A Distant Summer

Come on now, won’t you like to feel
That summer breeze again, on young shoulders?
Paddle fast, keep your head down and peel
The rubber off the tires, that smell of the moist grass!
You wanted to win the cake, but turns out
It was all useless anyway, the race a farce,
And your brother, the best man in the world
Gave it to you, even though he won fair and square.

Climbing trees, didn’t you fall?
And although it hurt like hell, the smiles
All around you were genuine enough, to dull
The crimson drops of pain, thorns removed,
You simply got up and started climbing again;
Where on the topmost branch lay the eternal view:
A horizon far away, the sun and nothing for miles
Except love, memories, one day to be nostalgia. 

And later, wouldn’t it be nice to head back in?
Grandma with her hair tied neat in a bun, she cooks
Apple pies, and her cat purrs, scratching her shin
And irritated, she gives her old legs a shake, her glasses
Come off her right ear and dangle midair,
As the cat still has its claws in her cooking gear.
Later she’ll call out, right before sunset,
And you all will gather in her garden, sipping tea,
Munching on the pies, silly jokes and eternal glee.

Anonymous Bystander

Mourners walk weeping quietly at the town square,
As a little girl in a velvet dress offers roses
To the people who don’t bother to stop.
Others sit around benches, enjoying the fountain
And waiting for the sunset.
The air at the square is thick now, as the hospital janitors
Bum a cigarette after their shift;
While the town lunatic jumps around in joy
On being handed a few green notes by a generous lady.
An excited couple argue in whispers while sipping coffee,
As the street musician plays his favourite Beatles song
To an audience of five tourists.
Alone, a lady with tattoes on her arms cries staring at her phone,
While beside her two loud businessmen share an anecdote.
And I, with nothing to do, stare on till the tattoed lady
Gets uncomfortable and asks me if I’m upto any good.
I apologise, and walk on towards the bar.

Years Later

I’ve been walking alone at night for years now,
With nothing but the Moon by my side.
The hills, the woods, the towns are new every day;
Yet like the damp soil, they don’t change much at all.
And sometimes I get cold under a tree.

I wanna run but I’m too weak now and I realize
It is impossible to run away from this ugly skin.
But they say it’s dry and cracked and bleeding,
So I’ll hope I slowly ooze out of it, like pus.
But I won’t lie, I’ve met some kind people too.

It’s not that great to be always walking
And now and then I can stop to watch
A sunset or children play or some people protesting.
But the moment passes, and I have to walk again,
For I have nothing else to do, really.

I don’t know who keeps these heavy rocks
On my chest while I sleep, but I’ve grown used to it.
Sometimes I find myself as a two year old girl, barefoot,
Standing alone in a corridor as someone familiar
Opens the door, and the bright snow pours inside.

Everything seems okay then, I feel homely;
But then I wake up, with a rock on my chest.
It’s been so long I’ve forgotten how you look, but I’m sure
You’ll still recognise me if we bump into each other again.
Till then I’ll just keep on walking, and try not to bother anyone.

Lovely Lucy

Lovely Lucy

Lovely Lucy, tired of pretending to be asleep

Crawls out and lingers about her bed;

Indulging for a moment in a reverie where sheep,

Donning colourful garments made of human flesh forget

The point of it all and decide to play a game

In which they follow Mr. Red  (‘The fat one’)  in a file

As he circles the big sundial, marked nine to five,

In a proud gait – evidently aware of his fame.

Here, the chance ringing of a neighbour’s doorbell

Jerks Lucy out of the dream, into the congested beehive

Of her block and leaves her stranded before the sink,

Where Lucy brushes her lovely teeth in her nightgown pretty pink.

 

 

Meeting a Street Urchin

On an orange summer afternoon I met you;

Then a stranger to the city, I was, when you found me

Among all the scrambling silhouettes you beheld.

Naysayers might call it luck, but certainly

I am not optimistic enough to call it fate.

I was intoxicated on other’s dreams,

While you were one getting acquainted with regret.

At the city square, where eternally the hypnotised fret,

I inadvertently pretended to be different;

And pity, you were desperate enough to believe

That for you this deranged soul was meant.

With those glittering black eyes you enchanted me,

Your young skinny hand reached out,

Covered in dust, it was yellow; glowing bright

In the red swan-song of the fading daylight.

I was compelled to stop; possessed by your sight

I waited, for I was certain you would speak.

But no innocent voice emerged from thin bruised lips;

No begging for help; food or alms you did not seek.

Your silence blared among the bedlam around us.

You stood beside me and your hand – the magic wand

Though dilapidated, did still manage to possess.

Alas, I was hesitant in my response, kept observing you

For what was, quite evidently, too long a time.

And then the moment was gone; you withdrew.

Some other hypnotised being passed us by,

Perhaps for you, she ostensibly had a less unsure gait.

And off running you went behind her;

As I watched you follow yet another bait.

Anonymous Bystander

July 2nd, 2015