Why?

When did grey clouds appear

Suddenly to blot out my sunshine?

The leaden sky loomed

Above my light-filled thoughts

And my gladness wavered

To fill me with morbid thoughts.

 

Why did my moods change

When images crowd in

To misshape my feelings,

To color my emotions,

And to play hide-and-seek

Through the portals of my mind?

 

My window panes, 

Often streaked with crystalline drops

Of yesterday’s rains,

Made me witness the changes

In the outside world

In perplex reactions.

 

And should I change too?

Why can’t  my rainbows 

Stay iridescent always

To make all my days

Sunny and bright?

Tears

Tears are not mere salty drops

Shed from bloodshot eyes.

They are squeezed out

From broken hearts

And lacerated lives.

Often unnoticed

And hidden from knowing eyes,

They go uncherished.

Yet, they are precious-

Priceless pearls pulsating

With every heart beat

Of living hearts.

They tell the tales

Of moments in life;

They tell the tales

Of excruciating poignancy.

 

Me

I cannot ask;

I will not ask.

Denial mortified me!

can only take

What is freely given.

I am not moss; 

I am not vine. 

I do not cling; 

I do not burden.

I am just me!

 

Whisper of God

There is no one to share my laughter; 

There is no one to wipe my tears.

In the waning rays of the sun,

I see the twilight of my years;

Shadows of coconut leaves crisscross

In the fading light like a lattice of memories.

Summer gales have ended

The green tumult of my youth;

I sit in solitude,

As autumn glides in aureate breeze

WIth gentle touches around my face

Calming the bygone vagaries and upheavals

Into maturing reflections 

Of clemency and purgation.

In these quieted moments, 

The fragrance of dusk wafts in

The redolence of jasmine and nightqueen

Spiced with the pungent lantana.

I look far into the bamboo grove

Where slender trunks rise up to the sky,

Swaying in the breeze, bowing right and left.

I hear the suspiration and sussuration 

Of grassy leaves conversing

And I hear the whisper of God

Granting benediction.

 

 

 

 

 

I of Today

I became a person

I was not

When I said,”Yes”

At the altar.

In my twilight years,

In my solitude,

When I was 

No more a green girl

In a world

Of social distancing

And self isolation,

I reverted back

To the undomesticated,

Totally oblivious me.

But years have added

Grains of wisdom

And I am, no more,

Totally clueless.

I have come to relish

Sweet memories

Of love and romance

Of yesteryears

And the filial

And sibling bonds

Crisscrossed

With maternal

And grandmaternal

Cares and doting.

 

PRIMAL QUESTION

Winter stays reluctant to leave

 And spring waits in the shadows; 

The frozen grass is stubbornly stiff

And the sleeping buds refuse to open.

Regrets stay buried

Frozen under the ice

Hesitant to be taken out

To thaw and to correct.

What right do I have

To bury my regrets

To start a new life,

Pristine and unblemished?

 

Dreams

In the avenue of dreams,

I sauntered, weaving my way,

Giving desires color

With my secret thoughts.

Days and years passed

And patience had its limits;

Yet, I added frills and whistles,

Etching with my own fingers.

Heart kept yearning;

Dreams kept growing.

Landscape extended;

Dreamscape expanded.

Among shimmering stars,

Dreams fan out like rockets

To wink out, in the sky,

One by one, in an ephemeral show.

But we are the dreamers; 

We do not forsake any,

But lasso in all of them

And see reality in our dreams!

 

Winter of Tomorrows

Winter entered stealthily

When he left abruptly

And leached all colors 

From my todays and tomorrows

Leaving a landscape

Of white and black

And shades of gray.

The road ahead lay

In undulating patterns

Of slate and pewter grays

Of frozen and melted ice,

Scattered in swathes

The white of snow.

White trunks of birches,

Speckled with black,

Crowded on both sides

In geometric precision

Of perpendiculars

Curving away,

In a perspective drawing

Of charcoal and pencil,

To converge into

A darkening tunnel,

Into the unknown tomorrows.

 

 

 

Memories

Memories are little peepholes

That access glances into our pasts,

Joyful and sad, tumultuous and sedate.

We flush them out,

Often one by one,

Sometimes in clusters.

Oh, there are so many,

Some to be cherished and and nurtured,

Often taken out

To be dusted,

To be polished, 

And to be placed

In a treasure chest.

Unwelcome memories have 

Uncanny urges to escape

To be reopened and to provoke

With pinches and punches,

To be reexamined,

To wipe away the hurts and pains

And, finally,

To be reconciled and embraced

As one more experience

To be placed as  moments

To complete the panorama

Of a life fully lived!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Puddle Kids*

They were the puddle kids –

One, two and three –

Snow melted;

Rain showered;

Ice gripped in patches;

Sleet slathered over potholes.

After the rain and after the melt,

Puddles pitted sidewalks

And snow mounts lay on the side.

The children hopped down in mirth,

Gleefully tempted,

And my poor coat virtually trembled.

On their way, they jumped

Into the puddles, with both feet,

Splashing muddy brown droplets 

On the unwary walkers,

Streaking hems and coats,

Socks, shoes and boots.

Raucous laughter followed the splashes

And delight and mischief 

Equally brightened their faces of innocence.

What grandmother could resist,

But smile, however irate she was,

Ruefully watching the muddy prints

On her hems and coat, socks and shoes.

 

*Inspired by my grandchildren:Aliyah and  Elijah

(There is one more, but she wants her privacy)