Boxed In

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My eyes are rheumy

My heart’s gloomy

Everything poses a question

Why do they tell you what’s best for you

And box your wants in a prison.

 

“What do you hope?”

“Let go of the rope.”

“Get out, find your passion!”

“You won’t know until you go.”

But there is always a condition.

 

“Do what is ‘right’.”

“Come back on time.”

“Get your grades in order!”

There are no answers that they might have

There is only confusion.

 

 

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That lonely stump in the park

those ringing sounds of the dark

lifeless leaves on the bottom of your shoe

make up a song of fright and gloom

a rant, and maybe a terminal note

that spiral the tiny ball in your throat

that burrow far from the good-natured sky

like slouched soldiers on the sly.

 

Oh, rip that piece of paper

and don’t let those hands waver

for the fledglings of joy will soon stop by

cancel the noise like the songs that got you by.

 

I know you’ll rise from under this rock

pick up your head and walk

give me a list of all the things you like

and I’ll give you one of mine

if it is the conversations that you crave

if it will bring a smile to your face

we’ll talk about the bits and bobs you want to buy

heckle and joke, watch the time fly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hills, hamlets, hikes

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The air ringed in her ears and with every step she grew more amused. Every time she stopped to catch her breath she smiled on spotting a multicolored patch on the hillside. Now, more than ever, she longed to meet those who always had a cot and tea ready. To talk to those with a spare lamp and many a story. She trundled on.
The ridge was coloured a wonderful green. The low warble of the cool air carried a song she could see. Of women and men, of girls and boys and children. Each new day brought with it a new tale – of courage and honesty. Of mistakes, learning, and civility. Of love and family.  This is how she became the one who fell for no boy but a vill amidst the verdant hills…and this became her story.

 

Midnight snacking

In a dusty corner of a small mezzanine is a scrap of paper scribbled with poetry. Sea Fever by John Masefield – is a friend that is around when it’s  hard to sleep. So here goes:

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
                                And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

The Horegallu

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Photo courtesy of flickr.com

 The blisters on his hands were beginning to smart; his appearance bedraggled from the day’s hard labour. It was getting harder to continue by the minute. Then he saw it. A canopied Horegallu in the middle of the road, an earthen pot kept beside it. He hoped that a kind soul would have filled it with water, for he had waited long enough to slake his thirst. He sat down, glad that the pot wasn’t empty. The water was like a balm for his parched lips and a panacea for his sore throat. He exchanged hackneyed concerns about the weather with a fellow sojourner. The sun glistened the trail with a golden filter.  The same sun had been pouring fire a while ago.  He was going to embark upon the same path, with renewed strength and hope. He had decided to halt before the last straw could break the proverbial camel’s back. He was happy that he did.

A Horegallu is a stone-bench in villages, which tired travelers often use for resting. Inspired by an anecdote in the book The Old Man and His God by Sudha Murty.

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Time

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But time…how time first grounds us and then confounds us. We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe, we imagined we were being responsible when we were only being cowardly. What we called realism turned out to be a way of avoiding things rather than facing them. Time…give us enough time and our best-supported decisions will seem wobbly, our certainties whimsical.

Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending