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....

The wandering mind stops......

Crowded thoughts at the taking off on a journey. Missing some. Remembering some. Voices , calls, and all is peace again.....







Their Children,
then grand ones happen;
They thrive, immersed
in the trials
and tribulations of the ,
living of these.
Sometimes wiping tears,
sometimes indulgent,
sighing in content.





And soon,
the heart is deaf
to the will of the mind;
It is time to go
and they leave
those they
have cherished;
Having watched them grow
through the mist
of days gone by,
boys to men,
girls to women.

Now,
in far off lands
as another set of folks
step out to
begin their own lives,
Oceans away,
here in their own land
the rain has cleared
the clouds part
urged along by the wind
like a curtain at a heavenly window;
There is a light,
shining,
smiling,
I look up,
and see them there.

"Go forth"
they say,
pointing the path,
"We will be with you
in every prayer recited,
every song sung,
every delicacy served,
and every flower
that will adorn
the garlanded necks."

As I get off
the bird that flies me,
I sense fingers,
assuring,
at the shoulders.
They watch
those who have come
to receive me,
and
smile to themselves,
happy at the
togetherness
and nudge each other,
watching their youngest
bustle around
excitedly.
His sister has come.

The Show : Off or On ?

In response to this post by Braja of 'Lost and Found in India' on those "perceived" to be showing off :-) Pictures by Braja




Only the beholders'
sharp astral eyes,
perceive
the "showing off";
While some sit,
electric on the wire,
looking this way and that,
ignoring the neighbor,
Watching the world
below
Go noisily by.....



And one swinging type,
unable to watch
the world in chaos
below,
simply slides around
the wire,
to watch
a peaceful sky,
no buses, no honks,
no garbage,
Just the sky....

But two inquisitive types
peering down,
remind you,
about Life.
That it is time
to swing back up,
and join,
the mainstream,
the suffering ones,
again....

Building up......his nest ?

In response to a wonderful post about early morning activities at constructon sites in upmarket Mumbai, where the construction staff is almost always from mofussil rural India, outside the state.....trying to earn a living in the face of unrewarding agriculture.....

(Picture (c) Franklin McMohan)





Listening to the bark
of the helmeted one,
His eyes
misting
over the scaffolding
He sees
a field in the wind,
a stationery plough,
a quiet dawn,
presided over by
a giant banyan tree,


And a wisp of a woman,
saree tucked in
holding
a cloth wrapped lunch
saying,
"Take this,
your lunch,
I know you'll be late
You have a meeting
with the Rain God..."

And he shudders,
as a firm hand
descends
on his never-give-up
shoulders,
saying,
***"Chalo chalo,hurry up,
Aaj slab puri karni hai....."


***"Come on, hurry up, the slab work must get done today"(translation from hindi)

Learning from flowers.....

A comment on this post about gardens where those colorful ones that delight the eyes, those simple ascetic types that enrich with their perfume, and what the garden has to say about it all....
(Photos courtsey: Kavi)



Those who cannot speak
learn to share
their best;
Riotous brilliant colors,
nodding petal heads
in agreement with
little jasmines,
whispering excitedly
hanging out in groups.
They have no limitations...

But we talking types,
blind seeing types,
fight on
about color,
and shape,
and size, and name.
We are so intelligent,
we never learn.
We are the mistakes.

Confusion technique

Read as a post here . (Commented as below).

Milton Erikson, an American psychiatrist and writer, apparently referring to the "Confusion Technique" used in hypnosis, says , ""Until you are willing to be confused about what you already know, what you know will never become wider, bigger or deeper." .



They throw pebbles
In your pond
of knowledge;
The ripples, spread
and dissipate,
like your confidence,
leaving
a wider,
bigger
surface,
darkening,
going deeper
in confusion......
No "technique" to it ...........