Yellow Strawberries

One wayward wintery day

with the snow falling in chubby cherries, 

my heart took a sudden fancy
for canary yellow strawberries.
You fool, I said, strawberries are red
as red as blood can be,
pretty sure yellow there are none
not definitely the shade of canary.
But my heart did not listen,
that lubdubing hulk of a stubborn fellow,
it insisted that I try to find
strawberries in canary yellow.

Gloved, suited, coated and booted
racing through a flurry of flakes,
I made my way to the shed outside
home to oddballs and keepsakes.
There on the shelf lay a can of paint
and yellow it was too,
not as yellow as a canary can be
but to humour a fool it would do.

I brushed the strawberry layer on layer
with lemony dollops of yellow,
the more I brushed, the more it turned
an orangey hue of mellow.
I shot at it with a spray gun
a million yellowy speckles,
but red it was and orange it stayed
in solidarity with demony obstacles.
I tried and tried till there was
just a brushful of yellow in the can,
and suddenly I knew what to do,
like a flash in the proverbial pan.

I knew it was there somewhere
plunger, needle et al,
a souvenir of my tetanus shot
way back from an '80s fall.
With the point glistening in the dark
I ruptured the red fruit skin,
and sucked through the needle
a syringeful of red from within.
I drew out red juice from its heart
like a vampire on a full moon night,
I pulled, I drew, I sucked and I pulled
till there remained nothing but white.

With the red gone, the berry so white
thus spake color theory,
orange it will not be, it has to be yellow
a couple of shades afar from canary.
I pierced its heart, yet again
with the needle a menacing bright,
I spurted yellow into the strawberry
an inside-out vampire on a full moon night.
I waited for it to turn a yellowy hue
as the snow piled into the night,
but red it was, pale it turned
and it stayed a lifeless white.

That night the snowflakes swirled and fell
like a million crowds making wanton merries,
and my heart provoked, rebuked and smirked
at my failed hunt for yellow strawberries.
Why, I asked, did it not turn yellow
when I tried and tried so much,
red and yellow make orange I know
but white and yellow should be yellow as such.
You fool, laughed my fat-bottomed heart,
my whim was like the snow,
It lets you walk a million miles
but leaves no trace of where you go.
You think you took just its color
when every drop of red you stole,
but how would a strawberry turn canary
when you robbed it of its soul?

thought bubbles

something I wrote ages ago...

There was a blind boy who would sit by the plant in his garden talking to it, listening to the bird on the plant respond to his words with its own sweet song and thinking that it was the plant that was conversing with him in its own floral language. And then one day the bird flew away. The boy talked days and nights to the plant just to be met with a stony silence and a deaf ear. Not even a whimper or a bark from the bark. And he spent his entire life thinking that plants are strange moody beings….

***

There was a girl whose only wish was to sit in a bus…a double decker bus…more specifically, the upper berth of a double decker bus with both the window and her hair all open…the cool breeze caressing her face…her favourite music playing through the earphones….smiling away to herself…looking at the world outside just move by her window….and going across the world….from town to city to village annd back over and over again….just her, her window, her music, her bus and any and everything inside it….But she never did so….for she did not know what she would do if the bus were to ever run out of fuel….or she were to run out of songs….

***

Unfinished Business

Well, its been ages since I have come face-to-face with my blog. And we aren't even estranged! So finally, after having been accused(!) of lethargy, laziness, disloyalty to blogosphere in face of zippier social networking and microblogging sites and running out of 'creative steam', I decided to take some 'action'. And since I almost always write about childhood, lost joys from the 80's and 90's and more miscellaneous blasts from the past, I decided to run through my old posts for some inspiration. But then, who wants inspiration when you can have salvation! So, to cut a short story shorter, I have decided to publish all those unfinished drafts lying abandoned among their much-complete, reasonably-commented over cousins in my blog dashboard. Open-ended stories that leave a lot to the reader's imagination are a rage nowadays. Open-ended films too! So why not open-ended blog posts, right?
 
I have skipped the drafts that ended much before you could even say 'draa...'. They would have been too open-ended, even for a well-endowed imagination.
I hope I have redeemed myself with this post and I shall not henceforth be accused of mind-block, writers-block or any such vagaries. QED.

15th October 2011 | Untitled
There was a 'right way' to put the audio cassette into its cover,
There was a place for stamps and 'stick-em-stones' in the top drawer,
There was a trick if the floppy disk got stuck inside,
There was a carrier for a bum-hurting bicycle ride,
There was a secret stash for summertime ice candies on sticks,
There were stars, 'v.v. goods' and neat red crosses and ticks,
There were peep-holed numbers on the phone that turned into a tizzy,
There were yarn-spinning, tale-telling neighbors who never got too busy,
There was one channel to watch morning, noon and night,
There was a wooden ruler for every hand in a class fight,
There was a fountain pen and a blotting paper too,
There was a home-made concoction for the annual bout of flu,
There was a pen friend in a difficult-to-spell place,
There was a tailor who made frilly 'umbrella' dresses with lace
There was always one more person to squeeze into the backseat,
There was a glass of 'Rasna' when you walk in from the heat,
-------------

15th October 2011 | Untitled
There he was, a raggedy old man,
with a toothless grin and parchment skin,
breath rasping and whistling with the wind,
reed thin bones rattling within.

Holding a bowl close to his heart,
He walked to where we stood,
Tasting raindrops as they trickled down our faces,
Feeling the clingy wetness of a newborn brood.

"Look my children....loooookkkkkk"
His palm uncovered the bowl just a tad bit
"Look how they lie in there....
Oh, look how perfectly they fit"

Smothered smile, hurried hush,
Heads nodded in a collective whole,
Ten eyes inspecting the invisible contents,
of a weather-worn bowl

"They were quite big once,
Oh yes, needing a sack that too,
I couldn't get them to sit still,
as much as I tried to...
They would leap and jump,
from day to night,
-------------------

11th April 2010 | Untitled
Like the breeze that blows across the meadow
Silently stirring, casting no shadow
I walk alone along the street
Whistling in tune with my feet
Like the wind through a crack in the window

Like the sea touching every shore
Letting go and asking no more
I walk amidst the summer dresses
My face caressing the wind-blown tresses
Of perfect strangers I met not 'fore

Like a frivolous bee
On a springtime amorous spree
I devour the scents of the bazaar
The mundane with the bizarre
Feeling insanely happy and free

Like rain on a parched land
Satiating the hungry sand
I let the city fill me
With all I can smell, hear, touch and see
I let it hold my hand
And take me where it wants
To sights unseen and familiar haunts
-----------------

16th November 2009 | Untitled
Its been quite a while since this location has seen some activity. Just like the good old ODIs and test matches losing out to their fancier sibling 20-20, blogging is also fast relegating its place to the pesky 'what are you doing?' and the naughty 'what's on your mind?' of the www world.
everything in a jiffy...hail the quickie !!! But let me not digress and stick to my original plan for this post. Actually this post is a celebration of a phenomenon that dug its feet in the ground and is braving the onslaught of the 'fast and the furious' craze that is sweeping the world. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting to you Bollywood. You may be in and out of a McDonalds with a full belly in 5 minutes...but you still got to keep that $$$ glued to the seat for 3 whole hours to watch the split-second softening of the father's face on the train station as he lets go of his daughter's hand to send her to her beloved to walk (in this case, ride) into the sunset. No shortcuts here...no brutal edits. Just good old stories taking their own sweet time to crawl from that white screen with lots of text on it to those defining bold words THE END.
Stalking and watching the girl from behind the college wall. 3 months. Getting to know the girl's name. + 2 months. Writing your first love letter. + 1 month. Discovering your family's longstanding feud with the girl's family. - 25 years. Fighting goons, hired policemen and emotional blackmail alike. + 3 months. Holding the girl of your dreams in your arms as the police takes away the repentant cruel uncle and his hired goondas and the flowers and kissing birds cover the screen. Priceless. Laying the foundation for a sequel. + 9 months. See? Whoever proposed that the world is moving towards a faster life has jolly well left Bolly out of his calculations.

Yeah yeah....I know my account of Bollywood is outdated by atleast 10 years. The kissing birds, holding hands, family feuds are so passe...they died with the late 80s or maybe the mid 90s...but hey
----------

Inevitable

Just how long
can you hold a flight
by its wings
in the hope that
the passion in those feathers
would soon flutter and die...
Just how long
can you cup a bud
in your two hands
praying that it would
never embrace the world
with its blossoming eyes...
Just how long
can you cage freedom
behind bars
with the audacity to believe
that the spirit is no stronger
than the metal that encircles it
Just how long
can you tether to reality
the wild child of imagination
grudging it the giggles
and squiggles of laughter
of its make-believe world.
Just how long
can you put your arms
tight around a moment
lest it run away
in the blink of an eye
and be lost forever
Just how long
can you push back tomorrow
willing it to return
to the land of its origin
and never be the reality
that you wake up to.

Rabbithole...

Aren't humans boring
and terribly non-exciting
working for a living,
pushing and fighting
burying a dream or two
every passing day
one has got to be real
feet on the ground, they say!

And that is why, my friend,
I write of butterflies
masters of their will
creatures of the skies
free to soar and dip
and then rise again
gliding on wingfuls
of sunshine and rain

Aren't adults a mess
with thousand thoughts
and a million minds
calling the shots
divided loyalties
and fragmented hearts
like actors on a stage
playing their parts

And that is why, my friend,
I write of children
with minds and hearts as pure
as dew in morning sun
feeling thinking and
living in totality
knowing not what is
an alternate reality

Aren't humans mundane
with limbs that walk and hold
eyes that see no far
and fingers that simply fold
limited in nerve and sinew
and the length of our bones
fenced in by our frames
shackled by our skintones

And that is why, my friend,
I write of magical elves
wish granting fairies
and babbling bookshelves
figments of imagination
on a flight of freedom
residing on the ramparts
of our so-called wisdom

Isn't it wonderful, my friend
to be able to escape
the smallness of our being
the monotony of our lifetape
turn words into wings
and fly with the butterflies
gurgle with the children
and experience magical highs
Words are but rabbitholes
in the fence of our lives, my friend
escape routes to a world
far from a reality that we cannot mend.

existence

I am the silence in your conversations
I am the blink of your eye
I am your moment of solitude
I am the sound of your sigh

I am the night of your day
I am your last ray at twilight
I am the peace in your darkness
I am the horizon of your sight

I am the stillness after the ripples
I am the lull after the storm
I am the calmness in your being
I am your familiarity, I am your norm

I am the pause after your breath
I am your moment of solace
I am the melancholy in you
I am the breeze on your face

I am the quietness in the noise
I am the meaning in what you do
I am your endless search
I am the nothingness in you

on life...

Shakespeare talked of the world being a stage, and human life being a series of seven acts. Closer home, Vedic philosophy had it all sorted out into four clear-cut compartments or ashrams – Brahmacharya, Grihasta, Vanaprastha and Sanyaas. But is life really that simple? In our age and time, when people have babies first and then get married, couples take a break from their blissful Grihasta state to find their true calling in life only to get back together again after realizing that having to do the laundry, pay the bills and cook three meals a day all by yourself is not so cool after all...I am pretty much willing to bet a one-month salary that the good old bard would be tugging at his beard in frustration…and our sages would be left dumbstruck from not being able to express their frustration for the lack of swear words in Sanskrit.

One evening after a particularly heated conversation with a friend over how simple or complicated life is, (never mind the fact that we did not even touch consensus with a ten-feet pole!) I went back to reflecting over these ‘stages of life’. Besides, reflecting on random matters of dubious distinction is a great hobby, now that coins have lost their sparkle and stamps are pushing the envelope trying to stay alive, battling electronic phantoms. And I digress…true to my hobby :)

Coming back to my reflections, life does not seem to me like a cake that you can clearly cut into slices and put on different plates to be handed out one after another. It seems to me more like a bag of peanuts. You never know when you get a perfectly salted one or one that leaves you cursing the genus, species and whatever else there is to the whole nutty lot. There are no stages. There are just phases. And you never know which one it is going to be.

Someday you wake up feeling the feeling that you can’t exactly nail down, but know it is there. The feeling that makes you want to bounce off the bed screaming ‘I love you’ to no one and everyone around. It could just be the previous night’s awesome dinner or a beautiful dream that just did not make sense but was beautiful nevertheless. It could even be a butterfly fluttering its wings in Timbuktu. You don’t care what brought about that feeling. All you know is ‘life is beautiful’. So you sing your way through the shower (to hell with those notes and octaves!), dance your way through breakfast, smile like an idiot when the autowallah extorts ’meter + 10 rupees’, give a handful of coins to the beggar at the crossing, lilt a ‘good morning’ to all your colleagues and coo sweet nothings to your PC even as it shoves a 404 error in your face. Phases like this usually don’t last long. They are probably like the fillers that go in between the main acts on stage. But as long as they last, ‘aal iz well’ in your world!

And then there are the ‘(unprintable word) the world’ phases. They are like weeds. Stubborn and irritating, coming back with a mind-boggling frequency even after you have gotten rid of them. These are the days when you just don’t want to open your eyes to those smug little morning rays and take the day off, even as apoplectic team members spend an entire morning Googling to find out what on earth is ‘Caribbean equine flu’ that has struck you down 2 days before the project deadline. And if you feel benevolent enough to drag yourself out of bed, chances are you will leave the water faucet half-open to drip down the drain an entire month’s water quota of a small village, smirk while thinking that the beggar at the crossing could have done a better job with dabbing that red color on his bandage, ask your colleague how she feels being allergic to water and deodorant, and then get back right home to tell your wife that her new yellow dress is not being too kind on her tyres, and then turn on the TV volume to let the cat-fights and beeped-out abuses of reality TV drown out the real abuses coming from the kitchen. To be honest, these phases aren’t all that bad. After years of social conditioning, after an entire childhood of being taught the difference between ‘what you want to say’ and ‘what you should say’, these phases are like the whistle on a pressure cooker. Relieving. Liberating. But the ‘bringing peace to the world’ phase that inadvertently follows it can haunt you for a long long time. This is where the gender war goes 1-0 in favor of women. When you back up your ‘to hell with the world’ phase with biological reasons, no questions are asked. Game.Set.Match.

I have a postcard that says ‘there is a secret part in everyone that loves being miserable’. This brings me to the third phase. The sour, horrible-tasting peanut that takes you by surprise and pulverizes your palate, even as you quickly spit it out. The phase where you see the world in negative, no matter how Technicolor it is. Remember those Greek tragedies? Those opera singers bursting out of their corsets, with painful shrieks bursting out of their contorted mouths? This would pretty much be the background score drumming through your head all day through – even as you sulk about how rude the autowallahs in the city have become, worry how global warming has made the city ridiculously hot, wonder what it must feel like to be homeless and penniless like the beggar at the crossing, answer every ‘how are you?’ with ‘why…what’s wrong with me?’, pity yourself for uninspiring work, virus-affected workstation and back-stabbing colleagues who you are sure are plotting against you even as they stand at the water cooler whispering and laughing intermittently. In this phase, everything in this world sucks…and no, am not talking about gravity! It is like pathos, conscience, guilt and all those ten thousand complexes having a picnic together in your head. And then we take refuge in the past, shutting our eyes, rewinding those little tapes somewhere in the back of our head to 10-20 years back and wondering what went wrong and where!

Finally, we have what I like to call the ‘Miss India’ phase. Right from the moment that the alarm shakes you out of bed, you know you are the one. Morpheus’s Neo. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. The one to Save The World. You finish your bath with just half a bucket of water to save the other half, pack the left-over breakfast to hand it over to the beggar at the crossing, threaten the auto-wallah with police action if he takes even as much as rupee over the meter reading, spend every ticking second of the 2 minutes at the red light trying to motivate the beggar to take up some work to feed himself, offer to finish off your colleague’s work because you know she has a little baby to look after and stay back late to help the guy in the next cubicle draft an apology email to his girlfriend with a proposal in the P.S. I love these phases. I mean, what’s life without some bravado! But the journey from the pedestal to the rock solid ground can leave you bummed out, especially if you land on your perfectly mortal bottom.

And this to me is life! Not some compartmentalized, sorted-out stack of events. But just a mixed-bag of random, crazy phases that come and go at their own whim, in no particular order, with no fixed lifespan…just like those peanuts in the packet. Tomorrow I may be 40, 57 or even a much-lived 84, but I know life will still be about waking everyday and either discovering that I love the world or realizing that I hate the very sight of it; either agonizing that the world just doesn’t seem right or prophesying that everything is going be all right. Life will still be about opening my eyes every morning and finding a new me. It will still be about taking a deep breath and thinking “this too shall pass”…

wallet woes

A place for all the bills
for every  rupee you pay,
fading ink and crumpled edges
in wait of that fateful day
when the new shoes will break
and a claim to repair you will lay.

A place for business cards
of friends at their first job
the new tattoo parlor
or just the regular business snob
people best kept at a distance
not to socialize and hob-nob

A place for all the slips
from the money spitting machine
I wish I had hit the 'No' button
and just seen my balance on screen
Reminding of fat pay cheque times
and of  three-digit balance days seen

A place for a thousand different cards
promising credits and discounts alike
Gold. silver.platinum - have em' all
I wonder what it would be like
if someday the "lifetime free offer" guys
go off on an indefinite lifetime strike

A place for souvenirs and sundry
old photos. id cards. and notes
out of circulation since the big T.
chits best made into paper boats
If there ever were a 'obese wallet challenge'
guess who would get the most votes !

(After a mammoth wallet cleaning session....glad I don't own a tote :)

Ray

dancing through the window
tiptoeing on eyelashes
tickling bits of dust into a frenzy
I play peekaboo in quick dashes
caressing cheeks and hair alike
giggling as they avert their gaze
I am just one among a thousand
powdery morning rays

we touch the morning dew
it vanishes in thin air
petal by petal we prod
the blossoms open and bare
and as the time keepers
march ahead hand in hand
we charge across miles
setting ablaze oceans and land
I refuse to let go
of my juvenile gentle touch
even as the harsh noon rays
snide and chide me much

In vindication of the self
I make one too many sweat
Slicing through sheer curtains
I end a siesta mid-breath
Swirling in the tea cup
setting the biscuits on fire
But I get no more fiery
just as the sun gets no higher

I meet them on the horizon
in a cooler shade of crimson
My pals of the morning
as wearily they move in unison
And a mass of light, 'em rays
blink, flutter and die
In silence they give in to darkness
they say no last goodbye
I stand alone in solitude
weary yet faintly alight
Giving in to the hungry night
I am the last ray at twilight...

1989

At five, I had friends
with runny noses and grimy hands
half tucked ink stained shirts
and pink hello kitty hair bands
friends with lunchboxes laden
apples, jim-jams and rolls
flipped open and shared
even before the lunch bell tolls
friends who smuggled my bag in
on days that I was late
and covered my three feet high self
as I squeezed in from under the gate

some came home to me
as  sniffling and shivering I lay
swathed in five layers,
they held my hand and declared
like grim old pygmy soothsayers
"You will be well in just a day
Shoo...scat you bad bad flu !!"
They made me laugh
till my sides hurt like crazy
they got back class notes for me
on days I felt too lazy
 Friends that helped me plan
a birthday bash for my dog,
and gladly ate biscuits instead of cake
when the dog played the greedy hog

Friends who were oddballs
some ate chalk
others drank glue
some nibbled on erasers
one claimed he once flew
yet another could moonwalk
At five, I had friends
with broken teeth and grimy hands
Young foolish tots
they sure knew how to be friends... :)

Vogon Poetry

My friends thought I was joking
when I said I am an alien
My freak quotient shot up
in a day by ten gazillion

I showed em' my control board
they oh-aahed and said 'fancy'
I even pulled out my tentacles
they called me cute n pansy

I stood in the dark for a day
till my batteries all but ran out
I got 'em charged up in the sun
and still they had some doubt

meanwhile my leader up there
in gynaemeda seven
drummed his fingers in impatience
and looked up at the heaven

my ten years of undercover life
as Rajinder Parsad Sahani
was falling apart in seconds
as they called it a 'Kahani'

And then the divinity radar
picked up my SOS beep
riding on a cloud of dust
came a red and yellow jeep

Out jumped a young lady
mike n camera in tow
she drew a big red circle
covering me head to toe

flashes popped, cameras rolled
i grunted and spoke into 'em
moved my tentacles, flashed my lights
and even showed 'em my pink phlegm

The next evening on prime time
'Alien attack' made the headline
the young lady with the chaste hindi
assured you all was not fine

They asked 'who is he'?
or could 'he' be 'she'?
will the aliens capture earth?
and will they set humans free?
why did they abduct the cow?
was it for the milk?
if they wear clothes like us
will they next want our silk?

And thus my ten year long mission
was finally a success
after a secret small town life
disbelief, ridicule and stress

Now my leader full of glee
to take me back will agree
for now humans are aware
that aliens are out there
all thanks to a TV channel
who even have a panel
discussing us 24x7
for which I thank thee heaven

(an entirely uninspiring bit of prose, inspired
entirely by a feature on aliens on a 'certain' news channel
all characters in this post are completely fictional...and no,
I do not know any Rajinder Parsad Sahani...dead or alive, tentacles
or no tentacles :)

mirror mirror on the wall...

Whoever said a mirror
was all gloss and shine
Whoever said a mirror
told you all was fine

The mirror of lore
where pretty lasses of yore
the fairest of em' all
smiled and stood tall
is but a fine tale
told to chubby children
huddled up in quilts
mouth agape and pale

The mirror of the modern day
is deep, dark and got lots to say
comes in all shapes and forms
and follows no rules o' norms

Sometimes it is a friend
who is just being 'honest'
at times it is the mentor
putting you on a test

The stranger on the road
whispering as you pass by,
Or the office gossip
trailing you on the sly

or just a well-wisher
too eager to disagree
and the online personality quiz
ten clicks and its free

everyone's a mirror
showing 'you' to you
everything that you are
everything that you do
tall, slim, fat and stout
maybe an occasional horn or snout
at times you are the devil
at times almighty incarnate
sometimes beauty embodied
sometimes a balding pate

so if I were to spin a yarn
for my forthcoming progeny
changes in the tale of yore
I would make a many :)

the commemorative post...

Sitting in the library, working on something that needs to be done by today evening POSITIVELY, I suddenly realised that its been quite a while since I wrote something on the blog...actually, since I wrote something. Period. I would love to claim that I have what they famously call the 'writer's block'. Except that my affliciton has long limbs, hooked claws, hangs upside down from trees and is spelt S-L-O-T-H. There was a time (which goes on to say a lot about my age I guess..sigh!!) when I would wait for a spark of inspiration to write about. Many of my friends found their colourful lives gloriously blown out of proportion under the euphemism of 'fictionalization' and emailed back to them as word doc attachments. They discovered previously unknown and unexperienced facets of their own personality. The Lopas, Shaileshs and Hemas of my world found themselves referred to as L, S and H on my blog, more to lessen my guilt about taking creative liberties while writing about them than to protect their identities. Cut to twenty-ten. And whenever I am gripped by an urge to write, when the words spur a sudden neuron activity sending a tingle down my arms into my fingers, I just shut my eyes and wait for that urge to pass. Like a wave of nausea that washes over you and then goes away with a deep breath.

And just as I logged into Blogger, the '99 posts' text on the Dashboard caught my eye. So this would be the 100th post. So it had to be a commemorative post. While the rest of the world writes about the best and worst of the year that just whooshed by, I will sit and write about my little-over-5 years on Blogspot. From sending messages to close friends, friends of friends and just about everybody within the six degrees of separation to 'check out my blog' to getting to know from somebody you hardly speak to that they have been following your blog and quite liking it. From opening the blog ten times a day on a 56kbps dial-up connection to see if there are any fresh comments (ohh...the excitement of finding a new comment and the subsequent fall of all joy and hope when you find that the comment is from an online pharmacy offering you a 10% discount on 'performance enhancing' drugs) to email alerts about new comments and followups. I could just go on and on with these from-to statements. I guess it is just one of those many things you learn with age. That thing they call 'nostalgia'. (Strange how close it sounds to nausea).
But just when I was too busy composing my commemorative post, I realised that 14 out of those 99 posts are drafts. Sudden strokes of imagination that flashed and were flushed soon after. So technically this will not be the 100th post. Never mind. My profile has not been updated ever since day one - except for the picture which I thought back then was a nice sepia. My blog page is still linked to the blogs of some of my friends who gave up blogging after an initial burst of enthusiasm or moved onto newer and quicker pastures like FB and Twitter. And there are none of those fancy widgets or much-needed monetizing options on my blog page. All in all, it is just as it used to be 5 years back. With the addition of a lotus-bud picture, which really doesn't serve much to liven up the page. And so my much-touted commemorative post turned into yet another regular rant. But hopefully this time I shall take stock and shift my attention lock-stock-and-barrel onto some more writing. Both on and off the blog. So any of you gets a new Orkut testimonial or a handwritten card from me extolling your existent and non-existent virtues, five months before your birthday, please DON'T PANIC :)

Epiphany

An excerpt from 'Notes to Myself'
by Hugh Prather

I talk because I feel, and I talk to you
because I want you to know how I feel.

My statements are requests.
My questions are statements.
My trivia is an invitation to be friends.

My gossip is a plea: Please see me as
incapable of that. Please respect me.

My arguments insist: I want you to show
respect for me by agreeing with me. This
is the way I say it is.

And my criticism informs you: You hurt my
feelings a minute ago.

reflection

Dug up something from the past...

You are everything I hate in me
Perfect ivory whites smiling
when you want to cry
Lips dancing to cheer
all when the heart is wry
Eyes jade with envy
None but one you see
Wanting to possess
but being owned not
Expecting the world
but expressing naught
Walking away at will
Drawing close on a whim
Leaving the other empty
At times filled to the brim
The taunting laugh. The brusque word
Throwing caution to the air
Hiding more than you reveal
With not a care to spare
Wanting the other to think
the way you think and feel
Treating every yes and no
as though it were a deal
Spiteful in giving
Revengeful in loving
The skewed morality, the flawed soul
The two faces each playing its role
to perfection
No trace of affection
Wanting to do a thousand things
Uncommitted to a single one
Not settling for the moon
'cos you think you can have the sun
Lost in thought
Unfounded in act
High on opinion
Sub-zero on tact
Living in a fantasy
Holding on to a dream
Turning your back to reality
Humming when you want to scream
Captive in your freedom
Deceptive in your truth
Zealous.Jealous.Shallow.Callous
Euphoric.Ennui.Morose.Free.
You are everything I hate in me
You are everything I hate to be

p e a c e.

so what does it take to make
your peace with someone?
a sorry. a phone call.
or maybe some writing on the wall.
a meeting over coffee.
a shared smoke. a tad too sweet tea.
flowers for the romantics.
apology in blood. more fancy antics.
a joke you can't help laughing at.
a kiss. a hug. a smile. the doff of a hat.
a word. a touch. maybe just good old silence.
with the moments ticking by
a fight.insults.fists.slaps
tears smarting and stinging the eye.

when all is well and ends well
and peace is made with someone
you sit back and wonder how long before
you make your peace with all that was said and done

great expectations

expectations.
what color are they? the grey of a pregnant cloud?
or the yellow-green of bile rising in your throat?
in what shapes and sizes do they come?
big round encompassing circles?
pointy skinny triangles that poke, no matter any which way you turn them?
how do they look like?
knitted eyebrows? wringing hands?
sheepish grins? sneering lopsided grins?
i would like to meet one of them.
look them in the eye.
and then walk away.
whistling my own tune.
down my own way.

the inner circle

sometimes i want to fly....far far away from them all
doubting thomases and peeping toms
snooty susies and cheap floozies
comments and opinions galore
politics and perspectives
attitudes and agendas
lilacs and magentas
bitch sessions. cat fights
and a whole lot of puppy love
cheap thrills. expensive tastes.
carbon emissions and plastic wastes.
what nexts and why mes
i-told-u-sos and let-me-bes
future planning, living in the present
getting in touch with the past
fashions that come and go
things that are built to last
tantrums, arguments and jealousy
joy, happiness and ecstasy
frustrations. disgust.
hunger and a lil bit of thirst
love and war
war and peace
peace and solitude
solitude and bliss
mourning and celebration
thumbs down. standing ovation.
wants, needs, cravings
the haves. the have-nots
and the we-dont-cares

sometimes i want to fly away from them all....
but i am a part of them. they are a part of me.

Unbreak...

habits made. habits broken.
promises made. promises broken.
hearts won. hearts broken.
trust earned. trust broken.
bonds formed. bonds broken.

a day to mend.
a lifetime to unbreak.

if...

if for every dream dreamt
there would be memories
if every regret entitled you
to a second chance
and each mistake made
could be undone
if every laugh laughed
could be held in the hands
and cupped to the ear
if for every nightmare
two hands would protect
and hold you close
if every moment spent
could be earned back
and spent again
if every tear that fell
tickled the lips
into a smile
if every thought that
crossed the mind
could be frozen for a second
and let loose again
if life could be lived again
through all the ifs
and enjoyed all the same...