Woman

 

You have already paid a big price

by being a woman

in a male-dominated world,

You then accept your status

of being under debt forever,

So you keep repaying your debts

in bits and pieces

on a daily basis

till your last breath.

Love

 

Love is solid in the bones;

fluid in blood;

airy fresh in breath;

tingling in touch on the skin;

sweet in smile on the lips;

tasty in words on the tongue;

light and hope in the eyes;

and lots of flowers

in the garden of heart.

The pathless path

 

Creating a path to God,

Flying like a bird

facing no barriers of

boundaries, brawls, rituals, sectarianism,--

the pathless path,

The path always there

but not visible till you move on it,

Like the path in the air

that was always there

but didn’t manifest

till some bird took

a joyful sorties in its airy swirls.

A fresh dose of joy

 

Fresh winds enlivened the spirit,

Cut through timidity

with the knife of loving familiarity

and friendliness,--

a growing closeness

embracing with a kiss.

Is it bodily attraction,

or pleasant feeling of proximity,

or being relaxed in presence,

or synchronization of thoughts,

or sweet melding of emotions,

or vibes on the same frequency?

The priests of imprisonment

 

God is like the warden

whom we try to bribe

to get into the prison cells

to meet our acquaintances,

family and friends,--

money, power, health, prestige, name, fame.

 

And our fears are the priests,

the lesser gods

manning the doors and wired fences,

We have to placate them too

with obeisance, offerings and rituals.

The smoker of memories

 

Passing through the darkness

of the long corridor

smelling of past memories,

Feeling destiny’s roughly hewn walls,

Eyes speaking of pain,

there I walk

with my once golden self turned crumbling chalk.

 

The gently sculpted folds of your love

turned to sharp, cutting edges;

the lovely embroidery and beadwork

turned a rough, barren terrain,

Taking a long drag of smoky memories

from the flaming cigarette of the past,

I cough

and realize

love is rarely enough.

The fallen artist

 

Bright, unrealistic colors of love,

Childish, whimsical, even idiosyncratic,

Painting an alternate reality;

a different dimension of life

on the plain, routine canvas,

We use cheap paints and crude brushes

to shape something

to go along our dreams,--

a concrete solidified dream

in an ephemeral world,

Drawing the outlines of hope, safety, light.

 

Then you realize,

it doesn’t meet your expectations,

So you pick up a soapy mop

to erase the once lovely painting,

which turned into a comic-tragic graffiti,

You become a cleaner

from an artist that you were before.

 

From fine lines to sloppy mop,

Flop!

Why?

Because we have needs in different compartments,

One picture centered around one object

doesn't go into different chambers:

emotions, thoughts, dreams, desires, lust, needs.

 

The brush of love

temporarily appears to wade through

all these different needs,

We believe it’s giving all that we need,

Soon we realize it doesn’t,

The picture disappoints us,

We then just stay with each other,

Trying to believe that

we have happily been together.