Meandering pathways may meet at a point Like wandering travelers' collision. Like wind blown leaves that dance around - Pink, orange and red, and colours rain-fed, Waiting to be found.
* * *
Meandering pathways meet to diverge And collision courses divide. Like wind blown leaves that dance around - Yellow, brown and black, and colours lustre lack, Eventually hitting ground.
When Romi arrived before the ancient yellow house, the sun was just dipping behind the horizon. The sky was a mixture of blue, grey, and white, lit up by a brilliant palette of red and orange where the sun had just been. From where she stood, she could see past the collection of huts of Dakkhin Para into the sprawling expanse of the paddy fields. It was not the time of the year for rice cultivation and the fields lay bare, except for a few grazing cattle and shepherd boys. The pond in front of the house, called Ratna Jheel was dirtier than she remembered. The trees and shrubs were still the same, all in their own places, and had not altered in all this time. The surrounding houses were all there, aging, but still there.
Then there was the yellow house. When the world around it had stood still, it had progressively moved on. It did not look ancient, and it wasn't even yellow. She only called it ‘ancient yellow’ because that was how she remembered it. In fact, the once withering chalky ocher walls of the bungalow had been painted a horrid shade of blue. Horrid, because the colour did not go with the place. It looked fake, like a mask being put on to hide the truth. She didn't like it. The single story house now had an ugly second floor sitting on its head, as if it would like nothing better than to crush what lay below.
Day after day, to pen these words Pronouncing thoughts that you should have heard. Apologizing to paper and strangers' eyes Craving you in silence, and letting you die. Foolishly hoping you will chance this way Stumble on this site and hear all I say
I'll never be bold enough to ring your bell So a miracle, I beg, a charm or a spell Bursting at the seams, wishing I could yell.
It is said I often lie awake And talk to the moon Enchanting, bottomless eyes, They say, Of a rain-nymph in bloom. It is said, I often rise between trances And scan the streets As if looking for something; And then turn away, They say, Sighing.
I am a dead end With a ‘no-entry’ sign, It is said. And return home they all must, With their desires and hope Crumbling to dust. I’m often found staring at the stars, They say; And they wonder why. . . What is so intriguing ‘bout the sky?
They don’t know…
How you and I Under a halogen street light, would lie Melting constellations in each other’s eye, Making Moon a listener to our conversations As the night gently laughed by.
Until
That giant supernova That exploded across the sky Swallowed you so swift I could scarce let out a cry…
. .
And so it is said A girl is seen sitting by herself, Silently staring into the night. . . They don’t know,
Prologue Flashes of a luminous glow Swims like a Borealis across the sky. The cold compelling breeze Soothes my clammy skin. A quiet rumbling, Like the growl of angry hell hounds, Anticipates the coming.
Storm The sky unleashes electric snakes As the wind rips through houses and trees. Sweeping rain impinges upon the earth, Scrubbing the night clean To claps of deafening thunder. I stand, insignificant as a leaf, And watch in awe.
Of Divinity Even as temple bells are chiming, God has long left the altar to take a breath; And in the wake of this night's monster All is silent and dead. * Strange how such destruction calms my soul And makes a hard atheist like me, Hope.
“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt, It lies behind stars and under hills, And empty holes it fills, It comes first and follows after, Ends life, kills laughter.”
~ J.R.R. Tolkien
“Time takes it all whether you want it to or not, time takes it all. Time bares it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again.”
I don’t think that loneliness gets any worse than city life. You think it’s a paradox because in all probability you've been turned. After a hectic working day when I ponder the significance of it all at night, I find there is actually nothing in it. Our so called “working hard for the future”, career and busy schedules do nothing but drive us apart from everything that is important to us : family, friends. . . .even ourselves; until we find ourselves trapped before the computer, trapped in a routine, trapped in the partying and tripping, trapped so smooth that we happily embrace it. And we are turned. Tie a bird down from birth and it will be programmed not to fly. But the intrinsic urge never dies, it will know one day.
That is why it fascinates me to watch trees swaying during storms. They aren't trapped. Through the wild whistling wind, they move with the spirit of utter abandon; earth and sky coming turbulently alive to remind us that they were here first.
As I write this, I keep glancing out my half open window at the dancing tree tops and the flashing sky. Honestly, I’d love to be in one of those palm trees' place now, soaking in the rain, feeling the cold seep through my skin. It’s breathtaking to imagine.
City life desensitizes us. So overpowered are we with the smell of fumes, the noise of traffic, concrete bleaching our sight, AC cooling our skin, we could well be robots, and we are more than ok with that.
If I were Superman, I believe I’d have no time to save mankind; I’d be too busy flying around, and hop skip jumping in the rain..!!
“Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.” ~ Sylvia Plath