An Evening in Spring

Patio

As I sit tired on the dilapidated patio of my thought
On a fickle chair of an unsteady , rickety, memory,
Feet tired after a long trudge through the forest,
Darkened by shadows that mercilessly haunt,
Where wind chimes sound like storms on my fragile heart,
As they hit the tall, erect trees that shriek, then retreat,
None by my side, except you in my fear cluttered mind.
Then-
The sunlight then warms my benumbed to contemplate,
Touch with crimson rays on the windowsill of my naiveté,
Nudging through fences now bending in shadows stretched,
Bubbles now pale white, transverse, bright and indigo red,
Energized leaves streaming green, voltaic, photosynthesized,
Lilac, violet, spectral colors imaging your lofty reflect,
Spectral hues of my hope in a meditative riot.

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An invitation which never came…

My spouse informed me a fortnight ago that my old friend Joel was seen in the neighbourhood inviting people in person for his daughter’s wedding. As Joel was my school mate and my bosom friend for three decades, as I had portrayed to my family, we were certain that he would invite us. Joel had done exceptionally well in life, I somehow had lagged behind. However, we reasoned that friendhip was beyond the pale of success stories. In my conversations at home, I was very proud of being his childhood friend.

In anticipation of the invitation, I decided to have my best suit drycleaned… and windowshopped for what could be a good wedding gift for a little girl I had seen grow into a beautiful young lady. I imagined myself among the front row invitees.

I waited for Joel’s car to draw up outside my little home and my spouse sympathetically hoped that Joel would remember to call me.
Joel forgot, perhaps. Joel ignored me perhaps. The wedding date skipped me, deliberately or in memory lapse.

What remains is my drycleaned suit and my dusty perception of friendship. And the silence at the dinner table.

Grit…

You say I know not,
I know, I cope cannot.
In your mind, I cease to exist,
In my mind, you just desist.
Striving my best,
Tired in the least,
Being nice in the most,
Helplessness at its worst,
I shall smile yet,
That is my shameless grit,
Struggling to earn a toast,
Unfulfilled hope so distant,
Make you proud, if I might
An Average student’s mite.

Returning Home

Rocks, Bricks, Clay, lore,
Hopes in every sweaty pore,
Mason’s laughter echoing,
Carpenter’s brags ricocheting ,
Flues of corridors of dreams,
Thoughts unfettered in reams,
As snakes and mongoose fight
Territory all, in hollowed fright,
Leaves scurry at the lurch screech,
Intellect lost to an innocent niche,
A coy glance, you cross the steps,
It is all memory , a trance in trips,
I flee , in ecstasy, in haste ,
I prefer to live in my past.

I am a Slow Learner

As you talk all around the dinner table,
I cannot comprehend that which you elucidate.
I cannot understand , they are all disjointed syllables.
I listen, I sincerely strive to know. It is all hollow.
I yearn to be on your level field. I aspire empty.
Now helpless, I look down at the disarray of my thought.
I pretend to eat but deep within, I really want to cry.
I cannot, because I am a man though a child in your eyes.
As you laugh, I smile in instinct to preserve to earn approval.
I am standing at the base of the flue , of the chimney.
I desire to be you. I know I cannot be you.
I am just me.
Me and my rage.
All that I see is the hope in your eye.

Mountains of Thoughts

Brittle, wind combed,
Imbalanced rocks, unolled,
Dark brown with the heat-
Of time, tested but tanned,
Worried at incessant thought,
In torrent and in magnitude,
Hesitant in gallop, rapid,
Wild, ecstasied, unbridled,
Unlocked drifters so hurried,
Running out of caverns blind
Onto the plains damp and wet,
Now the wait for quietude.

Moving Away

Steps on heated sands,
Long strides, sprints,
Cooled only by your teardrops,
Your longings, shadows,
Shields from the rays,
The desert airs, aromatic,
Perfumed by your scent,
Your hesitant nimbleness,
Locks of spray that fill,
The oasis of my heart,
I shall return another day,
For our quiet, unspoke meet,
Till then just that glance,
Which pierces to pain.