The first, when tragedy befalls a soul
Through sudden death or grievous injury,
Through feeling quite a measure less than whole
When comes the hurtful loss of dignity.
The second, when a soul is drenched in praise
With all its humbleness exposed as wealth
That in its terribly intricate ways
It attributes all greatness to itself.
The third, when heedlessness sets heart on fire
And pours despair abundantly as fuel
But then the inward eye, it drowns desire
And sends its soothing waters up to cool.
This is the day, now is the time to cry
To let your love return and cool your eye.
The Sound of Bangles
New short story, The Sound of Bangles, is up on Channillo.
Matthew Lambton of the East India Company matches wits with an elderly lady in a hamlet on the banks of the Yamuna.
— — —
1763
Somewhere Between Agra And Azizpur
The cool water revived Matthew Lambton. He blinked to adjust to the afternoon sun stinging his eyes. He wiped the water from his face, and almost immediately winced as the pain at the base of his neck returned. The memory of what he endured resurfaced. He sprang up on one leg and peered around him with the exaggerated wariness of a hunted animal.
The trees swayed silently in a soft breeze. Sun beams pierced the thick green ceiling of the forest and found their soft destination in the dust.
They were gone. He had counted six brigands, armed with knives and sticks. His mount was gone as well, with all the West-African trinkets he had hoped to take as gifts to Azizpur. Also gone was the youth he had employed as his guide. He cursed himself at his imprudence in breaking protocol and ignoring the oft-repeated advice he had heard over the years to be wary of strangers.
“Paani peeyoge?”
On So Much
We like So Much so much; let me explain.
Some nights we cuddle up as dad and tot
And let the rhyme and flexible refrain
To captivate us for the time we’ve got.
Mom’s cool, and although Auntie Bibba rocks,
It’s Uncle Didi, Nannie and Gran-Gran
We love: the lingo Cousin Kay-Kay talks,
Big Cousin Ross, and Daddy who’s THE MAN.
“Again!” I dodge the sleepy tot’s protest
And send the book to shelf with skillful toss,
Distracting him with “Who do you like best?”
He flashes toothy grin, “Big Cousin Ross.”
So much is such an entertaining book
By Helen Oxenbury and Trish Cooke.
Knocked Before Shot
Knocked before shot.
The silent must go
If a clue’s to be got.
Song Of Fallen Leaf
Turn me over, let me be
Every opportunity
That you lost, and then there’s those you had.
I was once alive like you
Green and sprung from morning dew
Life is beautiful when times are glad.
Watch me close and trace my veins
Seen my share of storm and rains
I’m a story waiting to be told.
Stay the course and you will find
All you’ve wished for in your mind
Sit with me and feel the green turn gold.
Strong is my spine
Strong is my spine, so hold me
That I may relate all that’s told me
Through leaves often red,
And though I be dead
I’m yours till you’ve given or sold me.
On Saving Ourselves
Another Friday here, there’s nothing new
But words of hate and death and plans to kill
All justifiable by parties who
Have pawned their souls to execute their will
Who measure justice, let oppression rain
Who ought to love their neighbors, want them dead
Who swore submission, fight for petty gain
Who long for peace, burn children still in bed
It’s time we turned to where our faiths still stand
Abandon feeling good about our states
Because if feeling good is all we’ve planned
Then we have crystallized our rotten fates
Humanity, all, at a banquet rests
Let’s eat what’s served and spare the other guests
Grocery Blues (now up on Channillo)
My poetry series on Channillo, Sand in my Parfait, now has twenty poems. My latest post is titled Grocery Blues.
I’m off again upon a quest
Here at the grocery store
I’ve got my list upon my phone
To help me keep the score
Two yogurts, butter, milk and cream
Three dozen eggs cage-free
A packet of old fashioned oats
A wedge of well-aged brie
. . . . . You do have to subscribe to read the rest – just how Channillo works.
Stay hydrated out there!
Living
This was it.
Samuel Elijah Perschbacher kept his eyes fixed on the gaggle of tots playing in the dirt.
But that wasn’t where his head was. He had picked her out when she got off the bus on the other side of the park. He followed her every move – looking about innocently, stranger in town, casual conversation with a passer-by, asking for instructions, brush sleeve here, cough there, looking in purse.
Oh she was good. He watched the lady in blue circle around till she was at his Two o’clock, then she made a beeline for him seated on the parkbench. A brown bag sat next to him. He watched without looking how she floated toward him like an angel. Slow but sure steps clicked on the pavement. They echoed inside his head. It helped him focus.
“Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?”
* * *
Read the rest of it on Channillo.
Malak
I enter where the cries of children sound
And therein dwell until they die away,
Where mothers’ soft embraces can’t be found
And fathers’ mighty hands may hold no sway;
And though my anger swells, I have no leave
To act till comes to pass the death of time,
But well I see the the stricken when they grieve
And well I study souls that fashion crime.
My day will come, and when it comes, the damned
Will find their fettered souls within my clasp
When all their hands had wrought, their necks, shall brand,
And naught may ‘scape their lips but wretched gasp.
I weigh, withhold, withdraw to watch and wait
For when the cold inversion seals their fate.
– – – – – – – – – –
Even the lowest angel forms are an intelligent force to reckon with. They are sworn to justice, unwavering, serving only Al-Muntaqim.
Preserve us, Ya Rahmaan, in Your Love and Mercy.