Alone
A state of being
You didn’t choose
Yet adapted to
Perchance gracefully.
Thousands around you
Hundreds you know
A dozen you could call
Close, or really so
And yet you remain
At your core
Alone.
The world has a way
Of moving, of being,
That is at odds
With who you are,
And what has been,
The rude reality
Of your existence;
And so you choose,
Out of wisdom perchance,
Or maybe sheer desperation,
The state of being
Alone.
The dirty rag is wrung
Squeezed really hard
To let every drop of moisture out
And yet it holds on
Obstinately so
Inviting yet another round
Of merciless wringing.
And then it’s slapped
On to the dirt laden surface
That demands to be cleaned
Taking in more of the filth
That has already seeped in
To the essence of its being.
The surface lies clean
While the rag is tossed
Without a thought
Into the murky water.
The rag has always known
Its place under the sun –
The one time it was pristine
Was when it was spotlessly new
Ever since, it has been its bane
To mop up filth
And keep things clean
For filth belongs
Only in certain places
And the rag knows
It’s one of them.
A white lily grew in the wild,
Amidst the bushes by the roadside,
A thing of beauty, until the eventide.
The fresh rays of a new dawn,
Fell upon it, yet failed to adorn
Its blemished countenance, so utterly worn.
Yonder in someone’s much loved garden,
A white lily thrived – like a fair maiden,
As pretty as on its first day of bloom.
The lily by the roadside died a quick death,
Scarred and bruised beyond recognition,
By the time its last petal had fallen.
The garden lily stands proudly
In the centrepiece on the marble countertop,
Forever the victor over the annihilated.
Image Credit: Photo by Tomas Williams on StockSnap
If social media commentary
Is any measure of society,
I’d say it is going south,
And that’s not to say
In a direction geographically speaking;
Nay – it’s going south
The other way – such as when,
That famed apple fell on
The scientist’s head.
Everyone is precious
About their lineage,
Pedigree, colour, religion, creed
And everything else in between,
And wears it as a matter of pride,
That they can engage in this diatribe
And score a win or two or three,
Almost as if that’s all that matters,
In showing love and loyalty,
Towards political party, religion, country,
And everything of that same sheen.
Perhaps this ought to matter
As much to me, as everyone else,
I try to feel all riled up,
Outraged, angry, and all those feelings
That one summons, to show one’s deep passion,
But I feel none of it –
Except a tinge, perhaps of sadness,
That people fail to see,
The unfairness, or the sham, or the evil
Or whatever other vice it is,
That has them in their grip,
In that moment when they succumb,
To this vicious call – to cry foul,
And to decry,
Everyone and everything,
That appears foreign,
To themselves.
You are stood on the floor
All wet and dripping,
After effects of my walk,
Earlier in the evening;
The rain drops slide deftly
Off your pitch black skin,
And onto the floor
In tiny streams,
Adding a glisten
To your rich darkness.
By the morning
You’ll be all ready,
Waiting to be folded,
And packed for the day;
But tonight you get,
A rare chance,
To spread your wings,
And to rest,
Even as the rest of us
In the household sleep.
There’s a long line,
Winding down the lane,
People hunched from the cold,
Arms crossed, heads bowed down.
Nobody talks much,
Except to ask the time
Once in a while;
Everyone cranes there neck
Every now and then,
To check if someone’s headed back,
From the place they’d been in.
There is a an undercurrent
Of tense anticipation;
One senses it in the cold mist,
That escapes as breath,
And is held in suspension –
No warmth from conversation
To dissipate it.
The lone passerby
Stops, and looks in askance,
Nobody bothers to reply;
Words are rationed here,
As is compassion,
That elusive commodity,
They’ve all come seeking,
Before the month is up,
And they’re thrown out,
Onto the streets,
That will have everyone,
And yet no one.
We could go on a walk,
You and I,
And it wouldn’t be round the block
Or a quick run to the library;
Nay, we would go where our feet
Would take us to,
Far from the chaos, of our lives.
We could go on a walk,
You and I,
We could take it slow,
And find what we could find;
Under the moss laden rocks,
And the soggy, once dried leaves.
We could hear the birdsong,
And the snapping of dried twigs,
Breathe in for one moment,
And forget that we exist.
We could go on a walk,
You and I,
Instead we stay inside,
Under this blanket,
That is both our cocoon
And our bane;
I know you wonder,
And keep doing so,
About all that must remain
Obscured under a shroud,
If we are to stay sane,
We could go on a walk,
You and I,
And pretend we are,
A stitch in the flawless pattern,
On this tapestry of mundane.
They had no right
And yet they took yours,
Oh to be, careless and free,
Oh to be, a little wild –
You didn’t fight,
‘Cause you were stuck –
Your feet locked tight,
Your tongue, utterly tied,
Your eyes, eerily dry,
And your gaze, vacant
As if lost in pursuit,
Of your truant mind –
And yet, they had no right.
I was looking for a needle
Not in a haystack, no,
But yes, I was looking for one,
That I had dropped,
Behind the closed door,
When I realised I couldn’t quite
Get past that barricade
For it was locked.
I went looking next,
For the key that fit
Into its lock,
One I had used,
Not long ago –
But try as I might
I couldn’t find
The elusive key
That would unlock the door.
“Forget it”, they said,
“It’s just a needle!
It wasn’t made of gold,
Was it?”
And true as it was,
All that they said,
My mind refused,
To bow down to logic.
So I’m still a-looking,
For a key, and a needle,
For that needle,
The one I dropped,
Is now, impossibly lost.
Nobody belongs anywhere –
Everyone is a wanderer,
Roaming the lands,
Settling down for a while,
But never quite,
For the call of the open,
The call of the wild,
Is far too exciting
To let go of –
And so we uproot ourselves,
And go on,
Nomadic to the very core,
Of our wandering selves,
Trusting we will belong,
For a fleeting breath,
On the land we tread.
Chasing Sunshine 