Revisiting...

 FLIGHT OF FANCY

Green and white,

crisscrossed by black

the tiles on the floor;

some drooping shy,

some free and wild,

spring-flowers through the door

to-

the staircase then

leading to when

they hopped over the fence

the cobbled snake

moved on to meet

a sprightly wilderness.

A look about

and furtive search

for rabbits in the dark

mushrooms and twigs

and berry things

not found in the park

climb up a tree

that doesn't know

its nature, name or fruit

hang upside down

and try to see

the world with wandering roots

the beehive or the weaver bird

don't spare a look or care

the clumsy vines,

the unkempt hair

who needs to stop and stare?

the frenzied brook

and the broody nook

with cradled rocks ahead

the deer, the doe

that briskly go

to the princely tiger's stead

then run askance

and leave behind

all glories

and the chase

if one would stop

to ponder much

they'd lose their wondrous gaze

hop, skip and jump

and lo, behold

the house is back in sight

what joy, what fun

in the winter Sun

and a chair-bound legless flight !

*****

WAIT FOR ME, TIME

I found my way back to this place, after a long trek through mountainous terrain, sometimes treacherous but mostly pleasantly tiring. Along the way, I met doubt, confronted pain, emerged triumphant and resumed my step, trying to catch up with lost time, sailing adrift a song:

Wait for me...

I’m breathless!

Don’t move so fast,

So reckless!

It’s a snaking spread

For me. For you?

just a darting spurt ahead.

I keep trying

t’ match your step

and just when

I think I’m dying

and barely up to speed,

with a teasing brush

of orchids

‘n’ spearmint

away you sprint

to another arduous lead.

I know you’re strong

don’t need to stop

at any curve or prong;

or even the coveted top;

what you have

I amply lack

the propensity of having

by virtue, vice or tact.

To travel light

like a mountain spring

or a string-less, hands-free kite

or a baby cloud

an empty shroud of

reflective, air-combs white

each one of these, a poet's muse

to the sky? -a wishful reverie

you never take

a walked-through path

yet beaten roads

are forced on me.

So, does that mean

that every walk

will be a test of strength?

I’ll keep calling, catching up

yet you will stay abreast?

Come now, my friend

call off this game

Go find a worthy opponent.

Henceforth, I give you not

any of you that’s mine;

you play with those

who have you none

and chase you so,

a-fleeting, O Good Time!

*****

MY PINK, HANDCRAFTED CUPBOARD

In light of assaults on women in recent times, these few lines are an attempt to relate to the thoughts of a rape-survivor, who is trying to regain balance between the trauma and her life prior to the incident.

It rings loud

and hollow

in its shiny newness

my pink, hand-crafted cupboard,

as I begin

to put in

one after the other

vibrant drapes

to adorn my work and play.

Layer upon layer

the shelves and walls

absorb within

the clamour of loud, soulful hues.

It was then yesterday,

that I wore on me

an apprehensive thought

in rueful blue

and paisley yellow

as I ravaged through

the pile of clothes

from a brand new cupboard

and straight on to bed.

The void inside

started to grow

as the heap on the bed

bled to the floor.

The voice of contempt

rang loud and hollow,

like a void

hitting a void;

guttural sounds

running straight into

a larger empty space

on the shelves now

and the walls

empty with

an emptier nook within,

and hooks and hangers

to put

frightful memories on.

Was that yesterday?

Some time today…

…My hospital bed

and the white-washed sheet

is safe because

an unassuming apprehension

has been replaced

by a listless, sanitised calm.

But the soft caressing

of cotton sheets

can’t stop

my skin from pricking

at the recall of rough hands

like nettle on unsuspecting skin

over my mouth

breasts and thighs

engulfing the memory

of my father’s gentle fingers

and brother’s benign wrist.

The hollows

in my eyes

stare at the moment

that led me to that space,

in which,

robes undone

mindlessly lying

where they didn’t belong

unclaimed, unwanted

yet devoured and relished.

I’ll take them

To a tailor,

perhaps

or a seamstress, that’s better

to darn the gaping holes

or possibly

restitch together

a patterned, patch-work quilt

Would that help?

The nurse is not

a seamstress

She says she doesn’t know.

I wonder as I,

on this hospital bed,

relive

in every empty moment

thrusts

of ruthless, mocking laughter

my body, that cupboard

now a gargoyle

for refusing

newer waste

Then and now.

Be brave

I’m told

stay strong

the only way to be

Alive.

I am, always was

and yet, now

I do not know

how to live

despite the acerbic breathing

in a prickly world

of sympathetic stares

and inquisitive cares

that dress me

like mouldy, nettled fabric…

…I find all around…

barter after barter

trade after trade

bravery for safety

courage for peace

comfort for silence

blue for grey

red for white

And yellow for an abysmal nude.

It’s tomorrow now…

I’m home

and normalcy rules

in the corridor, lane, road

outside my house.

And in the loud

ringing hollows

of my cupboard,

I shall fold the colours

to tuck them away

in the deepest nook;

I am now learning

to refill the emptiness

and order the chaos

In my pink, hand-crafted cupboard.

*****

ROCK, THE STAR

A rock can be a mountain,

and mountain becomes a rock

when shadows

come ahead of you

and the fiesty Sun behind

grips you at the ankles

it consumes

your smallness

that tallness

then purges

the mountain

and you, the rock.

At that step,

do turn around

and leave

the shadows behind

just run up to the Sun

through sweat and singeing skin

does that change the facts?

For some.

As the shadow then

gets to tail you

and before it

nails you

at the next pile of rubble

you have left 

the mountain far

and you,

the rock

now, a hurtling shooting star.

*****