Watch and listen to a reading of the poem by me
As the hour counter starts again at zero hour,
a new day* begins, like a bead on a long string
half colored Yang while the remaining half as Yin.
In a little more than eighty six thousand seconds**
the colors though will transform into a single one –
some days it is Yin but on others it is Yang.
Each tomorrow began yesterday with a dream,
that was probabilities going this or that way
but all together making up the final one,
ending in this or that by the end of today!
So life becomes an endless string of Yin and Yang,
where each day tends to be just like the previous one,
while once in a blue moon the color shifts and then
the same design starts again until the next change!
* A new day can also begin with the sunrise (Oriental) or sunset (Islamic),
depending upon the culture.
** The number of seconds has been rounded down to the nearest thousand.
If I had wings,
I too would seek the refuge of
the woods in an island
far away from
all human treks and habitats,
like those vampire finches
in the Galapagos!
as it is said for them,
a hurricane might take me there!
I would have an island,
teeming with birds and beasts,
all to myself!
This someday, I wonder if that is not
another of my lame reasons to justify
the cruel slings and arrows of a calamitous time
and the making of a scepter from two pennies and a dime!
This is officially my first collaboration. I am fortunate to be able to do it with Dajena, one of the most imaginative poets I have come across in WP. Take a look at her blog @ MOONSKITTLES for both poetic delights and enlightenment.
Your thoughts flower sweetly in our hearts
For flower bud, your name was given to you.
Mother full of devotion, care and grace.
Loving the sick, the broken widow, the poor.
A white flower hemmed in blue, a rosebud
born during the dying days of an empire,
amid chaos, upheaval, bloodshed and genocide,
then as a Loreto in Bengal you arrived!
Your light shone right away, with kind acts.
Your words inspired, hands healed, smiles rejoiced.
The life you lead, a lighthouse of Holy Scrolls.
Actions of love you gifted to all the broken souls.
O mother, O dear mistress of the Holy Son,
your calling came amid the din of partition
to be a servant of the poorest of the poor
and make the destitute leper your kith and kin!
But soon a rousing wind began to lash
its’ tongue against your stance on abortion
and your affinity with the top echelon,
propagated by people, happy in doing naught;
people, who as soon as something is being done
must cry aloud, admonishing its forms and thoughts!
Woe, such bitter tongues did not even spare Yash’wa
but with your heart pledged to him, it was natural!
Your ardor to our Lord, inspires young and old.
Your life led by the light, a crown of our world.
When we feel like we’re just a drop in grand ocean
your words urge to find meaning within.
Icon of compassion, poor and disadvantaged,
your love crosses borders, defies casts.
Your Albanian roots, you never forgot
nor your mother’s piety and urges to love.
Earthly goods meant nothing to you
for your treasure was nothing but God.
Throughout life your love for the poor had never ceased to flow,
thus in death too you shine from where the eternal beings glow!
*Agnes Gonxhe Bojaxhiu is Mother Theresa’s full name. Gonxhe means a bud of flower in Albanian.
The wind once more smells of the distant sea,
as last night’s petrichor bemoaned a hazy dream.
In that dream I saw palaces succumb
to the inevitable beats of time’s ancient drums,
almost like a metaphor of my life,
churning white foam in the throes of a foolish strife!
For the rain I throw my windows ajar
and let the cascading drops trace my benumbed skin,
it never fails to make me remember
those monsoon days when I was alive with a dream!
Is that the wind’s groan I hear all around
or my heart’s refusal to accept destiny?
How much do I owe my life to that sound,
I must know for once and all to set myself free!
Is there a tongue, favored by the Creator,
a language dearer than the rest to God?
Sanskrit perhaps, the voice of the oldest of Faiths
or perhaps Aramaic, Hebrew or Arabic
but that would have been so ungodly and partial,
for why not Tamil or the Sumerian archaic!
Has not the Omnipotent created us all
with love, in kindness, both the great and small?
What is the language of a human soul?
In which tongue does a consciousness reproach?
In the given subject’s mother tongue, one might say
but conscience predates the spoken language, so nay!
‘Tis both common and eternal, more akin to numbers,
for that alone, my friends, can be God’s true vernacular!