#21: As Times Change

Many a day I have spent on shelves,

In all her homes, from her current one to her past

My bright red spine a clear reminder

Of the stories, the adventures I hold

Long forgotten tales waiting to be told.

And though many more books have come and gone,

To her, I am a memory of the times

When simple stories, with clear morals

Was just what would suffice to make sense

Of dilemmas, of challenges that seemed too intense.

But that was from a different time.

Life now seems to be a lot more complex

With many rights and even more wrongs

As she struggles to find some answers, some hope,

In the fleeting images of life’s kaleidoscope.

In the confusion and the weariness that now prevails

I have been a witness to her struggle with words

When she writes, when she speaks

And of late even when she thinks

Of ways and means to fill the missing links.

Last month she picked me up one last time

Seeking comfort as one might in a tattered quilt

But when one has lost one’s own voice and speech

No authors’ words or lines would ever

Deliver any meaning, no matter how clever.

While it’s been hard to say goodbye

To the shelf, to those hands that held me with love

It does make sense that she now seeks solace

In a box of dry pastels, 20 shades no less

Offering her the potential to sort through the mess.

I can see now she is making space

In her life, on her desk to find time to play

With colours, more than words unlike the old times

Tiny doodles making way to art on A3 sheets

That's perhaps the place where confusion and clarity meet.

And though I am resigned to a future in a second-hand store,

Not sure when I will find a friendship like hers,

I do wish that over time, the colours you hold

Will help her escape from words that bind

And march forth with hope, leaving despair behind.

(Prompt : A letter from something I have thrown to something I purchased recently) 

#19 Poetry with my name

Vignette of my life 

Inscribed in the days  of this month sliding  by 

"Jumbled words from a forgotten script 

Jostling to find their space in the sun 

Inadvertently creating poetry!"

   

#6: How to write a poem

Live.

Live fully with your eyes smiling a welcome 

To every moment, every person

That nudges you out of your comfort zone 

Leaving you feeling exposed to the strange world outside.

And in that nakedness, choose words that will envelop you tight 

Like that quilt you hug close on a cold winter night. 

Pause.

Pause for just one moment or maybe a million

In between all the conversations, the chatter 

The running, the caring, the goofing, 
the ticking off items from the endless to-do-lists. 

And in that pause, 

unscramble those lines in your mind, 

Until some meaning you begin to find. 

Listen. 

Listen to the beating of your heart

When it feels joy, or love or anticipation.

And specially when it feels fear,

That makes you want to crawl into a tiny, tiny cave 

And as the heartbeat fills the silence of the cave

Tap out a rhythm that can give voice to your heart

To march out of the darkness & make a fresh start. 

Tune in. 

Tune into the voice that is only yours,

Into the life that only you have lived ,

Into those bundled up emotions that you hold in your hands

That look so horribly messed up, 

But to your eyes, make complete sense

And in that tuning in, 

Find the lines that hesitatingly connect the dots
between the dreams and the despairing thoughts. 

In that living.

Listening 

Pausing 

Tuning in,

Write that poem that's seeking you. 

Write like you don't really care.

Write like it means everything to you. 

Write like its the first time you are speaking to the world.

Write like its the last thing you'll ever say.

And in your writing, when the poem starts to flow, 

Hold it close as long as you want, 

Knowing that soon it'll be time to let go. 

#4 How can I ever do this....

"For nothing now can ever come to any good"

From inside the gremlin screamed 

"100 poems in one frigging year,

Now that's a ridiculous dream. 

In between all those meetings and work

Sandwiched by long commutes each day 

The countless chores, the endless roles, 

Writing poems is a dumb pursuit I say."

I sat quite still, my mind seemingly feeling 

what the gremlin says is true 

100 poems is an impossible target when there's limited Poetry inside you. 

Maybe I did set my aims too high

Maybe the ask of the last prompt was too tall 

How do I create something for the last line of a poem I read 

When I don't read much poetry at all!

So I sat quite blank with the gremlin's rant, 

Not knowing whether to choose relief or cry 

Thinking there is no point really 

When even the deadline has gone by

And with reaching passing hour, 

Even as my self-doubt grew, 

Over the gremlin's rant,  another voice whispered  

"Maybe, just maybe - that's not true"

(Line from WH Auden's Funeral blues")