You cannot hope to be one free of pain
While pain is all around you and within
Where heart repeats perpetual refrain
To punctuate the story you are in.
But let your hope lay down its weary head
Upon the breast of prayer wont to rise
On wings of love sincere when they’re spread
To meet the wind. With tear-moistened eyes,
Go swim around that ever-fading star
Of life, and in your faithful orbit stay
That in the darkness whence you seem afar
You rise and fall, and rise to show the way.
It only bodes despair when you have lost
The solemn will to hope at any cost.
To Be One
To be one with the babble of river,
The soft whispers of cedar and pine;
To be one with the mountain, the wind and the sea
And the swallow and swift in decline;
To be one with the wave in surrender
As it breaks on the shore in relief;
To be one with the dew at the first light of dawn
As it kisses the face of a leaf;
To be one.
Noyz
We’ve fled the city with its memories
Of breaths and names, and instead left behind
Our fickle footsteps lost to every breeze
And found again beneath the weight of mind.
I teeter on a slippy edge of time
As teenage chatter drowns the car I’m in
In laughter that must constitute a crime
When fused with snores designed to waken Jinn.
There is no thinking I could ever do
While in this otherwise efficient train,
No headphones block the sounds I play unto
My mind which never falters to retain
The garbage that once heard stays on repeat
Until I’ve gotten off this blasted seat.
On The Sources Of Tears
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