Mosquito - is it a Zen master ?!

( A child's rhyme )

Bzzz….. Bzzz.... Bzzzz…

Here comes a mosquito 

in its fine tuxedo 

Strutting its tiny beak,

that’s by no means weak, 

Dropping in sans warnings

flapping its tiny wings

Enjoying a sip without a care

From all beings unaware.

Dodging clapping hands,

dancing to its own merry bands

"Of what use is this tiny insect

That looks of the harmless kind

And doesn’t wait for you to inspect 

But’s never swept away in the wind?" 

you may complain

once and twice and 

time and again.

But mosquitoes belong 

to a certain Zen sect,

I now confess, I suspect . 

They distract you from the sorrows 

of your mind's creation and harrows

you to focus your energies on the present 

in a meditative, calculated vent

while they extort a chase from you,

and they duck you 

until you give up trying 

or they fall dying.

Edited by the husband, Mr. Kurup

Aparajitha - a wild blue flower

She is a little blue flower that
grows in the wild

and not in any garden
for she is born to a lanky vine,

whom no gardener plants

for she is an untamed one,
a hippie ,
who awaits no care -

from anyone ,

still 
lives with passion and rage -
making unbridled love to the sun by day
and the moon by night.

She is a little blue flower that
finds no place in a garland
for she doesn’t fit 
into what the world calls as beautiful
"Why, she doesn't have
the form of a flower
but turns out shamelessly
in sizzling blues -

nothing but an object of lust

Keep her away,

our men are unhinged ,

around this enchantress,

who even intoxicates the dewdrops

that seeps into her",

condemned the world

They are right -

the solitary flower, 

is more sensuous 

than 

any pretty rose can ever be 

She is a little blue flower

unwelcome in parties -

a daughter

born out of wedlock 
to an unchaste plant, 

who loves wildly ,

without a care for the world

that looks on ,

furtively

PS: Thanks to my editor friend ,poet Ravi Shankar N , for editing the poem purely out of goodwill , seeking nothing in return (https://www.facebook.com/ra.sh.581)

Date with a chemist

I once went on a date with a chemist
I did not know what to talk about,
and so I carried a box of cinnamon with me,
to talk about cinnamon
lest we didn’t find a thing to talk about.

I did a good thing by carrying the cinnamon
he told me stories about cinnamon, and
how to find real cinnamon,
how it must taste,
and the aftertaste it leaves.

I gifted him the best cinnamon stick in the box,
it was 3 inches long
he honored me by accepting it
and I came back chewing on one of the rest.

I did not fall in love with the chemist
but I fell in love with cinnamon
and this, I know, is a bond to last
though I may never meet the chemist again 

******************************************************************
Chemical composition of the poem is as follows:
40% anecdotal
30% poetry
10% imagination
9% idle time
1% attention seeking behavior of yours truly :D

The Eyes

( This poem was written by a dear friend - my dear friend is now buried deep somewhere - I don't care much about the body, but the spirit - I worry if that would have rotten too - the cruelty of deadly viruses - known or unknown, recognized or unrecognized, identified or unidentified, owned or disowned, immune or vulnerable  - may the afterlife does not disappoint him - bless his soul! Here is my tribute to one and all of the CoVid victims! )


Those were not eyes
But unfathomable
Oceans
Of sadness
Still, dark, deep
Brimming over…

Those were not eyes
But the breaking
Of a Soul,
Grieving
Over the pieces
Of a broken heart…

Those were not eyes
But the flowering
Of Love
Awaiting
The moist breath
Of endless yearning…

Those were eyes
Of hope
And despair

Those were eyes
Of fullness
And emptiness

Those were eyes
Of light
And darkness

Those were eyes
Of passion
And consummation

Those were eyes
That held a
Mirror
To my Soul…

Those were eyes
That opened
Mine

Those were eyes

That's now 

Shut forever

Walking away

 

I dressed my best
to my sweetheart’s nest;
with roses on hair,
I cleaned the candle’s burnt-wick -
so you see me shine ,
like a diamond, rare.
While l lay like moonshine in a chalice

brimming over with yearning to reach your lips,

you looked away,
like there was more to say
about women faraway,
who shone better.
Later once,
You asked me,
“I had a blinded sight,
give me one more night.
will you shine bright,
for another night ?”
“No,” I said,
"There doesn’t remain,
any moonshine for another night;
the chalice broke- the same night ;
the nectar trickled away,
like blood from the womb of unconsummated love.
The longing sometimes, my darling,
is what's more beautiful,
than the union.
Let there be
no more night
with candle light,
to tell me that,
I don’t shine bright"

Fragments, unstrung

I am no musician,
neither did I want to be one,
until I heard somebody's music play,
on my way to death.
Not a famous piece,
to have reached me sooner ,
I heard it drift through
somebody’s windows distant,
on my way to death.
Maybe it did not mean anything to anyone else,
But it was an antidote to a dying heart - 

my young heart, that had given up.
I want to thank its creator,
But he might have long been dead.
How many musical pieces have died a death
on its climb to esteem, breathless .
Let me be a janitor ,
where musicians meet-
to pick up broken pieces of music ,
the ones they discard,
the ones breathless.
I am no musician,
but ,
let me dust my guitar and fix the strings ;
I’ll not let any piece of music die -
die an early death -
the music that its creator gave up on,
cursing to death ;
I’ll sing it by my windowsill ;
it may mean nothing to you,
but perhaps ,
it may reach someone ,
who is on his way to death -
that may even be a descendant of yours or mine,
born a hundred years from now.
what bigger reward,
than,
bringing someone back to life ,
though I may long be dead by then

A story of 3 eggs

 

Today was a day of great satisfaction, dear all, today was a day of great revelations and hope.


So while the kiddos were playing and i was looking on, our grocer Janaki came out of her shop with a tray of eggs. There must have been two dozens of egg in it. I got distracted by the unusual greenness of the trees around and my attention turned to the kids when they made some jubilant noise. "Amma, a crow 'flied' away with an egg"- they showed me evidence of the empty niche and also pointed to a far away tree to what looked like a squirrel to my myopic eyes . Very soon a Bali-kakka (the completely black crow unlike the Kaavathi-kakka ) swooped down to prove the kiddos right, patrolled near the tray, looked at the left and the right in a clean 45 degree shift of the head and in a gentle sweep, carried another egg in between its curvaceous beak and flew away again. I was too excited to respond - how many in their lifetime would have been blessed by the rare sight..?! Janaki's business was of lesser significance to me than the crow's - pardon me  We watched the third sweep of the egg as well in astonishment when Janaki came out and took the effing tray in giving the kiddos a suspicious look 

Dear homies, wherever u are now, whichever egg tray you are sitting in right now, have the belief that - at the meeting point of many coincidences, before u enter somebody's refrigerator, some crow may come to pick you up.  Now, don't you ask me how you'll be benefited if any crow picks you up. You'll at least not end up in a frying pan - crows don't cook their food :D