Pockmarked with
an uncertain joy
this day
dimpled in
all the wrong places
this day
more bitter than
sweet
this day
Its leftovers
tasteless warmed over
A badly baked roti
this day…
Me in my office
chair, uncomfortable
bound
to this desk
look out
longingly, into
a sun-warmed, winter
sky
a lone pigeon
streaks across
my vision
Ah, the freedom
I am wont to
think… but
is the pigeon free?
From hunger, the need
to forage, fend?
maybe i, in my
office chair
can be
free, after a
fashion
with Ctrl+N, a new office doc
pristine white
opens, which i can
mark, with
poetry, withheld breath
exhaled, onto this
page….
if i can write
a poem
just like
this, i surely
must be
free!
I am
a drop
coursing through
the vein of life
lifted, swirled
peaked, troughed
in her flow
a hot ray
finds me
and i evaporate
i watch, i breathe
a cool stone
i seek
where i condense
formed anew…
A dewdrop of love
condenses upon
a cold heart…
A spring of hope
suddenly sprouts
in the desert of despair…
In a moment
a man decides
to die
so another
might live….
A father-husband
saves families
while his own
perishes….
A policeman
chooses death
so a terrorist
might live
and tell the tale….
The darkness
of inhumanity
is illuminated with
a fineness of grace
a deathless determination
a fearless compassion…
This evening
flickers with
a strange restlessness…
Is it the pigeons
fluttering within the roof
the birds
calling
in glossolaliacal tongues
across this valley
Is it the
grey warmth
of the fading sun
that lies heavy
on the
cheery, sunny green
of these unfolding hills?
Is it
the waning energy
of children at play
tiring of their games
in this quiet twilight?
Or is it
the Friend
who went away
who receded
across the mountain
like the sun
after a grey day?
A wanderer
ashen grey
rises from the east
and finds our
emerald green valley…
Shiva, as if
spreads is matted locks
over our quiet world
and descends
from Himalayan heights
to watch
our small stories
our laughable lives…
In this
mountain retreat
we laugh
we love
we eat
we struggle
with roof leaks
and water works
– the taps have too little
the floors too much…
We too dance
the dance of life
a being and becoming
a staying and wandering
In our own way
we keep pace
with the cosmic ascetic
that ashen grey
cloud of a yogi
who sometimes throws
a bolt here
a love there…
A little girl
brushes crumbs
off her skirt
Carefully, patiently
gathers them
in her tiny palm
And squats before
a line of ants
weaving their way through
the single-window room.
Here, take this,
she whispers,
in language
that’s still babytalk
and folds her hands
and bows her head…
A painted bowl
a chronicle of life
a micro-earth
its rim, the horizon
its curved insides
the playground
of animals, humans, insects
one turning into another
men growing fangs
and lizard tails
salamanders who love
like you and I
lines, crisscross, zigzag
spirit paths for shamanic flights…
A painted bowl
– a macro-sky
a deep desire
a pit-stomach cry
of earth convulsed
into life,
like this body
fired by breath?
(This poem is inspired by the painted bowled of the Mimbres Indians, who lived in southwest New Mexico until the 12th century.)
