Rocking times

Inspired by a wonderful post on a Rocking Horse



He looks down
From the loft,
A controlled neigh,
as he shrugs off
the dust of memories....
The little feet
clutching his sides
Hands around his face,
Face against his mane,
Holding tight,




And the mother calls
the little fellow
who pretends not to hear,
Rocks a bit harder,
bends and whispers,
Faster, Faster,
I cant go for a bath,
Or for lunch,
or to school....
They wont let me take you with me..

Today,
he watches ,
from the loft,
with a resigned neigh,
As the boy ,
enamoured with
an unreal mouse,
Clicks and writes about him....



“Riding a horse is not a gentle hobby, to be picked up and laid down like a game of Solitaire. It is a grand passion.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Lecturer and Essayist, (1803-1882)

The way out....

Embellished with gold
as she is,
Streaks in silver glisten
On her tresses,
falling across her face,
As do her unshed tears;
The house of two score years,
sheds its own.
Walls had ears,
but the words pierced
and hurt more,
and thinned them to a grid

Like a marauding monkey
swinging wild on a branch ,
His words fly around and stop
He watches,
His joy in her trauma,
And her limbs cringe and tighten
Withdrawing inwards ,
defiantly stiff.
There are no words
But she has seen the gleam
in the taunting eye...

Lungs packed, a sense of fear,
she even suspects her sleep,
her food.
Sitting at the window, staring
at the palm tree
which has witnessed all.

A barren life,
hers;
Devoid of heart,
fruitless,
his.

A deep breath,
a few more days,
She feels the lump
sometimes at her breast,
sometimes in her throat,
Saying yes
to the radiation
they say she needs;
And she feels
a lightness, of being
her own woman,
confident.
Something
to finally ,
happily,
terminally,
radiate away from him.

The lights of your life

In response to a wondrous and perceptive post about body,soul, permanence and sense of self.....






Little broken pieces,
Shards of prisms,
lying ,
truthfully
Refracting sunrays
to create
several rainbows ;



The shards
are the scars,
red in anger,
the skin betrayals,
the healing tissues,
the little pain
at the lip edge
as you smile,
the deepening wrinkles,
Crows eyes as you age
and
you learn to
"twinkle" back
at what life
has dealt you;

No glue works,
but eternal faith
in Him,
who patches the pieces,
sometimes of Body,
sometimes of Soul.

Puts them all together,
and you are
wholesome inside.
Your soul,
a prism,
coming together
to show you,
more rainbows in your life.........

Day of Independence

Step carefully
as you cut through
the crowd;
Not your neck
or your back,
neither your wallet
open to all;
Your mouth open,
covered in surprise,
The mask
in white
teasing the carriers of flu.

This dependence
on trees,
Cut yet for profit,
Flowing water pipes
bursting to flood,
Vegetables
rooted in virgin soil,
costing the earth,
dripping with chemicals,
She struggles to cook
for the little one
promised khichdi at school...

Nothing in hand,
no promises
no hopes;
Just a siren,
screech of a car,
Flunkeys with
mineral water,
and him,
dealing ,
with
A moneyed smile;

And she sighs,
Walking with her vessels
to the tap,
that trickles,
shakes her head.
Once again,
she will wave the flag;
it's Independence Day.

Filling the pots....

In response to this post , about a mother carrying her pots, of water and experience, as she traverses life with her children....




Tread softly on the banks,
so quiet flows now,
the river of Life;
A gurgle now,
a torrent then,
And she bends
into the stream,
sometimes with the current,
sometimes against....
All the while knowing
that the pots
filled with
the colors of experience
must reach
the children,
busy as they are,
sailing
their little boats,
their own little pots
of experience.....

Sometimes dunking,
sometimes bobbing,
but always looking up
at her,
as she leads them
by the hand,
balancing those pots
filled with love....