IF A TREE FALLS

Hello.
I need to talk,
I'm bursting at the seams,
Just listen.
Please don't say anything,
Just listen.
But before you can listen or say anything,
Know
That before you can hear; the noise
Will have engulfed my words
And spun silence in your ears.
There is nothing left to say.
Hope you listened.

LED DOWN THE GARDEN PATH

                                  

So, the morning jogger straps his shoes,

The clamorous harbinger of yesterday’s news,

Clear skies, chirruping bird,

Solemn elders, dog turd,

The morning jogger sets apace,

Among many counterparts, and it is a race!

The winding path led him around,

Blaring music cutting off any sound,

That could have made his ear,

The winding path just led him around

And round and round and round.

The evening jogger slips on his slippers,

Mellow sun, chiming nippers,

On his foot he went around,

The garden path, again he found,

An old friend, a forgotten lore,

That lump on his back and a sore,

Yet again the garden path led him around,

And round and round and round.

The night’s ambler took off his slipper,

And yonder spotted the big dipper,

The stars and moon his consort,

Solitary musings his music and forte,

The blade of grass, the trees, the electric post,

Whisper reminiscences that once where lost,

Redeemed, whispered memories, whisker- light

Evanescent dreams through the night.

But the garden path still led him around,

And round and round and round.

THE BOOTS

The emaciated footsteps,
On an airy surge of destitution,
Unnoticed, just another rubble in troubled waters,
His feet burned on a bed of coal,
Where boots, slippers and stilettos,
Tread with indifference.

His eyes were enmeshed in a tripe,
In the intricacies of an alien world,
A pair of boots caught his fancy.
While the entire gaunt frame gasped for another living breath,
The eyes interceded wearily for the scorched feet,
And as he longingly pressed his nose against the dratted glass,
The world seemed to swim past him with ease,
And all the nuances of daily life,
Scribbled so close together on that squalid wall,
That they press together to form a picture of indifference.

He pictured those boots on his bare feet,
Simpering and gazing with interest unwavering,
Until reality smote him hard on his head,
The security had put instead,
A sore on his tiny forehead.

The world has been hard before,
The monotonous reprimands,
Reason or resentment granted,
It was either to be laughed off or lamented,
And then forgotten.
And so the world goes!

A world apart a woman believed,
The wisdom of the parish and the church,
Gathered in a holy cross,
Was squandered away for a bark and a slap,
A curt, clinical bark and a cross-snapping slap.

So gently she, guiding him through the door,
A wad produced from a handy purse,
And with those squeaky boots,
He choked, he squeaked,
"Are you God's wife, missus?"
His heart mirrored the beauty of an angel,
And from her golden chain hung the portrait of a little boy. 

A MONSOON EVENING

                           The rain battered the lazy countryside. The deep, threatening rumble of thunder followed by a quick flash of lightning added to the somberness. As the rains incessantly lashed on the green earth, he lazily drifted towards the book shelf in the far corner of the room and decided to browse through the enormous collection of books in hopes of finding one that would suit the mood.

                        His eyes searched for the perfect book. He had wanted to do this for a while now, sit back and read a book, the mellifluous lyre of nature ringing sweetly in his ear, but time, time , time, the evasive bride of leisure in cahoots with crueler human endeavors. He sighed, while his eyes still scoured for succor. The monsoons had painted the earth bright green. The balcony overlooked a lush green forest which looked best from a safe distance. Uncanny activities have been reported by frightened eye witnesses many times. He cared for the eerie vegetation as little as he cared for the frightened eyewitnesses as long as he remained within the boundaries he had drawn mentally and the cheery denizens from the other side do not cross over. Besides, he always reasoned, the view is delectable and the apparent evils of the forests are drowned in the impeccable beauty. A railway track skirted the forests on the other side. Occasionally, the mechanical and furious chugging of trains could be heard in the distance, the only other sound that disturbed the silence, apart from the rain and thunder. It was however, perfectly congruous.

So, he had decided that the balcony it should be, while mapping a perfect monsoon evening in his mind.

                       

                       What was the annoying impediment that stood between him and that perfect evening the first time? The relatives, he thought, the enduring legacies of hopelessness. A host of them had packed their bags only to bother him with their trite old tales of love, trust and deceit. Not that their presence was particularly allergic, but the post-visit trauma was something he had to cope with, with their predilection for leaving behind some obstinate mark of their visit. That’s where the second evening went, he mused.

                        What about the time after that? He thought, slumping on the large armchair, near the book case. Yes, the repairs. The bungalow, however imposing it was from the outside, looked distraught from the inside with exposed wires, water leaks and other sundry complaints. He knew that it was time to fix the old hag when she, in a well planned and cruelly juvenile act, dropped on his head a heavy and rusted pipe as he was cursing the dilapidated house. With luck, the maid, who was also cursing the house, was with him and was sensible enough to summon villagers for help. So went two weeks in the hospital bed and the weeks after that in repairs. The maid turned out to be a good choice. A middle aged woman who was energetic and level headed. She tended to him when he was bed ridden and brought him home cooked food saving him, like an angel, he thought from the agonizingly bland hospital food.

                        The following weeks saw untimely appointments, typhoid, death of pet dog, food poisoning and an inevitable dinner party. A hectic monsoon, indeed. Oh well, he whistled and got up to pull out a book from the proud collection, when he heard a familiar beep. He followed the beeping into his bedroom and saw the alarm clock vibrating enthusiastically. Puzzled, he picked it up and held it under the light of the table lamp only to see it proudly declaring the time- 06:30 am. He frowned in surprise and then it struck him. Not written in my destiny to unwind I guess, he thought and decided to get ready for work. The rain had subdued. The pitter patter of raindrops could be heard and a train chugged away hurriedly in the distance.

        

SPECTRUM

My first blog- a little poem in blank verse.

The many hues of life merge into one fantastic shade of white.

They transcend society pregnant with bigotry,

They transcend hills, plains and oceans,

Hills, plains and oceans within and without,

They blossom into flowers that cense the air with a million fragrances,

Overpowering the malodorous scent of malice,

And hate and such,

They grant the earth boons of good living and bliss and prosperity,

They do all that and more in the heart of a madman,

The eyes of a dying man,

And the words of a dead man.