Humans of Mornings

A seemingly acrobatic pigeon,
perches on the balcony rail.
It has those unkind canny eyes
and its feather suit all ruffled up,
like pretty Pinko's morning hair
when she undoes the curtains of her perfect abode across the porch.
Sensing no harm,
it brings down its other naily-foot.
And I see bandaging and sews,
on one of the foot fork tooth.
It seems this morning
that humanity persists.
Across the porch,
Pinko brews some tea to his lucky man
and a faded golden ballerina walks by..

The Cook

If there is a God, the master creator, I'd like to refer to her as the master chef. The culinary maestro and the maiden connoisseur knew her salt and spices at best. The stalk to create the marvelous mankind was meticulously chopped, diced and stir-fried with the mix of salt and spices imbibed non-uniformly by the stalk. Her salt was an ingredient and her idea of what the mankind would come to know as 'true love'. And her deliberate non-uniform sprinkling of the mix was her idea of one savoring piquancy and bland in waves, in a pattern similar to those sine waves. The maiden connoisseur made a second-in-command connoisseur, the world, and let it perpetually taste this recipe. And here we are, the world, the second-in-command connoisseur, still baffled and questful in finding the subtleties of the mix of salt and spices in the human-folk recipe; still momentarily savoring some bites sprinkled with the 'true love' salt and still comforting and normalizing our buds with normalcy of blands.. Thats life, pretty much!

Not Tonight

There is a wandering, vagrant loneliness

in this cold night.

The air is sloshed on mist

and trees are all naked

having shed their leafy attire

in bygone days.

Lights see their own reflects

on wet deserted streets.

I pour me a measure of old poor rum.

It comforts

the monotonous feeding memories

of inner tracks.

They don't see the light. Not tonight.

..lets just breathe!

This morning, walking through the forests, I got this feeling they try to portray in those "Life Is.." quotes. It is definitely not the pictures we try to take adjusting those ISOs and exposures in cameras, at places and with postures enacted by millions. It is not being that commonplace guy. It is about "being" in those places, listening to them and letting them master your will. Its about experiencing that force, breathing deep.. and earning a smile from it!

Being!

I love the unsullied honesty of human emotion when the human is just being. The crown of thorns - the gear of an achiever, when taken off, reveals a nakedness of emotion that is the essence of being. The gleaming unfeigned eyes, then, reveal willingness for a real human interaction - the way it naturally is meant to be. We shall be told to run, to watch out, to conquer; but I choose to stop and 'spend' time and ponder the worth of my run for my being. Its a waste! Crazy, how we strive to cut short all of the non-value adding activities which lead to the formation of products and services that, unfortunately, own us but fall short of noticing how the whole idea of these products and services add no value to our being. Where is our desire to live, to be crazy, our willingness to experience other naturally occurring beings, to walk into wilderness, to breathe the morning fogs !

Sometimes!

I still, sometimes, think of her gleaming eyes. Washed in rose-water washed dreams, perceiving the world through iris of beauty, she was a spirit so free!

I still, sometimes, find a hint of that freedom in a few people I meet. I like to think that she somehow touched them and I gratify myself in their presence, her presence!

I still, sometimes, plug in to those songs and like to paint a picture of her in my head with she watching over me and bestowing me with fathoms of emotion to explore, write and sing!

I still, sometimes, hope for her to remain in me after long that I'd let go of her. Things change. People, circumstances, everything.. they change. Let 'us' remain..

Her..

I love the way she sees the trivials.
They see greys,
I see whites and their blacks;
she witnesses colours.
A simple cup of tea that's steaming,
in a milieu of cacophony of lives in rush,
a sun that's beaming and
the time that's fleeing.
They, in rush, chase the time,
I feel the sun's supremacy
and she smiles at translucence of steam,
the exchange of warmth between the cup and her palms
and the sip of mixes that buy the calm..