Tell Me How

This one is for my mother. She is 75 and with the spirit of a teen.

She used to be extremely happy not so long ago- at least she seemed so.

But she isn’t anymore and I don’t know what to do. I do not know how to heal all the hurt which she has been carrying around.

If I could I would
open you like a suitcase
and unpack
all the hurt
folded and wedged
in every available space
that you keep
arranging and rearranging
everyday for some journey you can’t force yourself to take
and re-pack it
with rainbows and
eight- pointed stars.

His Side of the Story.

Twenty Words Tuesday by Bulbul- Week 33

Story

Nobody heard his story. So he scrawled it on the dustmotes that came through the single window of his cell.

Leena

Pic credit : Alarmy.

Pony Tail

I don’t know what this tree is.

Google lens did not give me a match.

Looking up at this cluster reminded me of hair tied up in a ponytail.

Weird ?

I remember the game I used to play when my mother sat on the deck chair in the garden, with her long hair in a ponytail hanging over it’s back, reading books.

I would wiggle my head through her hanging strands and arrange her hair around my face claiming them as mine.

I loved long hair then. Years down the lane, life got in the way, and I found it’s care consuming a lot of my time.

That’s how I opted for a short and low maintenance style.

Cyclone Tauktai

The wind asks the cherry tree
to wake me up
by rapping on my window
with its overgrown branch.
It wants me to judge the orchestra
with the air around
as one colossal woodwind instrument
played by the inept fingers and mouth
of the trees and windows left open.
The sound that they produce
is similar to the wailing
of a mother who lost
all her children
and not a symphony
as he wants it to be.

Old Church

Old church painting from Pinterest Lilly Jordan

I took my city dreams to bed.
After a night of passion,
we lie side by side
languid fingers
tracing the contours of my soul
I know what I seek
does not exist in that time warp.
Now, the phantom that you see
opening a portal
back to that old church steeple
is me.

Death Cried

Even though I am not politically inclined, I couldn’t help posting the above image, as I have been seeing some people still not accepting that the governance failed and things spun out of hand.

Everyday, I get to hear the death of a friend or an acquaintance, often young and without any co-morbidities.

All I am left with are unanswered whys and hows.

I saw death crying
in the corridor,
of the hospital,
leaning on the
shoulder of the soul
he came to collect,
overwhelmed
by the pyres
that burned
from daylight
through nightfall
& the silent cries
of the spirits
with none
to hold their hand
as they gasped