A leaf, a cocoon

My 8 year old inspired this one. While exploring the Green Apple tree seen from my Kitchen window, he looked at a dried leaf that was about to fall down, but still clinging to the brittle branch for dear life, and exclaimed ‘ ‘Amma, a dried leaf? oh no, a cocoon I guess.’ Thus began the train of thoughts. Tell me how do you like this.

Whims and fancies

dried leaf

Is it a last leaf clinging to the bleak branch?
A valiant warrior from agonizing yesterdays,
Distraught with the ruthless winter that just went by
Or, is it a cocoon dangling and dancing?
A dried up casing from the outside;
But a receptacle of life; throbbing and thriving

Is it going to fall for an early spring breeze?
And embrace the earth, to become one with it?
Or is it going to stay put till it’s time comes?
To metamorphose into a winged wonder
Is it a pale remnant of a cold past?
Or a resilient reminder of the promise of life

Is it a mistaken attempt to hold on?
Instead of graciously accepting the coming of time
Is it yet another marvel of creation?
An unraveling of the mystic of life?
Or, a mere hint that looks can be deceptive,                                                       That we must look beyond the obvious.

(image courtesy:

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The void

Another pair of stilettos, golden rimmed this time around
A choice made after hours of leafing pages on the internet,
After strutting in and out of malls, on yet another chic pair,
After impatiently trying out a motley of styles and shades
Winter coats; how many more can make your closet full?
Your closet of desires; its void vexing with every single buy
Every spring a few ghosts grope their way to the dumpster
You would rather not give them for charity, what a bother
But every time you pull them out, one or two, from the closet,
You see skeletons come out, perilous reminders of your past,
Every buy an attempt to cure a fever, one that never breaks in you,
You embrace cures one after the other, trying to break the heat,
You redo your home décor, trying to find solace in the new
But each a reminder of wounds from the past, self-inflicted
You pack your bags in haste, for trips that simply don’t cure,
Stay at the most exotic locales, sun bathe in sought after spots,
Sport pretentious expressions beneath real high-brow cheaters,
Voluminous waves sweep over you, the emptiness only caves in,
Sun bathes you in its warmth, but glaring vacuum is all you feel
Skin enhancements, beauty treatments, name it, you fall for it,
Anything for a fairer skin, for luxurious curls, buxom curves,
A fashionista for the world, but a meek marionette to your whims
But little did you realize that you missed the soul for the body,
The eternal for the material, the metaphysical for the physical.

They have come

There is not a moment to frown, for there is much beauty around. Goodmorning, everyone – I really mean it- let this morning and the hours thereafter be cheerful for all of you!

Whims and fancies

How can I not celebrate?
How can I not rejoice?
For they have come
Much awaited, much loved,
But they took their own time
As if to tell us something
That we mustn’t take them for granted
It feels like April was here long ago
But not Spring, the most elusive one
Across the window, what was a bare wall;
With a few barren bushes juxtaposed against
Is today in a burst of sunshine
With the Forsythia friends in full bloom
I step into the patio,
To take in the beauty around,
And I am overwhelmed!
The browned grass turned green in a night
How could they not cheer up?
For the rains came down last night
With such passion, such vivacity
Showering new life on them aplenty
They say, the longer the wait, the sweeter it is
When the moment of fulfillment comes.

Image

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They have come

How can I not celebrate?
How can I not rejoice?
For they have come
Much awaited, much loved,
But they took their own time
As if to tell us something
That we mustn’t take them for granted
It feels like April was here long ago
But not Spring, the most elusive one
Across the window, what was a bare wall;
With a few barren bushes juxtaposed against
Is today in a burst of sunshine
With the Forsythia friends in full bloom
I step into the patio,
To take in the beauty around,
And I am overwhelmed!
The browned grass turned green in a night
How could they not cheer up?
For the rains came down last night
With such passion, such vivacity
Showering new life on them aplenty
They say, the longer the wait, the sweeter it is
When the moment of fulfillment comes.

Image

Dust’s ode

Fear of rejection inspired me to write this poem. But, I didn’t have the courage to talk about my fear openly until I read Kellie Elmore’s post Rejection Blah. If you happen to come by this post, please let me know what you think. Reading various comments to Rejection Blah, I understand the strength of this community of writers.

Whims and fancies

From where we stay, there is a long view,

Out through the long corridor, darkened

At the very end, there is light, streaming

Through a million of our brethren, dancing

 

The lonely man walks in and out,

Mutters a word to himself, in agony,

He stops at the corridor, taking in silence,

Turns to look at us, a fine battalion

 

We give him attention, day and night,

We have stayed through thick and thin,

As if in gratitude, he doesn’t wipe us off

But only stares at us as we build more muscle

 

We have stayed long enough to understand,

The workings of his solitary mind,

His brush strokes that evoke emotions,

His genius; but stacks of framed pictures

 

Once in a while, he walks in a melancholic trance

Sheds a tear or two as he peers at his creations,

One by one, through our empathetic…

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Mother

Mother

The phone rings for seconds on end,

My patience drains out at the other end,

At what seems like the last ring,

A familiar voice; but sounds way too different,

Cheerless and tired, not in for a chit chat

My friend, a mother, her dear child fallen sick,

Her voice, a connotation of her child’s ailment,

Her heart, heavy with her child’s anguish

 

Mothers, they carry burdens, of their children,

Many a baggage from their past and present,

Worries for the future, for days trouble-free,

Mothers, with an innate ability to transfer pain,

From the deepest wounds, to their own bodies,

Lessen pain for their children, for speedier cures

A mother’s heart drugs with despair,

Over a child succumbed to pleasures vicious

 

The mother kneels down in prayer, day and night

For a child who wouldn’t surrender to grace immaculate

The mother walks alone to temples and churches,

Mosques and synagogues, turns a pilgrim eternal,

For her child’s homecoming, for the return of a racketeer

The mother weds hunger, to satiate her child’s need for food,

The mother burns the midnight oil, during her child’s days of test,

Struggles to keep awake, after a day of toil, of trials and troubles

 

Pick up the phone, call your mother,

Tell her that you love her, which is not enough though,

Book a ticket; take a trip down that road once again,

One that leads you home, a pathway presupposed

Care for her like you never did, like today is that last day,

Love her like never before, fill her days with cheer,

Walk the roads with her; show her a world anew,

Sit by her side; hold her hand, for she needs you

 

 

www.allfortheearth.blogspot.com

An Eager Spring, An Earnest Walk

The day before, I walked to the library with my eight year old. At the end of the walk, as we were returning with a small collection of books and a bunch of vegetables from the farmer’s market, my son proudly said; ‘We should do more of these walks, Amma, instead of always taking the car and polluting the environment.’ Though he made that statement at the lark of the moment, upon unexpected discoveries that gave him great joy and a whole lot of fresh air, I think he meant it.

During our short walk, we stopped by the bramble bushes and trees, the ones lining the busy roads, witness to all the city cacophony, all seemingly barren from a distance, but eager to burst out into yet another season, one of life and iridescent colors. Upon prying them with our eager eyes, we spotted millions of pointed buds, hard, but throbbing with life, dark on the outside, but a reservoir of shades. We looked closer and spied a shade or two on them; some green, some a passionate hue of pink, and still some others purplish.We bent a bit to look at a lowly twig, and stood on our toes to touch a bud on a higher branch. It was an unparalleled experience. We resisted the idea of clicking pictures, just so that we could live in the moment to the fullest.

As we entered the road that lead to our apartment, we also spotted a bird’s nest, nestled on a naked tree. Even from a distance, the nest looked vulnerable with absolute dearth of foliage to offer it any comfort or shade. In the frosty winter winds that just went by, agonizingly for months on end, the nest would have shuddered. Was it then, an abandoned one; we wondered. Other than a squirrel nibbling on crumbs of bread thrown off the patio by a resident eager- to- feed, we didn’t spot any action in the vicinity. No fluttering of wings, no twittering of songs. Of course, we know birds don’t always stay by their nests, the way we do 🙂 We then looked for feathers under the tree, at least one that would give us an idea of the bird house owner or tenant, but we found none.

We chatted our way home, about the sights and sounds, and promised ourselves that we must do more walks soon.

(Please find more of these musings at http://www.allfortheearth.blogspot.com)

Dust’s ode

From where we stay, there is a long view,

Out through the long corridor, darkened

At the very end, there is light, streaming

Through a million of our brethren, dancing

 

The lonely man walks in and out,

Mutters a word to himself, in agony,

He stops at the corridor, taking in silence,

Turns to look at us, a fine battalion

 

We give him attention, day and night,

We have stayed through thick and thin,

As if in gratitude, he doesn’t wipe us off

But only stares at us as we build more muscle

 

We have stayed long enough to understand,

The workings of his solitary mind,

His brush strokes that evoke emotions,

His genius; but stacks of framed pictures

 

Once in a while, he walks in a melancholic trance

Sheds a tear or two as he peers at his creations,

One by one, through our empathetic selves

But never did he mop us away, never

 

Gathering dust is what they call it,

The dying of a connoisseur unknown,

The losing of a life unfulfilled,

But only if dust they knew had life

The elusive quiet

Will the day ever be mine again?

Will the night be mine alone?

When will I be able to embrace the day?

When will I be able to lose myself in the night?

 

I feel time receding

With it my passion too

For the word; written and spoken

For, when will I get some quiet?

 

My mind is on an upsurge

I feel creative juices flow

Through my cranial cavities

Nourishing my need for expression

 

When did I cherish this elusive quiet so much?

I don’t remember being courted by the thought

In such depths as I am now

The calling is intense, but….

 

Can I shut myself out from this world?

I know I can’t do it even for a day

As I am bound to things mundane

Like a caged bird to it’s cage

 

Around me, it’s getting beautiful

The buds come up a million a day

Can I step out for a moment?

To enjoy the beauty of quiet