearst

a migraine will devour any poetic bursts

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

warning to self

 

Remembering with fond delight, myself

of dark eyes

glistening hair

transparent skin

and a memory that retained

Remembering the girl I knew, younger

of radio ready voice

multitasking glory

love, passion

and a heart that was naive

Remembering careless youth, adrenalinized

of the helter skelter

permanence obsessed

countless existence

and a body that was a sun dance

 

After youth, braver in age

savoring space

chuckling at finality

bright palette

and an appetite for conversation

Unfolding remembrance, of myself

learning better

outrageously curious

retrieving my gifts

Architecting a story, around me

with grey streaks

tears unabashed

face a gleam

self encountering stubborn dreams

Growing ripe

like witnessing childbirth

is traumatizing, intense

yet magical, lusciously simple

Growing old

like unexpected kindness

is paradoxical, jagged

yet contemplative, pulsating

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

elegy to a loss with hope

 

ੴ ਸਤਿਨਾਮੁ ਕਰਤਾ ਪੁਰਖੁ ਨਿਰਭਉ ਨਿਰਵੈਰੁ ਅਕਾਲ ਮੂਰਤਿ ਅਜੂਨੀ ਸੈਭੰ ਗੁਰਪ੍ਰਸਾਦਿ ॥ ਜਪੁ ॥ ਆਦਿਸਚੁ ਜੁਗਾਦਿਸਚੁ ਹੈਭੀਸਚੁ ਨਾਨਕ ਹੋਸੀਭੀਸਚੁ॥੧॥

Ik Onkar Satnam Karta Purakh Nirbhao Nirvair Akaal Moorat Ajooni Saibhang Gurprasad ॥ Jap ॥ Aadh sach Jugaadh sach Hai bhee sach Nanak hosee bhee sach ॥1॥

Mool Mantra – first composition in the Guru Granth Saheb, repeated over a 100 times through the text of the holy book of the Sikhs

………………………………………………………………………………………………

I dedicate this to the sound of a prayer I have heard through out my growing years – not in a forced prayer time way but in a subtle background music way.

Mercy is a poet

patient with the need for practice

keeping music afloat as we learn to absorb

syllable by syllable

discovering faith in every nuance of it’s sound

 

Mercy is a poem

unfolding itself into an extraordinariness

gaining momentum and fortitude

sensing space, creating largeness

within and without

 

Mercy is a poet

inhaling admiration

exhaling adoration

inhaling shame

exhaling strength

inhaling solitude

exhaling participation

 

Mercy is a poem

my grandma muttered in submission every night

the same mantra became gratitude when hummed by my mother

and became a war cry when chanted aloud by my father

remained ever my hopeful guide

 

Mercy is a poet

that inscribed it’s words into the corners of my children’s existence

nudging into them at corners, resonating them to their roots

 

Mercy is a poem

that has a hum, lingering like a silent whisper

on the tip of my tongue

affirmations thawing themselves into my heart

 bathing me with relevance

sieving the melody from the noise

Ik Onkar Satnam

 

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

base your poem on a sound you have heard

lyric, prayer, phrases, heard aloud over years

 

1)The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky

and I understand why

each twinkling star is our guide to a lost one

a missed position, will lose those left behind

the spirits ascend to a position, form into an arrangement

then twinkle spells into their own milky way

staying elegant in diverse company, staying obvious

in their shine, delightful at every age

defining love and light, unbiased

to size, color or position

So, the stars choose to stay arranged

to give us an obvious faith

in the inevitability of a larger life force

 2)The  clock can’t strike thirteen

since the 12 hour churning of the 2 hands rule us

our days exist as defined by the path of our clock

we proclaim day and night, not by changing skies

morning mists and twilight blues, are but tools

only for spiritual dimensions, or creative gazing

sometimes, rarely serving as a conscious pause

between the creation and the creator

The clock however, is an appendage to our mortality

changing it will be possible, a challenge

to surgical alteration techniques

of behaviours, bodies and constraints

3) The sun can’t rise in the West 

just because it is a universal basic

deciding to rise differently

will be an amusing process, nearly schizophrenic

the Sun looks forward to be reborn, each morn

in that defeat he gives the reason to his moon to show up

in slumber, he courts the ocean beds and coral reefs

bribing the blue underwater to swallow his moon

He rises dutifully, to enrich the planet with his warmth

strategic in nudging the moon into a silent darkness

staying close enough to bring her back, when he tires

he owns the order for our breath, irrelevant therefore

whether he opens his blazing eyes in the east or west

what matters is just the act of being reborn

 

4) We live in a masquerade

We have not mastered the mysteries of our planet yet

We  continue to question, and regurgitate our answers

Yet our belonging is to horizons

where disruption is a core value

NaPoWriMo 2018

Writing about the impossible and making it happen

It is a mystery of selfish beauty

physical magic standing alone on a shaking stage

sharing the spectrum, yet unable to engage

Narcissism meant spell bound,  warrants a restudy

 

Facing narcissism, vanity in all its hype

needs practiced kindness and a collective skill

truth deprived though, our ego mirrors the shattered will

Naked storytelling, propels narcissistic archetypes

 

Wiring of our anatomy indefinitely evolves

moving through generations, from belonging to control

shifting sands of self hope, an erratic magnetic pole

Puppets to imperfections enslaved, and power enthralled

 

Sketching narcissism is not a project in black and white

it takes courage to accept the ‘and’

belonging is only the day vision of ghosts we shun

 Loneliness encountering , deserves all the brain and it’s might

 

Narcissus architects meanwhile, a phantom within us

hypnotizing fear to blackmail self regard

pulsating the throb in our veins, gurgling though blood

Encouraging self esteem, embracing fragility, staring into our own dust

 

Armor down, let the beating heart dwell

duality wanes real, an excruciating ego and id paradox

hydrating insecurity, locked in Lucifer’s black box

Face thy own nameless,

or every Narcisuss will watch the water spirit to his death

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

the narcissus

 

 

1.at lunch hour,for once be reckless at work,

bring on the new, experience the twerk.

2.take your heart out of it’s hiding safe,

break down the walls, let it chafe.

3.not believing is not really the thrill,

looking inwards tho’ could bring on some chills.

4.confirmation is a trepidation, a fear,

until you decide to push away the facade frontier.

5.worship can indefinitely keep taking sides,

compassion needs permission to become the deity that presides.

6.singing is orphaned when sung to an empty silence,

instead try to encounter your hymns without violence.

7.be seduced easily, again, hold to your lovers presence,

you blush brighter when returned to your iridescence.

8.as you be adult, sometimes be dumb,

to the timid teenage soul, it is revealing to succumb.

9.allow the kettle to keep the water bubbling with a whistle,

soak in the comfort of that encounter, do not hustle.

10.flames architect new borders and ruins of civilizations,

stop them from their orphaning carnival, don’t give the  new bastions.

11.say no, say yes, say stop , say maybe

maybe your speaking up will stop more war babies.

12. illuminate with your dormant rage, submit to the pain,

impregnate yourself with change, stop finding someone to blame.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

rebellion in style or content

 

 

 

 

Responding line by line to Mary Oliver’s A dream of trees

the bold italic is my response to the original line

Continue reading “mortar and pestle”