Thirteen Days

I rearrange the photos I printed of you, 

Two amongst the flowers, one in a frame.

It has been thirteen days since you passed;

Thirteen days, since I called out your name…

I refill the oil in the diya that burns for you,

The flowers in the vases haven’t quite died;

The loss of you seems to have numbed my heart;

But not enough, since I have unevenly cried. 

I used to call you my first-born son;

For my sons, I tried to be the father I never had;

But for each of you, my love was strangely given –

And I know, I know, at times, I made you very sad.

I’m sorry. But I tried my best. 

I have held you in my arms and I have sung to you; 

You wagged your whippy tail then and were glad:

You were my honey-bunch sugar-plum, my sweetie-pie,

Never doubt, I was very proud to be your dad. 

It’s been thirteen days and I can’t let you go;

Your life and death come to me in flashes –

I yet sing to you and will forever more,

Even after having surrendered your ashes. 

Like all my kids that have passed on by,

You shall be somewhere close, some place near; 

And I’ll always sing a song for you, my son,

Because you were and are so very, very dear. 

your book

I was cleaning a drawer
Filled with documents and such.
A book I had stashed away
Peeped out from a corner.

It had your poems and accounts
And an old, faded rose.
I forgot if you or I had saved the bloom,
But your handwriting was enough
To send me into a spiral.

The pages of the book were yellow,
Your words were written in pencil,
Your handwriting curvy
And almost illegible.
It was a struggle;
Then your voice
Shone in the words.

The first paragraph I read
Struck me—like a surprise hug.
It was about a sadness
And a wait—like all of life,
With dried petals caught in between.

You reached out to tell me
The written word means much;
It finds light and memory
Through life’s corners in dirty drawers.

Her Pyre

This time is such
Where free will is bound:
Sickness attests
Air, fire and ground!

Rampant fear of death
Fills society – tears its peace!
#Thesystem is collapsing,
Breaking, piece by piece…

The centre cannot hold,
It whirls like an eddy;
It twists and spews and vents,
It can’t remain steady.

Cries for breath and hope
Gasp and clog the air;
But are warned by powers,
They shouldn’t quite dare.

The world is staring,
As we grovel and plead;
Our leaders are rallying!
But not one can lead…

Losers are vindictive:
They poke and prod and kill,
They incite and lie,
They do what they will.

My country is caving;
Nature has wrought her ire;
If I hadn’t doubted her,
I may have seen her pyre.