Category Archives: tribute

THE LAST DANCE

 

If looking through your window in the rain doesn’t move you, or even looking at this picture doesn’t touch you, then you need to see me for evaluation.

Finally I have seen it all

I have seen all the seasons of life

All different kinds of people

I have learnt all there is to know

 

Time to dance to the last rain

 

Gradually these clouds gather

Heavy nimbus clouds

Carefully in formation

These kinds don’t come by accident or regularly

These dark clouds over my estate only

They snigger playfully, sardonically, as they march in place

And soon some sweet little rain drops show

They trek carefully down my windowpane

In sync with those down my cheek

In-between these drops I see seasons of my life gone by

 

In-between these rain drops

I count the many blessings I have enjoyed in my short living

I see the many smiles that have wrinkled my old handsome face

The bright mornings I woke up happy and strong

The sweet quiet times strolling in the midnight

The awards and honours to a distinguished psychiatrist

Who has seen the chaos of men’s souls and survived

The wealth I have amassed and shared

 

In-between these tear drops

I count the many sorrows I have suffered in my short life

I see the many frowns that have wrinkled my old gravely face

The grey mornings I have felt like lying all day crying in bed

The loud weary times toiling away in the sun

The dilemmas and confusions of a chronic shrink

Who has not remained the same after seeing the mind’s darkness

The heartbreaks I have amassed and caused

 

I say no word

It is loud enough as it is

I am still quiet and peaceful

Totally at ease with the clouds in my world

I have cleared my house and sorted out my affairs

The stage is wide-set and the audience seated

They wait happily for my debut

For how I dance as I exit

At the applause of a million showers of the last rain

____________________________________________________

BACKGROUND: I find myself recently constantly wondering how actually short life is. For anyone like me who runs a tight schedule (and I can count many of you that I have met), you occasionally scold yourself for not stopping to breathe or enjoying happier moments than when you have just completed some project and soon you define your moments by your professional/work accomplishments. It’s only occasionally we do this because we are way too busy to even indulge in such thoughts. We soon are lost in our “slavings-away”. For all the drama and activities we go through as humans, the whole story seems so short and pretty incomplete for a movie producer to even make a timeless classic from.

Here’s a little reminder and toast to the fact. A reminder that itself will not last long. A reminder that will be gone and forgotten with the first drop of the next rain over my little tropical city.

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In Humble Tribute To Myself

image

(I could only manage a shot at the house with my crappy phone camera lens.)

A long and dark road to the house at the end of the road…
Let’s pretend the house is called ‘soliteon’.

Without the use of grand words from my end to help you, just try to imagine the most extreme degree of solitude possible for a house. It is totally removed from the township. We stumbled across this piece that appears like a happy firefly in the distant night when our car broke down in “the middle of nowhere”. We trudged towards the dimly lit soliteon naturally hoping to find relief from the dead night. Tropical night, winds were blowing and rain was threatening as the clouds gathered. Some of us were so desperate we were prepared to evict the home owner if push came to shove.

(Who would blame them when humans naturally would more likely cut off a friend if (s)he was an extra weight than allow themselves be dragged down?)

I wonder though what they were thinking. Evict the owner, occupy soliteon till dawn, restore the owner with an apology, and just be off on their way… ? Do they think this is just another fiction?
Truth be told we were just seven strangers to any hermit who might be occupying that house and we weren’t sure (s)he’d take kindly to humans (s)he was living away from. But, a heavy tropical rain in the night of nowhere!?!

Peeking through a window, I, the only writer and most curious in the group, observed the lord of the soliteon who seemed like a

A very normal person as relaxed and comfortable in a house not structurally different from other houses internally.

There was no oddity or paucity of dressing, blank expression or deeply furrowed brows. His hair not a messy mass of twines. There was no beard like that of a wise old goat or long curved fingernails on this vicenarian. He apparently paid attention to pedicure too. And he was not dressed in leopardskin or humanskin.
Shame!

His chair was tilted backwards at a precarious angle as a heavy-duty headset probably boomed steadily into his ears. I wondered what sort of song could be playing there. He seemed totally at ease.
After a while, he’d set the chair down and put his fingers to writing; then he’d talk as if to someone else besides himself. For all I know the house could be a haunted one -not just the typical one with eerily whistling winds and mists crawling from one shadowed corner to the other.
He seemed totally queer and ordinary at the same time.

Oh my word! I could swear I heard another voice. No kidding. The closest person to me also heard it. The voice appeared to come from the sitting room where the soliteon lord was sitting. He’d communicate with the voice, the voice would respond, then he’d write.

The rain screamed closer on us.

I conferred with my colleagues and, in view of the talking voice alone, we decided to knock on the door….
___________________________

BACKGROUND: Sometimes, in the dead of the night at my hospital quarters, I’d get up to stroll out, enjoy the midnight plants, animals and weather; and meditate on life and all things sweet and true.
When returning, I’d see my room dimly lit in the dark distant environ and would snicker slightly mockingly at myself, feeling somewhat like the odd soliteon lord in the piece above.
So, I am both the writer and the homeowner characters in the piece.

WRITING -A HARMLESS LITTLE HABIT

It rises and sets
It runs and it dries
It falls and it stops
It blooms and it fades
It comes and goes
And I am none the better for it

image

(Source: online)

I see people’s faces
And their souls hiding under their skins
Afraid to show themselves
For what they really are

Afraid to show the darkness in them
Afraid to admit to their monstrosity
Afraid to show what light they have
Afraid to stand up for right

I tickle pleasantly by their hopes
I smile softly at their sincere frailties
I smell the stench of their darkness
I twitch curiously at their pride

I laugh like a schizo-manic “madman”
Totally almost exaggeratingly fascinated
By the little details of peoples’ actions
Like pawns making curious moves on the chessboard

And I am always amused
By the limits of our strengths and knowledge
Despite our acting like we are more than THIS
I am always there seeing all

I span the traditions of ages and places
I see into the future
And I’m not even psychedelic or grandiose
I live for them all
I blow their trumpets -rusty and all
It’s never about me

From when the sun rises all day till it sets
When the river runs till it dries next season
Both under the rain and when showers cease
In the season when flowers fade all through autumn
From the day the human came on scene till (s)he goes
I see them all and I speak to them all

Lurking in their very shadows…
In the shade of harmless mischief….
With my flint and stone tablet
Or my stylus and electronic tablet.

Immortalized!

For Some Wor(d)(th)y Friends.

Night by the river

Night by the river (Photo credit: monkeyc.net)

It is a night like any other
Same thing happening every night
Like the creepy night spent lewin invaded Rod Bayne’s house
Like the Christmas night mad 1earthnow had a drinking binge
Like the scary night denting dnobrien was visited by the huntsman spider
Like the famous night chicken charron laid her golden (book publishing) egg
Like the wistful night shards of souls knelt with the fallen leaves dreaming of the summer sun
Like the sorrowful night unfettered wordshit sat alone with two empty chairs and tattered journal
Like the comic night drool of stupid cried over the only award he would never have soiled –Stupid Award

This night again, the Enchanted Writer approaches the throne of the Creator-God
To petition for the souls of men, that they may live full lives, not lacking the best things in life
That Lewin may not lose his soul –err…coat
That Maddy may lead a sober yet happy life
That Dennis may dwell in security
That Charron may lead a truly rich life
That Shards, unbroken, may shine your light
That Audra may enjoy the fullness of your love
That Stupid may not spit on your free gifts and goodness

P.S.: For some (NOT ALL) of my lovely friends made in 2012 – http://www.trentlewin.com , http://www.1earthnow.wordpress.com , http://www.dnobrienpoetry.wordpress.com , http://www.charronschatter.com , http://www.shardsofdubois.wordpress.com , http://www.unfetteredbs.com , http://www.ruleofstupid.wordpress.com
Panda, I am sorry I don’t know your real name. Please, note that calling you “Stupid” was not in any way an attempt at derogation or retaliation for my award you soiled.

Tears of our seasons together

Winter Morning

Winter Morning (Photo credit: blmiers2)

English: Hill Close Gardens, Warwick A good cr...

Autumn Leaves in Summer

Summer into autumn

Walking steadily under the blackening heat of the sun’s glory,
Headphones on my head, fingers tapping, face awash with brightness;
Your fiery love shakes my joints, smiles and hormones.
Tears of spring’s fond memories in my eyes
Dry too quickly unlingering on my hot cheeks.

Strolling about on the brown grass in evening’s melancholy,
Head in the wind, arms dangling, face serene as the floating-falling leaf.
All is at peace between my natural world and your supernatural.
Tears of summer’s warm memories in my eyes
Run lazily down my blushing cheeks.

Lying still on my cold bed on a winter’s night,
Head facing up, arms thrown forward, face still in soft prayers.
I hang out my fears and doubts on you to freeze away.
Tears of autumn’s pleasant memories in my eyes
Turn to icicles on my goosebumpy cheeks.

Skip-hopping like a newborn gazelle at spring’s break,
Head bobbing, arms flying, face glowing with ethereal liveliness.
My life starts and flows, rolls and ends with you.
Tears of winter’s cool memories in my eyes
Flow freely down my supple cheeks.

Each season brings back fond memories, and creates new ones, of us –
Waking up, living through the day and passing out at night with you –
That give my darker days some semblance of meaning.
Tears of life’s sweet memories with you
Become a sea of love that drowns me.

Thank you for giving me good days.