So much time
Has tiptoed away
After the last breath
Slowly forsook you.
Grass covers your grave,
Ice frosts it,
Rain soaks it,
Dew moistens it,
Sun burns it
And wind sweeps it.
Yet you slumber away
In eternal rest.
The leaves have yellowed
And the fallen leaves
Deck the grass
On which I kneel,
Waiting patiently
To join my time with yours.
Who is the kid behind the tree?
Is he hiding from the world,
Away from the taunts and insults,
To shield from barbs and thorns–
Like the child in the bubble–
Free from contaminants
That hurt the smooth existence
Of a sweet childhood?
Is he hiding from the world
Because the world overwhelms him,
Expecting too much
From his little self,
To think like an adult,
Always to be good,
Not to be an idiot,
To be the wisest of all,
To be the smartest of all,
And never to make mistakes?
Where is his carefree childhood
Full of sweet and guileless memories?
As a rose blooms
On a dewy morning,
Unfurling pearlesque petals
In unhurried fashion,
Eliana Rose woke up
On her Birthday,
Smiled ethereally
At her new beginning,
Welcoming all the best
That is to be her tomorrows.
I felt the delicious nip
Of Fall’s breeze
On my nosetips, eyelashes, and cheeks
And blissfully savored
The tawny gold season.
Around me fell the leaves
Like butterflies winging down
Never to rise again.
The aureate and ochre fluttering
Of maple, birch and oak leaves
Screned me in an alcove
Of Mattisse Odalisque.
Squirrels skittered with mouths
Bulging with acorns;
Rabbits ran helter-skelter;
Flowers died and dried
And their stalks withered.
The trees stood divested
And exposed the empty nests
Left vacant by birds ×ho migrate
At winter’s imminanent arrival.
Life dwindled away
And I waited
In dormant thoughts
For the next regeneration.
I was green
When I thought
That color was a feature.
I looked in the mirror
And I saw me described.
When did color become
What I am?
When did color become
Who I am?
When I was plucked
From my pilgrimage group
While leaving Baggage Claim
With ominous words, ‘You are going home”
And “Your people are waiting for you”.
I was sent to unknown parts of the airport.
And I learned painfully
That my color did not match my group
And I did not “belong”.
My “Global Entry” did not count;
Appeals from my group did not count
To the official of ‘no color.
Lost in the Newark airport,
Without a clue of the EXIT,
I was saved
By the kindness
Of a person of color.*
* Incident on October 15,2022
So many glittering stars,
So many enticing flowers,
So many enthralling views,
So many eventful days,
So many outstanding deeds
By so many illustrious people!
Yet, unobserved we stayed
On the outside – the onlookers.
Wars broke out, treaties were signed,
Skyscrapers were raised, discoveries were made,
Heroics were dared, and Space was straddled. ,
But the planet is rushing to doomsday
But, we stood on the wayside
Unable to stop the life threatening causes
Of air, water, and elements,
Unable to act,
Unable to change
The status quo of existential demise.
So, we remain the wayside flowers,
Merely existing for the day.
Swing up, swing down,
Swing high, swing low!
From mango tree
Or guava tree branches,
The swing rope tautened
While the wooden seat steadied.
The legs kicked up
Into the clouds
And folded back
To pull into position
For the next kick.
Effervescent joy bubbled up
And echoes of raucous laughter
Carried back between swings
Up into the skies.
From the height,
The world could be seen,
From top to bottom,
As if from bird’s-eye-view.
The air became thinner
At the high point
Of the trajectory
When the swing swung
Back and forth like a pendulum.
A child in infantile chortle
And a hard-bitten yet jolly adult
Could both feel the abandon
Of tetherless freedom
And undescribed ecstasy.
All the cares of the world were shed
Until the swinging became slower,
Legs became weaker
Till they reached placid ground
And met with mundane realism.
At the Baldwin keyboard, he sat
Picking at the keys for his scale,
Trying the notes with aplomb
To be stopped midstream
At the discordance of a wrong note.
He started again with nonchalance
And almost reached the lowest note
When a false note crept in.
He was so sure that he had it right,
That it was agonizing for Elijah
To see the bubble burst
And to drown himself into despair.
Never to be beaten,
He started again and again.
With frustration mounting to a peak,
Then, started the ‘G’ scale
And stayed the course
Every note keeping the metronomic beat,
Every note ascending without flaw,
And the descending scale meticulous.
Elijah lifted his fingers from the keys
And smiled with beatific ecstasy.
In the inky backdrop,
The stars sprinkled and shimmered.
From the open hayfields,
The narcissist watched the scintillation
And failed to see the Hand
That wrought them all.
But, alas, in the eager search
For the urban fleshpots,
He left the rural land
And squandered his self and worth
As nights of revelry spilled into dawns;
Bleary-eyed and unfocused,
He did not see the starry night
In the never-sleeping city lights.
There were no stars for him
In the midnight skies.
The man-made lamps and lanterns
Faked light and shrouded starlight,
He failed again to see the Hand
That made the stars for all.
Beaten and downcast,
Totally spent, he left the city-
Bedraggled and beggarly-
In tattered rags, his hesitant steps
Carried him to his father’s gate in the country.
Doubtful of welcome and greeting,
He yearned at least for a meal.
Yet father, waiting for the son-bereft of hope-
Saw his child through tears
And recognized the child who came back.
With quickened steps and outstretched arms,
He ran out and hugged
His emaciated child in dirt and rags
And wept tears of joy
At the return of one who was deemed dead.
The fatted calf was killed
And mourning turned festive
When guests lolled in abandon.
The Prodigal walked into the open
And gazed at the shimmering starry night.
He saw the Hand that made them all!
In the woolly soft world,
The innocent babe curled,
With dreams unfurled
And with rainbows circled
In slumber unhindered.
No harsh words
And no hard swords
Can wound this child.
She stays unblemished!
Woe befall
The male or female
Who dares to crush
The cotton candy world
Of all babes in creche.
RosyView 