Remembering

 

 

 

 

Every travel is a grounding ritual to shed and regrow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering is the huge rain tree at our school,

its numerous leaves of people and events, a whirlpool 

to fathom; yet it is heaven to sit under its shade, so cool,

and is homecoming. That the love still exists, you know;

after every storm, rain, drought and winter, you know

you are that love and memory walking, doing, resting

and sleeping, day and night. The tree in our school,

 don’t know if it is still there or not, but it is here like a flow,

a flow  in your existence, everything that was, mellowing,

every person there was, is, the shade, the home—you.

Like the Beatles, my song flows, I love you more!

Nothing to give, nothing to take, let December jingle joy

to usher in a January that is no more a separation, war,

pollution, greed and ego, but a huge rain tree of joy

and homecoming.

 written for :- What's Going On?

Memories

 

Memories

The smell of tender cashew, green and juicy,

pulls me to her, my Ammumma, granny,

she will be taking out tender cashews for the curry;

 now one will go to her curry cuttings, and one in my mouth.

It’s tender, slightly punchy with its aroma, and juicy

just like the memories of an era gone by.

Wandering around the red Amaranths, lingering near the cow shed

 and wondering about the hens’ swiftness and stunned stillness,

burying coins in the wet sand where the dish-wares were washed

 hoping it will sprout as a magical coin tree,

 then running back to a house full of loving  people,

 the stories that were waiting to be told at lunch and dinner times,

 of course, with a stick to discipline a child who won’t have food otherwise.

 The vividness of Grandpa’s adventure stories mingled with the aroma of milk, cashew and jack-fruit---

 memories are savories for the soul.

 Hold onto memories, the sweet and sour mixture for the very roots to nourish all that is coming.

 

 

written for :- 

https://newwhatsgoingon.blogspot.com/2024/11/memory.html 

The Camel Ride

Your sand engulfs my feet into the warmth of earth; I am climbing up your camel; rhythmic, slow and steep up and down,  I am scared of your camel ride. I am cautious as if I am  holding the emotions, to fall/spill is giving up; when all are on a fast Jeep ride, I wonder who will hold me close? I hold tight while watching the burning sun;  living the moments, humming an old melody, and the sun is beautiful. Oh Desert! I am learning your warmth, mirage, and the endless perspective, I am learning to hold tight. Your echoing songs and kalbelia, I am learning the rhythms. I hold my oasis within. Oh Desert, your camel ride, I am learning.

Weight(lessness)

 As the sun slowly gets to the other part of the world, leaving us in the dark, some very tiny, little creatures come alive and they fly in search of light. This is so paradoxical, to wait for the night and then to search for the light, or is it metaphorical? 

Maybe it is always this that is happening, we search for things that are missing. We search and search and find alternatives.  

         At night these beautiful, designed creatures come inside; they say that it brings bad news and bad luck while some believe they are angels from heaven with good messages. But for me they are nature’s wonders. Good or evil, they bring the intricate crafting sense of an unknown creator---an artist. 

I sit here, silence 

like shimmering flame of truth 

the moth searching light 

I took photos of these insects, watching them every night to remember these alien days when I was searching for the meaning in all the changes around the world, the arrogance and ingratitude. 

 

delicate wings 

carrying off the weight(lessness)

light, a distant mark

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September, slowly fading...

 

Here in the outskirts of a desert, the rain slowly dripped to its last drops. The puddles lingered a little longer in the clay soil as if the earth wanted that moist touch and was reluctant to let go of the monsoon. The peacocks called in the morning, in chorus, to say adieu to the rain for a while. Sun is back with a bright face, making the flowing Narmada its mirror, I wonder what it will be reflecting upon? I walked on the uneven footpath; the roads were getting busy with vehicles. 

A cuckoo called 

Melodiously, alone in the branch 

A school bus went by 

Vist dVerse Poets Pub for more poems on September!