Ode to a Pen

A river flows through this pen.

Dull, plasticky, dog-chewed, a dirty shade of gray.

It is so ordinary in appearance,

one might say

it could be missed

as one does the pole star

on a typical night.

 

And then.

It decides to construct an alphabet.

 

These constellations

-some call them words,

meet in deep watery privacy

and build stories

history is too small

to record.

 

Yet.

The pen remembers.

The ties and lies

of them that we loved

and them that we lost.

The consumed stale bread,

the overflowing bins of the well fed.

The smell of earth drenched in rain,

the puzzled look of parting- was it pain? 

The wild laughter of the seventy year old man

hugging the son he thought were dead.

That exact point

when the plot changed.

 

The dull, plasticky pen

knows some truths.

At times,

persons’ plunge down with a flame.

Perhaps, to sift

these truths in the river bed.

 

The other day, brother,

you got a letter.

It came from this pen.

Strangely, you asked for an email.

Color Blind

She woke up

to a full moon,

and saw colors

everywhere.

Blinded,

She slept again.

 

 

(I drew this piece in dry pastels when I was visualizing how we work with multiple emotions that color our lives- somehow the month of March being the festive colorful season of Holi in India, I just couldn’t resist the temptation of posting this!)

 

 

Traveling Light

He takes what he gets,

and carries nothing.

 

A traveler without a suitcase,

wearing just a smile and a song.

 

He tells a compelling tale,

and draws his audience.

Moving on even as they are moved.

 

For in his world,

there are no waiting rooms,

and no walls.

 

He spins a tender yarn

not to deceive,

just to please

at that moment.

Cleared out as a habit.

 

He has his mates.

They are all special.

He does not differentiate.

Yet he wakes up alone.

 

There is a tiny space.

It hides

in the shadows of crowds,

of honeyed words,

of floating clouds.

 

Just one small little fragment

that opens to the skies.

This is his temple

and he,

a priest,

wandering in the land he created.

 

I was with him once.

I saw his story

as he flipped through mine.

 

Lover, I,

intoxicated, bewildered, thrilled, distracted.

Before

I made myself absent

like a disappearing rainbow

I gave him a gift.

A walk that is blind.

 

My ink’s not dry yet.

The tide’s turned.

 

Traveler he,

did he give himself a chance?