The afternoon sun scorches fiery yellow on clear glass windows. From inside my air conditioned office, wearing a grey suit, ready for a Zoom call from Switzerland, I stare at a screen that seems incongruous today, and wait for the host to let me in .
This is mango season. Fruit vendors outside have the best Alphonso mangoes nestled in a bed of real straw. I picture myself later this evening, out of my grey suit, into my Indian cottons, bare feet, sitting with my family, going through each mango with bare hands, juice dripping down my wrists, tasting the best of one more summer.
scented breeze recalls
~a never again childhood
running off barefoot
I don't want the world to see me
I don't think that they'll understand...Iris plays as I click on the link. You say it reminds you of us. It's April... many years ago.
Today I walk in a strange country ~ seas, silence and a lifetime between us. Angular concrete towers and cameras keep watch over each passer-by. Clockwork of Traffic marches to precision. I stop following the blue dots on the map and take an unmarked path. I stumble on a bed of blue iris and the one memory that still haunts me.
sunshine yellow pollen grain
~ where stories begin
Drawing reserves from deep within, a dream is born. I can’t see a thing right now but memories from past lives sketch a few strokes in my imagination. Somehow, I know. Through the year I hope ; through restless nights I long; through numbness I toil. All so that I see you in Spring.
I long for you. Peals of your pink laughter stay with me. I hear it in every song the winds bring. I breathe in the sky for colours of your fragrance. I sense your tender touch in the first snowflake that melts into me. And then I long for you again.
sakura rushes out
in a huff of pink flurry
~ Summer heartbroken
A sliver of winter. That's all we get in the tropics. Closets come out. A pride of colours. Colours that stripe my woolen scarf, check that flowy overcoat and dot the quirky high boots I bought just for this season. I step out, wishing for snowflakes, like the ones that fell from the sky to clothe mighty mountains up north.
white fluffy overcoat
crystal drops sparkling starlight
~ winter's couture woos
Linking it also to #vss365
‘Hello!’ Riding free on the O of that hello is a hundred million monsters, marauders of my lungs, charging at the speed of kill, each a crowned king, crashing, dissolving the gateway of my eyes, skin, nose, attacking my insides, slaughtering my living cells
I crouch, I cringe, I cry, behind my man-made mask, alone in my super sanitized isolation, silent screams sinking any hope of survival, bereft of the solace of another human soul.
as the end begins
crimson claws of letting go
clasped tight in prayer
I rest my head on my desk. My just woken-up eyes sweep the knicks and knacks of decades, centuries even, strewn as if time doesn’t matter. My mug is still warmed by morning tea. A bubble of ear pods blink red. An armband that keeps my phone safe from the Indian monsoon while I run regardless, needs replacement. Remind me to order on amazon.
Inches away is a white tile with my name emblazoned on it – a gift proffered to me by tiny hands of my children a decade ago. Just above, perched on an heirloom, passed on daughter to daughter, stands a picture of my father, my miracle deliverer, from somewhere beyond my sight, from somewhere within me.
clutter on my desk
tethering my DNA
~ ancestors approve
And the image is for Cee’s FOTD – marigold from my garden
It’s been three days. It’s an oxymoron. A paradox. An incongruent prompt. Write on writer’s block Frank says. And all I’ve been watching is hours and hours of sand, silent, still, in the landscape of the written word.
I dig. The steel shovel straining my parched hope of ever forming a phrase. Sand mounds pile up, reeks of my sweat. And there! I hit upon a leather bound chest. With the key of intellect, I prise open the lid. Wise words of elite erudition fountain out of the sandy earth. I try and catch a few but they’re too smart for me and too snooty for my poem.
The writer’s mind doesn’t rest does it? Always flirting with the impossibles… charming the confusion, calming the chaos. A sandstorm whooshes around my head, whirling emotions, tossing thoughts, spinning stories. I close my eyes and watch words tessellate.
novice on high heels
balancing notebook of life
with words of the heart
In a small pocket of the world where time is measured and labelled into forty four different almanacs, each tracing its origin to millennia past, Augustus’s August falls in the middle of Aadi
Now Aadi, branded inauspicious by a myth or an alignment of stars I do not know, became the month when merchants, millionaires and money twiddled their thumbs, went into depression and waited for the 30 days to pass. No one would dare shop. Until one season, a genius jeweller decided he would sell his wares at something the world had just invented … the mega discount sale.
As you can imagine, people made lines outside his shop, flouting all the Aadi rules and the jeweller was sold out in just two hours. Hearing about his windfall, all other merchants followed suit and from then on, all the three big Ms lived happily ever after during Aadi. And it became that time of the year you’d wait for …. to shop for more for less! If you don’t believe me, you can check out the Aadi sale of 2021.
whispers wise words to autumn
~ make the best of it
Mindfills for dVerse’s Haibun Monday hosted by Frank Tassone – On August
Oh May! Our old wicker basket sits skewed, a bottle of red tilting the scales in favour of lightbulbs going off under my skin as your laughter booms and scatters my once lucid thoughts. The full moon beams bright, bathing the night and us in mulled vanilla.
We lie back, staring at the stars, strewn, along with the contents of the last midnight picnic in our wild windswept garden. Tomorrow your journey into another life begins. Tomorrow you leave. “Those rose bushes need trimming Sweetie,” you say. I say Hmm…
let me stare at you
my sweet flower-moon of May
next month, you’ll be June’s
I was there just last week. Walking up The Dayara Bugyal trail, through rhododendron forests, a gentle climb to high altitude meadows nestled in the heart of the Himalayas.
Bare walnut trees, waking up, were sprouting baby green leaves. Wheat fields swayed to the rhythm of sunlight. Birds stopped to suck nectar from red rhododendrons. Dotting the landscape were these artistically gnarled leafless trees covered in pink sprays of inflorescence. Cherry? I asked in my botanic ignorance. Haha No they said. We’re not in Japan. This is Tilini.
when cherry blossoms'
pink evanescence pauses
to breathe in Spring
Mindfills of s.s. for
dVerse – Frank Tassone’s Haibun challenge – cherry blossoms
dVerse OLN – hosted by Lillian