Unrecycled Garbage

On reading this post by Kavi.

(Photo by Kavi)
Some hardy horses,
righteous donkeys,
and stubborn mules,
flashing
their knowledge
of living
in a world
overpopulated
by
asses of a different kind.



They peruse
and shuffle
through
the garbage
of the modern asses;
shaking their heads,
flicking a tail
at the fly
which tries
to whisper a secret
in the ear :

"These two legged asses
throw so much
in the bin,
when
they
should actually
be carrying it
themselves,
if they need it at all....

Dont they know,
that
Life,
is like Windows
without
Recycle Bin
and the
My Garbage
is iconic
on their
so called
progressive
desktop?"

French Beans maiden century....

Nov 26, 2009 : French Beans, 100 Rs a kilo.....


Once resident
in the rich black soil
with a smattering
of white
cupped amidst a
holding green
blooming
close to earth,


the cauliflower
now sits,
third from the top.
next to the beans,
at a roadside stall
run
by the moustachiod
bhaiyya.

Ladies clamouring
for the rates,
and the french beans ,
look disdainfully
at the cauliflower,
shrugging
in superiority,
as the
bhindi and cabbage
face the searching fingers
of the desperate
worried women;

The cauliflower
has had its day.
Beans ?
The Bhaiyya,
raises an eyebrow
and glances
at the lady ...
"Rs 25 quarter kilo";
His words fall,
the prices don't
a few faces fall,
the needs don't;

Let the
beans and cauliflower
slug it out.
Some brown
hurt patches
on the latter
and the
lady says,
"Bhaiyyaji,
Its time to get back
to the spinach,
again."

Remember

A year on, today in Mumbai, Nov 26, 2009.

(Photo bu Sylvia Kirkwood)
Flowers for peace
in their minds
tormented by visions
of those so dear.


For the family
on its maiden trip
to their hometown,
shot at the terminus



For the child
who saw
his father being shot
as he responded
to a request
for water
at the door
by those
who were out
for blood

For the cab driver
who ferried
passengers
no knowing
it was his last trip

For the brave cop
who threw himself
over
and battled
the rampant terrorist
half his age,
to snatch his rifle
and died
to keep him alive
to hang
with
hopefully some others.

Do those in power
even realise
that
we celebrate
those
who best
do their duty
without
thought of reward ?

And they
"trade"
rewards,
like those
that came shooting,
killing,
exchanging their sin
for
their so called
places
in
a despairing Sun....

Cutting chai at dawn....

Cutting chai, and this post by Kavi

(photo by Kavi)
An externally darkened
alluminium
dekchi
boiling angrily
some water,
with attitude
and noise,
on a kerosene stove.


Some leaves
dedicating their aroma
to the erupting water,
sweetened with
some sugar,
all awash in
the milk
of human kindness,
as
the corner chaiwalla
gets operational
at dawn.


Opaquely clear glasses
waiting for
the nectar to pour;
he lifts and strains
the bronzed, gingered
cardamomed nectar
and pours it
cutting the stream
into two glasses...



Cutting chai,
one always shared
in two glasses,
and some smiles
shared with the
chaiwallah
as the sun appears on the scene
demanding his share....

Soliloqy in white.....

Some flower portraits are so human.....

(Photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)



Wrapped in yards
of white,
she stands
an edge
covering her head,
facing a life alone today;



Deep inside,
golden memories
rest;
shining on
the recollections
of arrivals in
bridal red,
then the little buds,
a healthy pink.
enriching branches ,
despite
occasional thorns

The colored
whorls
of experience
over the years,
fading to a white,
but
comforting her,
as a few petals drop,
but life continues
encompassing
a calm fragrance....

Wrapped in yards
of white,
she stands
yet again,
an edge
covering her head,
facing a life alone today;
but sharing
the fragrance,
with the
whole world....

Looking down, looking up...

Inspired by this photograph by Sylvia Kirkwood....

(photos courtesy Sylvia Kirkwood)




Growing tall in life
sometimes
makes invisible
those at
your feet...

When you revel
and hobnob
majestically,
at your peak,
the spray
of the waterfall
freshening
your face,
tired,
as you struggle
to enhance
your prestige




Remember
the one
who helped you cross
your bridges,
by throwing
itself across the creek...?

Dawn melody

A
sharp November dawn,
he cycles thru
the crooked path
in the midst
of the verdant fields,
the milk cans
banging in protest
as the cycle
hiccups
over a stubborn field rock.


Meditating,
emerging,
she wraps her shawl
tighter,
she waits,
breathing in
the exquisite aroma
of the ginger tea.

A whiff
of boiling milk,
copper and jasmine
honey, yogurt,
sugar, ghee
amidst
a Flutewallah
enjoying
vermillion,
conch shells,
garlands,
and
earthen oil
lights...

He stands,
crosses His right ankle
in front of the left,
and
lifts the flute
to the lips.

The Aarti over,
He watches amused
as a child
looks eagerly
at the prasad;
nods,
then raises the flute
and plays
once again,
the beautiful
Melody of Life.

Mera Bharat kahan ? ****

This , this, this and this.




He moves
hungry
amidst the trash;
dragging his torn bag
collecting
the days finds
and unravels
A crumpled paper
amidst
plastic mayhem.



Killers from jail
emerging out
for parties;
Politicians
threatening
opposition with
footwear,
while some others
rush down and slap.
Murderers on film
demanding
special food
in jail.

All confident
about another term,
another boss,
another vote,
another pat,
on the same back.

He crumples it
into a ball,
kicks it,
swatting it
with his bag....
imagining it
to be his life,
slumming
thru pointless school
and pointed threats.

He strays.
Those crooks have
what he wants.
The rest don't keep promises.
Only unaccounted assets....
Mera Bharat Mahan ?**


**** Hindi for "Where is my India ?"
** My great India !

Walking to the Beat

In response to a great post by Sucharita, on Morning walks, then and now.





Some tag along,
shoelaces open,
clutching a big finger;
skipping through
the grassy path
to the river.
And as the
sun paints the horizon,
they flop down,
lying on wet grass,
thinking
of Ma, baba, didi
and of course,
breakfast.







Today,
trainers guide the feet,
lightness,
not in the heart,
but in the shoes;
Headbands with tick marks
instead of a sari pallu
wiping the forehead;
and
two massive discs
cover the ears.

Missing out
on
the mother,
calling out with
the left lunchbox,
a wife,
reminding
about the key,
the building sweeper
his soundless
toothy smile,
and
the neighbor's dog
protesting the balcony.

The sky changes color,
so do the signals,
The fresh air
gets a whiff of exhaust;
he adjusts his headphones,
takes a deep breath,
and listens,
to someone sing,
predictably,
"Beat it !"

Smell the Coffee !

Some photos say a thousand words. Some inspire a few words, twelve thousand miles away.
A comment inspired by Sylvia's latest photopost !






A thousand busy souls
up at dawn,
stretching,
smiling,
at a dark sky
shutting off
the alarm
that says
Welcome to a new day.




And she
springs up,
warm in the kitchen,
toasting here,
boiling there,
percolating,
a few wonderful cups,
bringing a flavour
to a semi dark dawn.

Curtains apart,
she glances
at the sky
and inhales....

The aroma
of the coffee
rises
palely pink
in steam
through the sky
saying,
"Sylvia,
Good morning !
Great coffee , aint it ?"....

Sensible wonderful greening....

This wonderful photograph by Sylvia in her photopost inspired this.


(photographs by Sylvia Kirkwood)




The school
in the woods,
The green little
elementary schoolers,
crowded together
on the slope
waving
along
the path of learning.







Slightly older
taller,
middle schoolers,
hanging around,
in clumps of green,
a bit
down the slope......
The younger ones
looking expectantly
at
a possible sweet fruit
in life
as they descend
picnic style
to the sea.

But it's the
high school types,
tall lanky
and independent,
stauesquely proud,
overlooking all
and their childishness....

Till they spy
a wayward tree,
bending
under some pressure....
"hold on,
lean on me",
one says;
"you cant go astray;
We seniors
set an example,
and the little ones follow..."

Sensible greening
makes for a
wonderful life !

Fog on the mind

In reaction to a wonderful photopost by Sylvia .

(photos by Sylvia Kirkwood)

Late winter
of life,
Cloudy brain
plaques
fogging the brain;
I stand tall
and green
in the mist
In support
of those with
lost leaves....



Sometimes
I am alone,
sometimes
struggling with
others
on a woody slope
alzeimerishly....

A gust of wind
lifts the mist,
warm yellows
and browns of fall
decorating
the heights
of my mind....

And
the fence and lawn
resplendent
in shining dew,
appears familiar....

Memories flood back;
I am not alone..