Ninety Nine Percent

Teach me instead about peacetime,

the chaps who did not go to war,

the peasant folk who stayed at home,

who tilled the land and manned the store.

Tell me about the millions who

toiled ceaselessly, but left no mark.

The doormen of old neighbourhoods.

The fishermen out in the dark.

Spell out the history of small men

whose footsteps wore out cobblestones -

the mason, the cook, occupations

that did not involve crowns and thrones.

Speak of the ninety nine percent,

and tell me how their lives were spent.

Unpin

I am stabbed by questions. Questions.

You’ll get a different set.

Will you remember to write home,

will you text, or forget?

Those who start with new beginnings

from moorings must unpin.

Will you pivot from everything?

shred the old like a worn skin?

Face forward, onward, be fearless,

never a shooting star.

Be steady and rise, step by step,

but don’t forget who you are -

forgetting the tap roots, and address,

doesn’t make for peace, or happiness.

Visit visa

Somewhere between the junk mail and the spam,

the old coffee ring and jingling doorbell,

between the clicks and cookies is where I am

and the form's a boiled bullfrog in a spell;

in the crumbs of breakfast rolls and plum jam,

the nervous laughter summed in a nutshell,

huge search portals and old blinking programmes,

algorithms that don't travel very well.

A time slot please, for the biometrics,

the photo must be 2'' X 2",

take off the specs, not sure about the lipstick,

a clean background, spotless white is preferred.

Don't look for greys, don't say even a word,

look at the lens, there's no need to flinch.

News from nowhere

You know, I can’t say exactly where I am

but here the skies at night are bright with stars,

the earth is deep and cold against my scars

and though I’ve lost the map, I’m far from home –

the tents glow in the dark like low burning flames

flickering small in alabaster lamps.

You can call it a milestone, this lonely camp

or just another pit stop on the way,

a different northern route to get back someday

and I’ll go back to you, from where I came.

Everything will have utterly changed meanwhile

and yet everything will still be the same –
faded handprints on our walls and doorframes.

My feet on the flagstones. The thrill of your smile.

Well, I'm so glad January is over, it's been rough. Not just for me personally, but also for a lot of people I know, online and off. Relieved to get through without any major damage. 

As in most other years, I'll be doing my own version of love poems to mark the month, though I'm not a big believer in V-day. Love is kind of an everyday thing around here, if you know what I mean. Like a low grade fever. You're not in bed flailing around focussed on being delirious and blind, being plied assiduously with chicken soup and ginger tea. Nope. Just that your eyes are glittery and/or swimmy, your pulse is a tad faster, your entire perspective a bit heightened. But you're going about filing documents and filling up the fuel tanks just as usual. 

It's a nonstop party inside even when the mask looks stern and the hands are smeared with some nameless gunk.  Because the heart is nearly always festooned with tinsel and with those fairy lights which won't stop twinkling. It too, is like a candle behind impassive, translucent stone, for the want of a better analogy.  The glow of love and gratitude and amazement doesn't always show up from outside, but I assure you, it's always there.

Happy February!