Untitled # 12

A silly stupid girl

Was happily dragged along

As a lad with long strides held her hand

Not remembering to breathe

She only remembered to hold her breath..

A few dancing nerves

And skipping heartbeats later

She heard simple words

Not knowing, years later

The love for each letter, so strongly etched

Will not be easy to remember...

The same silly girl

Thought friends were forever

Indefinitely rooted

From an unexplainable existence

Surely not something

distance could separate...

A few unheard misunderstandings

And unspoken fears later

She read poignant words

Not knowing, that even years later

Everything needs to be spelt…

The yearning to talk and confess

That day

Lost me something,

And the inability to do the same

Lost me something today

Syllables are like a fashion,

A syllabus;

Defined,

Yet searching for the unsaid

Searching for more

It seems

It is as wrong to say I love you

As it is

To not say it all the time.

Boy on the moor...

Sitting atop

The tallest mountain

He seems too eager

To learn from the sun...

His legs intertwined

Infant-like;

A wild hum

Resonates his silence.

Jumping valleys

Sharpening bamboo,

His eyes are shrouded

By the clarity

Of his learnings

While he plans

His world, for himself.

With a smile

That echoes

Some strange innocence

He seems to answer

Every heartbeat around

Only stopping to listen

To the advice of his own...

A willing hand

A reassuring nod

A reflective radiance;

Of peace, within

He seems blessed

With a mind

Unperplexed

By fickle longings

Needless to say

The boy on the moor

Will find his answers

One fine day

Cuz only clean souls

Will find home

Amidst pine trees;

Only clear hearts

Will receive warmth

From strangers...

Pixie Kingdom...

This poem is a special dedication to two kids who inspired me to write this.... Kids can inspire you to live in a beautiful way, without guile, with absolute freedom of thought and expression. And thanks to these pixies, i saw that.... so here is to Nilu and Silu.... and the friend who I am much obliged to introduce me to them.... :) to your last day in pixie kingdom....

Early morning pitter patter

Charming smiles

And sly talk...

Little happy pixies

Crowding the corridor

Sitting on the kitchen table

Asking innocent questions

Little funny pixies

Teasing, laughing

Bright eyed, understanding

Trusting, accepting,

Creatures, like me, from long ago...

In the world of monsters

And alien fears

Pixies still exist

In the little ordinary gaps

Of neighbourhoods

Constantly

Bringing beauty

In chaos

Bringing simplicity

To happiness...

Let them not grow

Pixies, only being pixies

Can save the world...

Fruits..........

I wait patiently

Not knowing otherwise

As I watch them load

Truck after truck

Of the food I created

My sweat and blood

Nourishing the land of my forefathers

These hawks

Are lurking around

Hustling and bargaining

As I sit and hope

That no accidental scratch

Or blemish

Seals my fate, and those I love

They mock me

And snigger at my helplessness

While I sit

For long expectant hours

Hoping to make ends meet

This year

Even as their gaze sizes me down...

The other fortunate ones

How easily they deny us

How easily they reject

Time after time

Even as they eat

From my hands

My hands are eroded

Alongwith their hunger

My shame, afresh

As the fruits of my toil

I am like my creator

Creation seems to be my only gift

And my only curse...

Skin.

Respond
Quickly. Precisely.
As each chord is strung

And little ripples
chasms, they break out
graining the surface...

The transformation
is not permanent

the shining smooth outwardness
reveals an untouched core...

The story
thus ends
as it begins,

The ink
barely seeping
newer boundaries,

The promises
barely reaching
desired ears...

Love succumbs
only skin deep...

Guilty… Not charged!

So what is it that makes people guilty? Doing things that others don’t want them to do? Or doing things that they themselves consider wrong? Is guilt scientific, religious, social or moral in nature? Is guilt a good penance for a wrong deed? The notion of survivors guilt exists amongst us; when then is nothing morally, religiously or socially wrong in surviving…

I hate the notion of guilt, because frankly I seem to be an easy prey to it. It is my worst curse and darkest blessing, and defines quite a few decisions I take in life… and it is most definitely one of the most twisted notions I have come across.

So what makes us guilty people? Why do we seem to want it to lead ourselves to right decisions? And if unwanted, why are we at some point or the other plagued by it. Freud’s notion of religion stems from sexual guilt. He spoke of a time when the children of a family kill their father in order to possess their mother. But once the father is dead they seem to not be able to choose the worthiest. The guilt of killing their father brings them to worship a figure close to that. Thus, they erect a totem. From this later stemmed laws and later gave rise to religion…

So what defines your guilt? Breaking a heart or lying to someone’s face? Knowingly hurting someone or letting people down? Does something tickle inside of you… if it does, and if this is a governing factor in the decisions you make, then you ought to be me… people who know me constantly try to challenge this notion. Many do not possess guilt in a generous bulk like me. They say that it is a sure shot way to be taken advantage of. Their arguments are quite sane; makes me ask the question- would I have been a better or a worse person sans this feeling? Would it have made me sure of my own decisions or would it have made me insensitive to others. Would there be freedom or loss?

In the book ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’, the question of Dharma is raised in a similar manner with episodes taken from the Mahabharata, in terms of what one 'ought to do'. Though,once you read between the lines, it seems that even the ancients were confused by their definition of Dharma. They debate between Dharma as ones duty and Dharma as what is logically sane. The book battles with notions of whether Dharma was created by God or by wise men in order to find logical solutions to difficult problems. Ideally, the absence of Dharma must produce guilt; if you cannot do what you must then it will lead to a certain inadequacy. This inadequacy is what we would call guilt. At the same time, I came across the line ‘Satisfaction of the mind is the only authority in case of conflicting alternatives.’  Which would mean that one can choose peace of mind over Dharma/ guilt…?

The questions are endless. And no conclusions have been drawn… Yet again… All I seem to understand is that guilt is everyone’s cross for the ones who believes they have to carry it. Those who don’t will shrug it off, mindless of its consequences. And that’s what creates the imbalance.

Sun down...

Hiding and seeking

In a golden hue

The land

Innocently warm

The wind

Playfully quiet…

Patterns change

Amidst caressing eyelids

Shadows

Coming out to stroll

And clouds frown

Leaning in…

Glittering slabs of radiance

Dimming

Inch by inch

Little patches on skin

Growing smaller

While shadows spilt… multiply…

Rhythms break

And games seize abruptly

Faces

Darken all around

The winds begin to howl, reluctantly

And new voices sound

The oncoming dark

Brings friends along

Caressing each pacing breath

Striking forgotten skeletons

Inescapable fears

Its hour has finally come…

If only one could hold on

Frantically

To the brightness;

The surety of warmth

But it’s too late now

Its sundown…

To the year that passed...

At 21 I feel so goddamn old. Sitting at work trying to translate a formal Hindi document on district planning, I realise that all the recent hard work on Hindi has unexpectedly heightened my understanding of translating sentences. I read each paragraph and already know the English synonyms to those words. And it reminds me of that time 8 months ago where I used google’s translator for each sentence.

Its been a year into this fellowship, and I cannot begin to count the things I’ve learnt. It’s been so much knowledge, understanding and experience. From menial things like dressing and cooking to trying to fit into the culture, formal systems and office hierarchy to livelihood and the Indian scenario, implementation and ground realities of government schemes, budget and funding agencies, to clarity of thought, organising ideas, raising support, presentation skills etc.

But today is not about all that. It’s about the little things I’ve lost out on. The post graduation panic and confusion, the hunting of jobs, the birthdays and Friday night specials, happy hours and dress codes. A part of me misses the complaining of wrong shoes and no favourite junk food. I miss not being there for break ups and proposals. Of unplanned coffee dates. And my beautiful Bombay in the rains. I miss not having the chance to go back to college and see what has changed, even mourn about it. Of telling professors how I miss their scolding, and the watchmen and the canteen guys.

On the whole I’ve lived a great year; it’s a decision I will never regret as long as I live. But today I want to indulge in the tiny aspects of my earlier life that I was so used to. Things I will go back to eventually, but will feel differently about. The logic in me debates that the trade off was worthwhile. But who is to stop the mind from reminiscing. Life is ultimately all about choices, and the belief you have in the decisions you make. The only problem is, once you set out on that path of unrelenting pursuit, it seldom gives you time to stop and think. Maybe now that I know this, I will stop. Or yet I might just ignore....

Happy one year into this program to me.... and the other ICICI fellows who I see growing with me...

Empowerment...

An innocent bunch of women

Sit in a village clearing

Immersed

In a seemingly important discussion

Come closer

And you’ll hear

More than idle rambles

More than domestic chores

The hand that rocks the cradle

Rules the world, they say

They also seem to understand finance

And provide credit, these days

These hands maintain account books

And pay for their children’s education

Get their little sisters married

And uproot rigid norms

These soft hands are running family businesses today

Of dairy and poultry farming

Of fertiliser and pesticide production

They’re supporting ageing parents

And drunken spouses

So what exactly defines empowerment for us?

Where does the frailer sex

Unseen, unheard, unnoticed

Get such immense power

Spread such conviction...?

Neither elaborate trainings

Nor literacy tools,

Not development modules

Or expert advise...

It is, quite simply

The steely soul of a woman

Reflected in her work

The discovery of her own strength

It is for her to believe

That she can bring change

In the lives of others

And most importantly, her own...

It is this translucence of insight

That mirrors a radiance of purpose

..... Such is empowerment...

Lost...

I have always felt lucky to be surrounded by an extremely beautiful set of friends. Very lucky, to be honest. I somehow have always had the opportunity of having many friends at a time. Highly selective actually, but quite a good number... I can’t say I have fewer, cuz I make friends at different stages of my life. And that makes them important, as we usually share a piece of each other’s life at some point or the other.

It’s also why I guard them zealously. Often slightly possessively. They are unique beings, and they will always fit in the scheme of things... a much esteemed face reader once told me that I need emotional anchors in my life, to balance the person I am. And she was bang –on right! They live and grow with me, and spin this web of comfort all around....

Unfortunately I was not showered with the gift of expression very generously, so I’m as about good as expressing my love as the cactus on your windowsill J some of my friends get that, and being similar beings accept it. Others don’t like it but accept it anyhow. Then there are those who think I take them for granted. Maybe I do. Sometimes I do. But more often than not I try and convey it to them in my way. I’m not proud of it, to be sure. There’s also the fact that life now is too complicated to keep in touch with everyone. So I usually concentrate on them in turns, which is probably not the right thing to do. Nevertheless, I’m still learning...

Whatever the case, I have never lost a cherished one.

Until now. I think I lost one on the way, and just beginning to feel it. It’s left me with a weird feeling; like when you lose something important and have to live with, sometimes your fingers clutch the ghost of it- and then you remember. It was slow process of loss, almost silent. But it happened. And now I’m clutching bare air. My friend was someone who shared almost 2 years of my everyday life with the most mundane and the most wonderful things, all during the ritual of an evening walk. Sometimes even just walking worked, for both of us. We didn’t have to talk. I was too proud to admit it till now, but he was important. Well, enough to write a sobby blog post, which I’m sure he’ll admit. Him being the cactus plant sitting right next to me... but with an occasional flower or two.

 I won’t delve into the complexities of why and how things went wrong... it’s just important in itself that it did...

To you... I just want you to know I care. Even though I probably pretend I don’t. Or not said it out loud enough. Or showed it. And no matter how 'little' I know of you, I’ll always see you clearly (refer to picture)... you know why... J

Casanova...

His thoughts are in sync

With the rhythm of the hearts

He wears on his sleeve

Not his own, never

That exists in a quiet corner

Of something, somewhere

The things he knows

The mysteries he solves

The slow revolving fingertip....

Is trained... to perfection

But the cogs that run

Are not in the back of his mind

They are for more important things

Building nations...

Deconstructing war...

It is the back of his tongue

The words that twist

A sweet flowing hum

Of caressing words...

They swoon, they glow

In numbers...

Unfortunately, they are not his victories

For that is not his virtue

To each broken heart

He confesses

No intention of vows

Amidst groans...

This poor soldier will go far

And I dare not condemn him

For I know

What he doesn’t

His only fault

Lies in the destruction

Of a starved soul

To the touch of bare skin

And of a heart

That has only almost

Known love...

Recess

The town of Sehore (where I work) is devoid of electricity for about 7 hours a day. Between 6 am to 10 am and 3 to 5 pm. This means almost 3-4 hours of office time disrupted. Most of it doesn’t matter as many of the guys here are field animators but when reports have to be made and surveys analysed, we face problematic situations.

The upside of it is the 2 hours we sit together without doing much, from 3 pm to 5 pm is the kind of time when you almost can’t go outside unless you want to turn into ashes; the heat is unhealthy. So whether you like the company or not, you have to stay put. Everyone from the boss to the accountant comes and congregates in the same room.

That’s why I call this time recess. It is a time when everyone gets a chance to talk about varied things, and every opinion is considered. The conversations I have with my colleagues are far more than what you would call interesting- religion, literature, politics, history, fieldwork. Right from the oldest employee who has been working since the organisation came into existence- who can chart out the successes and failures of the various government schemes ever implemented in the state, to the history genius who knows the context of each context, the story behind each story. I’ve had loud passionate conversations about the differences between city people and village people. The notion of city amidst the others; debates that would take hours. There was silent reminiscing about old songs and movies as well as the newest gossip. I think their stories thrilled me as much as mine thrilled or shocked them. Most conversations had smart innuendos from our boss who’d attempt to make the situation lighter in some way or the other.

Though it seems a great way to spend an afternoon, it’s actually more than that. It gives us a niche to understand each other and accept the varied opinions thrown around. Most of us are outsiders coming from different states, and this proves to be a sort of rite de passage. 

It was a while ago when I realised I’ve never been part of such rich discussions before. Even the ones that involved village customs like ostracism and child marriage were not stuff that was read of newspapers. They were sharing their lives. And I was mine. We were living off our own experiences and we never got bored. We still don’t.

A few of my colleagues have decided to leave and find better opportunities elsewhere; I’ll probably miss out on a lot that could’ve been shared. And then again we might have new people, new opinions, and new lives with new topics. Whatever be the situation, I think I am grateful for these two hours sans electricity. Never thought I would like the stifling time spend in a small room. But recess still means something I look forward to J and probably the no work bit too!  

Blue...

Spirals of deep blue

In my blood

Making slow circles

Freezing

Everything else

Stirring only that

Which I long for

The only faces I see

Clearly

Eyes. Ears. Lips. Smile

This poison has seen my heart...

The final warmth

Coming from all that was....

AILA!! WICKE(D)T..........

I reached work earlier than usual only to flip the paper and check the random pre match gossip. Who was fasting for whom, where will the VIP’s stay, etc. Since I don’t have a TV for regular updates, the office newspaper has become important. I’d know nothing  of whats happening in the world otherwise. I still never flipped over to the sports page, but today I was going to do exactly that.

Little did I know that the first page of the Hindustan times will contain 5 snapshots, four of which I knew and liked. A few moments later I was guilty; the immediate childish guilt for having seen/said/felt something you completely shouldn’t. I back tracked and looked into the faces of Sangakara, Murlidharan, Malinga and Jaywardhane again. In the crack of the moment I realised they were Sri Lankans and they were playing against my country today

The IPL somehow did this one amazing thing. It made teams more important than countries. And people more important than teams. Apart from the billion dollars of personal wealth attained each year, it’s giving us more. A fair chance to love players from other countries. With some awe I remembered that all these four were in teams I had supported last year in the IPL. And not because it was home team or I liked the region. But I liked the players individually. Murlidharan and Malinga still give me goose bumps as they charge on to the field with all that confidence and passion. And sadly, I might hate myself for admitting this, but none of the Indian players make me feel that way anymore. After Dravid, I’ve never felt like revering Indian cricketers for their style or grace; in the way I do these Sri Lankans.

But I love my country too much. I’ll pray for a clean win and the biggest victory for the strongest Indian side since 1983. And I'll whoop at every wicket we take and every boundary we score. Yet I feel divided somehow. Between unquestionable patriotism and honest respect for a few players. I didn't know I'd have to choose.

Whoever wins, I will win today. Whoever loses, I will lose.

All the best India. Beat them. But let them have their peace. Amen.

SOS

A farmer commits suicide every few hours in this country and there is nothing 3.5 billion of us can do for it?

It’s enraging how politicians are getting narrowed down to one homogenous genre every time I lift the newspaper. People who somewhere on the path of selfless service and altruism lose their hearts to the magnitude of their stomachs. It is this greed that consumes them and then the 90% of the population at their mercy.

At 21, I’d rather die trying to make a difference than live to see the future that lies ahead. In my head I am sure that if a power a Mamta Banerjee possess can be divided and distributed to a thousand local activists, we’d have one great state. I get to see rural politics each day of my life and still cannot comprehend how a Sarpanch can favour rich relatives over dying neighbours. How does this man sleep in the next room, knowing that he has done wrong?

I left a buzzing city to feel better about myself and the work I want to do. Mumbai’s soul was crushed many years ago under an overburdened local train. The city now exists in the small bubbles of each individual’s selfish life, where nothing matters unless you are satisfied. It thrives because it’s a million minute lives, not one integrated city. The more I tried to find its soul, the more it seems hidden in the crevices. And no one can be blamed anymore. Each one is fighting hard to live; its difficult to get them to look out for others.

But that’s the case only with select metros. What about the others?  Now I’m working in a district in an underdeveloped state, trying to bring some ounce of peace to the villages. And again, I find myself faced with the commonality of heartlessness and helplessness. For now, I cannot see a way out.

Will we ever have the opportunity of seeing a leader who has one bit of the essence of giving back, fairly and honestly? Politicians do need the will to see change. And to be change. To be genuine and loyal. And be ready to help. I see none of it for now.

It’s all greed and glamour. With a price tag...

Two little girls

I sat in a train next to a window seat and watched two little girls. Each caught my attention differently. They were two very different little girls...

 The smaller of the two was a quiet child. She sat prim and proper watching everything around her with a straight eyed-understanding. It was as though she was assessing the people around her. Her glance rested on my face for an instant, she knew I was watching her. She took in my exhausted expression, smeared kajal and black spectacles. I could feel her sum me up. She gave a slight nod and looked away. I felt accepted by her, and smiled to myself.

The second child ran up to the opposite window fifteen minutes later. Older than the other, she had a little haggered, messy look about her. Her eyes were big and curious, bland and frank. She had a hint of stubborn on her, the kind of look you see in the face of a child resisting hardships. She snatched herself away from a harrowed mother and ran to own the window. Her authority and triumph were quite obvious. She too sensed my eyes on her and looked up. Her defiant eyes dared me to object, but since I didn’t she looked away, to find something more interesting.

I saw them both in the same range of vision, the silent observer and the trouble maker. The latter started to hum, then wail a little. Then stage a dashing cars scene with two coins she had with her. The former looked behind and spoke some bit of wisdom in a listening father’s ear.

It was then that I saw the father. Something also told me that the dashing cars had come to a standstill as the other child noticed what I had. The whispering between father and daughter. The bond of understanding. And slowly I sensed the stubborn air around her deflate. Her wide eyes were taking in the loving conversation. She looked helpless and jealous at the same time. I could read the obvious on that child’s face. It simply said. I wish I had that. I might’ve been better. I’d try to be better.

Unconsciously, as if an unknowing force had settled on her, the harrowed mother got up suddenly and came to sit next to her. They wrestled for a few seconds; she didn’t like her mother encroaching on her space. But slowly, she gave way and propped her face in her mother’s lap...

The younger one showed no emotion. She looked at the mother caressing the child in front of her, her eyes read the submission on each face. Slowly, almost unknowingly, her fingers reached to her shoulder where her father’s hand rested. She didn’t move after that...

I looked at these two children and realised how much they had said to me, without uttering a word. I saw fear. And longing. And love, and undeniable chaos. There was a world of chaos going on even in those tiny heads, wanting their place in the world... searching each nook and cranny for something of their own... and I suddenly realised that this chaos was never only a grown-up thing. It grew up with us, and breathed and observed and wailed with us. We’re just too self absorbed in ourselves to notice such small things. To notice two little girls.

Morning...

In the land of snow

A blossom is found

And all the shivering creatures

Are drawn to it

The little ones

Have never seen this colour

The sheen of white

Is blinding... except now

The pink dot

Is some wicked monstrosity

Or some godly delight...

The older, wiser ones

Have known the beginning of spring

From a time long ago

Their tears wet the little bud

And nourish it

It smiles in its womb

This is a spring that will last a while

This warmth will melt the ice

Bit by bit

This morning breathes a new wind.

Bit by bit...

Playing Along...

A friend of mine gifted a pack of tarot cards today. The original Rider Waite. In a box she had painted herself... I must rephrase the first line to ‘a gifted friend of mine gave me a pack of tarot cards today.’ She’s amazing at it... and I know that because of the flair and the confidence she possesses while doing a reading. And the essence of knowing that flows from her while we are in a session.

 I still don’t know why she thinks I should begin reading... again... I looked at each card closely and knew that a part of me is still in awe with the depth and meaning they can possess. Got me thinking why I had ever left the practise of tarot. It’s not like I had had enough of it. I was just getting a grip on it, when I left. Thinking back, I guess I was afraid. Afraid of the amount of power I could see in it. Tarot reading brings with it a tremendous amount of insight. But at the same time, wanting or not wanting the power to understand/ influence someone’s life is another idea altogether.

 And then again there are so many people who seem absolutely comfortable with influencing others, even though it might not always have a positive effect. I look at politicians and feel like I may never be able to be one. Someone who will emphatically and passionately manipulate people to cast a vote for me. Which is hilarious since I do want to enter the field at one given point of time.

Brings me to a conclusion? Of course not. Maybe I’ll just have to take it one step at a time; begin tarot reading first and conquer the world later... Sounds like a plan... ?

Sometimes it’s good to believe that things happen for a reason.  Also conveniently positive...

P.S. anyone who wants to know about the mystery tarot-reading friend is welcome to ask. She loves doing it as much as I love talking about it.... cheers!!

Indorean Chronicles... phase 1

Every time I sit in a bus from Sehore (the place I work) to Indore, I always have a weird feeling at the back of the head. I know that somehow, something weird will happen to me. And it does. And it’s not always fun. I love to keep shut in bus journeys, especially if the ride is for more than an hour. But these trips always have bizarre incidents in store for me.

The first time I sat in a bus for Indore, I met a burkha clad woman who in the three hours of knowing me spilt each and every aspect of her life onto my tortured mind. Not the usual grumbling of a 25 year old, mind. It was a tragic tale of love and loss and child marriage to a senile gentleman. And divorce. And harassment. And getting the love of your life married to someone else. And the pain of living as a divorcee. It was all laid out in front of me, like a novel I had to comment on.

And frankly, I was offended. Offended not because she had come and told me all of that; I realise it was probably because she had never been able to tell it to anyone before. It was frankly too much for me to bear. I tried my ardent best to sympathise with her misfortunes; but I felt it was unfair that she expected me to pass a judgement on her life. And worse, to give her a solution. I was so affected by all of it. That the pleasure of having a fun weekend ahead of me was lost in the misery of her life. I remember the only thing on my mind then was ‘why me?’

I know I must be proud that I could help someone. But that was once in my life when I wanted to jump out of the running bus. Before leaving she told me ‘I never thought I’ll find a friend like this. Thank you.’ While I was thinking ‘I don’t remember her name.’ To be frank, I wish I never do.

Offerings...

Inch by inch

They rise

Claiming each bit of reason

The well anticipated stench

And slow burning,

Will occur again

As everyone stops to watch

The purging shall begin soon

And this newborn

Will be a bigger demon

My ego

Deserves a higher altar...

And a bigger sacrifice

 Each new day...

Brownie Points...

Once two silly girls liked the same innocently beautiful boy. The girls were best friends but they never fought over him cuz he was so beautiful and so innocent that it broke their silly hearts. Then the boy left one day, and the girls grew up...

Today I saw the same boy; he got married to a beautiful innocent girl. And I felt silly, again. In my complicated crazy world, the simplicity of that love was unendurable. Because I was filled with a pride I did not understand; still don’t. Every bit of my insensitive, unfeeling heart went out to those two; and if I could, I would’ve cried like a child.

Because love is simple enough. It’s us who complicate it. Seeing the 196 photos of the wedding that were uploaded, I saw the clarity in life biggest decision. I’m a diehard believer in marriages, and somewhere in my head I’m clear on how heartbreakingly non chaotic this one thing is. No big deal. I’ve seen love from a close range, mind. I’m not ashamed to admit that I have been in love. But I’ve never had the guts to tell that person that he was in liberty to love whoever he wanted. As I would love him just the same.... even though I did. Always.

For whats its worth- cheers. To a brownie with extra chocolate sauce...

introducing the untitled(s)...

I've never found the right platform to post this piece I'd written more than a year ago..... For the usual reaon that I dont know how people take things they dont know..... a different understanding of the world.... anyway I would like honest opinions.... and forgive its length....


p.s. some poetry does cannot be explained in a title....


Untitled #1

The preacher holds on

 to tiny fingers,

 as the child walks, unsure

 alongside him.

‘Can he hop?’ he wonders

 ‘Or jump up high?’…

 he is unsure

The lights that shine

in the preachers eyes

give him confidence

he knows he has to walk, alongside.

He wonders about his new friend

 how nice he is,

the preacher lets him play

all day long

in the garden of roses.

He warns him about the thorns

but never stops him

cries when he gets hurt

but never stops him.

Eating blueberries with him

right out of the tree

when no one else does.

And slowly,

The child knows to trust him.

“Can I marry you?” he asks one day,

“I think I love you.”

The man smiles gently.

“you are a young boy,

And I have passed my prime.”

“you don’t love me?”

“I do. But differently dear.

I love you as a son.”

“Then why did u cry

when I was hurt?

And sleep near my pillow

when I was sick?

Why did you save me

from the lion’s den?”

“I love you as a brother.”

“…and kiss me

when I was scared?

Why did you shoo away the birds

when I played with them

and hold on to me tight?”

“I love you as a friend.”

“Why do you cry each night

And ask god to forgive you…?

Why did you hurt yourself

the day you slapped me?

Why?”

Anger floods the preacher’s eyes, in tears

as he looks down at the child

who stares back indignantly

“Love should learn to count years”

He sighs

And leaves forever…