On Turning 21
|
You’re turning 21 tomorrow
Becoming an adult in every way. And I wish you love and happiness In your life every single day. May you shine brightly Like Jupiter and Venus in the sky. May you reach heights With wings that make you soar while you fly. May you be stronger; After every tribulation. May you reach within your own self To deal with every emotion. May you be the rock You’ve always sought to be. May you comfort with compassion And be like the oak tree The Oak which symbolizes All that is true, noble, wholesome and stable. May you be all you wish to be My dear child , my angel! |
|
A Roller Coaster Ride
|
There are times
When you crawl into your hole Curl up into a ball And let the walls close in on you. The tears just flow As if a dam just broke, Flowing uncontrollably Refusing to ebb. And then there are times When the air and the sunshine become your best friends The wind in your sails won’t let you stay still. The laughter breaks Without warning. The body shakes so hard That you just gotta ‘go’. The plates shift more often, Along the fault lines now. Fluids once restrained, Have the license to flow. You just let them go, Without reining them in. As a lifetime was spent Staying in control. |
|
homing instinct
We sat (my brother and I)
drinking hot chai tea
one steaming afternoon on the porch while
listening to the breeze sough the leaves of a tree.
Recounting tales of the skylab crash
and the heat of the summer of 1979,
the word homing instinct sprung to mind
yet again.
The familiarity of the path
Of the hot liquid down a body
which busies itself
in directing rivulets of sweat down the crook of the back
has a sense of comfort
that some might understand
as that of returning home.
Returning home many a time too
in cooking outdoors ,
shaking off the shackles
of the tameness of the indoor kitchen.
Inhaling the aroma of familiar spices ,
crossing the boundaries of time and being,
the pecking of the woodpecker
makes me my mother.
Returning home
to all the pets of the past
in the loving gaze of the one now.
And how about that pesky fly
that found its way in
and won’t stop buzzing .
Once again teleporting the present longing self
to what I call home.
Imprints, stamps ,
of seemingly innocuous events
have become the compass that
guide me home.
Holding a sense of comfort and belonging
so very hard to explain.
Here I Come
A huddled mass of
Abated breath and suppressed giggles
Crouches together
For fear of being discovered.
One ,two, three…
Ready or not
Here I come .
The bodies close together
Further still . Becoming one ;
Hearts beating wildly .
Thinking the corner on the dark staircase
Will be the last suspected place.
A sneeze tickles a nose
I scold it back.
Not now. Not Now!
It’s as if an army of ants
Is marching up my sinus canal.
Achoooo!
The explosion racks
My little body
To the aghast chagrin
Of my fellow hiding pack.
The feeling that I let
My team down is upsetting .
For just a moment .
And then all
Break into a volley of laughter
That had remained checked
For a total of a minute or even less.
Solitude
Walking in the woods ,
with not a soul in sight,
it seems you’re within my reach.
Arms outstretched , I reach to greet you.
Just as I’m about to clasp your hand ,
the rustling wind starts it’s banter .
And I stand instead in the company
of the memories of winds past.
Sometimes in the wee hours of the morning
when not a soul is astir,
I drag around my body heavy from sleep.
Alone with you for a fraction of a moment
I stand still to breathe.
And then the weight of the day
lands heavily with a thud ,
scaring you away.
It seems the longest time we ever spend together
is right after a hard day’s work .
Hugging your back , I slip into mindless oblivion
as soon as my head touches the pillow.
But the call of the evening chores
cuts our time short .
And I have to bid adieu
promising to soon return.
We briefly cross each other’s path
on the late night stroll.
Then the hoot of the owl,
the chirp of the crickets,
sighs of nightly creatures,
the crunch of leaves beneath the feet
and many such pressing matters
demand my fragmented attention.
Leaving you ,once again, lingering in the shadows.
It seems one is never alone.
No.
Not even
under the thickness of the night blanket.
Solitude …my elusive friend!
Why don’t you stay long enough?
To which she softly replied
“ You never have the time for me. “
with not a soul in sight,
it seems you’re within my reach.
Arms outstretched , I reach to greet you.
Just as I’m about to clasp your hand ,
the rustling wind starts it’s banter .
And I stand instead in the company
of the memories of winds past.
Sometimes in the wee hours of the morning
when not a soul is astir,
I drag around my body heavy from sleep.
Alone with you for a fraction of a moment
I stand still to breathe.
And then the weight of the day
lands heavily with a thud ,
scaring you away.
It seems the longest time we ever spend together
is right after a hard day’s work .
Hugging your back , I slip into mindless oblivion
as soon as my head touches the pillow.
But the call of the evening chores
cuts our time short .
And I have to bid adieu
promising to soon return.
We briefly cross each other’s path
on the late night stroll.
Then the hoot of the owl,
the chirp of the crickets,
sighs of nightly creatures,
the crunch of leaves beneath the feet
and many such pressing matters
demand my fragmented attention.
Leaving you ,once again, lingering in the shadows.
It seems one is never alone.
No.
Not even
under the thickness of the night blanket.
Solitude …my elusive friend!
Why don’t you stay long enough?
To which she softly replied
“ You never have the time for me. “
Crossing Paths
Crosses borne across time –spaces;
across the depths of cultural seas.
Onto paths that seem untrodden
telling stories that seem untold.
Faded footprints cry to draw attention
Only to get muffled in the powdery dust.
Ideas tossed are caught with a pretense of expertise.
Lines written , erased , rewritten.
Words are juggled
seemingly like an adept acrobat .
Pushing aside the nagging feeling
that words rarely can be relied upon
to communicate effectively the workings of the mind and heart.
When the euphoria of creativity subsides
A surreptitious glance at the finished piece
Reveals flaws that never can be masked .
The audacity of treading on the paths
of masters of the art
is faced , stopping the creator
like a deer caught in the headlights.
The fragility of words gives in and they crack
with a loudness that cannot be ignored.
The hammer and the chisel
gets picked up again.
Annals are gleaned and marveled at.
And yet another attempt is made to
cross the paths of those who could and can
tell it in ways that they feel like your own.
On Risk Taking
On some darkish dawns of drowsy morns
When the grey glass panes reveal a neighborhood of unseen sleepers
The groggy mind silently steps onto unfamiliar territory.
Tiptoeing first onto well worn paths
Breathing in the friendly air
Resisting the call of the dark recesses
To which the key seems to be lost.
Traipsing on the zigzag maze
Hovering at the shady corners
Hobbling on the bumpy terrain
Unsure if the journey’ll end.
Reversing directions suddenly when
Sighting a speed bump in the distance
Cruising back to familiar lands
To the comfort of the donned masks.
Maybe some other day
Another such dark dawn
Will fill me , still me in the tracks
and lead me to the door which for now remains tightly shut.
Crosses borne across time –spaces;
across the depths of cultural seas.
Onto paths that seem untrodden
telling stories that seem untold.
Faded footprints cry to draw attention
Only to get muffled in the powdery dust.
Ideas tossed are caught with a pretense of expertise.
Lines written , erased , rewritten.
Words are juggled
seemingly like an adept acrobat .
Pushing aside the nagging feeling
that words rarely can be relied upon
to communicate effectively the workings of the mind and heart.
When the euphoria of creativity subsides
A surreptitious glance at the finished piece
Reveals flaws that never can be masked .
The audacity of treading on the paths
of masters of the art
is faced , stopping the creator
like a deer caught in the headlights.
The fragility of words gives in and they crack
with a loudness that cannot be ignored.
The hammer and the chisel
gets picked up again.
Annals are gleaned and marveled at.
And yet another attempt is made to
cross the paths of those who could and can
tell it in ways that they feel like your own.
On Risk Taking
On some darkish dawns of drowsy morns
When the grey glass panes reveal a neighborhood of unseen sleepers
The groggy mind silently steps onto unfamiliar territory.
Tiptoeing first onto well worn paths
Breathing in the friendly air
Resisting the call of the dark recesses
To which the key seems to be lost.
Traipsing on the zigzag maze
Hovering at the shady corners
Hobbling on the bumpy terrain
Unsure if the journey’ll end.
Reversing directions suddenly when
Sighting a speed bump in the distance
Cruising back to familiar lands
To the comfort of the donned masks.
Maybe some other day
Another such dark dawn
Will fill me , still me in the tracks
and lead me to the door which for now remains tightly shut.
The poem Who am I was inspired by Dulce Flores who gave me a beautiful diary for Valentine's , and said Write in This, Mrs. Sandhu. I know you like to write!
I hope she can find her meaning as I tried to find mine!
I hope she can find her meaning as I tried to find mine!
Who am I
Many a time these words pop out of nowhere
Who am I?
Why do I do what I do?
Say what I say?
Walk the way I do?
Talk the way I do?
Write the way I do?
Who am I ?
And then some sleepless nights
Looking at the stars through the windowpane
Answers twinkle back at me.
I am a friend to my husband.
A friend who breaks into laughter when he cracks a joke.
A kind, friendly guide to my children.
Who rejoices when her little one says
“ You are my Mommy.
I like you just the way you are.”
I talk to animals.
And they talk back to me.
I feel at home under a tree.
And feel the hug of the breeze.
I can lose myself in a book.
My first friends in life.
And I am a friend to many who need a friend
Just like me.
Above all, I am a teacher.
Of children . Of Beautiful Children.
And I like to gently hold a mirror,
To those who forget to see.
The beauty that lurks within.
Too shy to step into the light
Quietly waiting their turn.
I converse with stars on sleepless nights
And they smile and twinkle
And talk right back to me.
Holding a mirror
For me to see.
When I begin to wonder
Who am I ?
Many a time these words pop out of nowhere
Who am I?
Why do I do what I do?
Say what I say?
Walk the way I do?
Talk the way I do?
Write the way I do?
Who am I ?
And then some sleepless nights
Looking at the stars through the windowpane
Answers twinkle back at me.
I am a friend to my husband.
A friend who breaks into laughter when he cracks a joke.
A kind, friendly guide to my children.
Who rejoices when her little one says
“ You are my Mommy.
I like you just the way you are.”
I talk to animals.
And they talk back to me.
I feel at home under a tree.
And feel the hug of the breeze.
I can lose myself in a book.
My first friends in life.
And I am a friend to many who need a friend
Just like me.
Above all, I am a teacher.
Of children . Of Beautiful Children.
And I like to gently hold a mirror,
To those who forget to see.
The beauty that lurks within.
Too shy to step into the light
Quietly waiting their turn.
I converse with stars on sleepless nights
And they smile and twinkle
And talk right back to me.
Holding a mirror
For me to see.
When I begin to wonder
Who am I ?
