Sunday, January 24, 2016

The Airport

We wait around
the carousel.
Craning necks.
Shoving shoulders.
Our straining eyes
give away
our impatience.
And they give away
our refusal
to understand that
what has to come
will come
only when it is time.
Even if it
belongs to us.

Monday, January 11, 2016

The Summer Teacher.

That summer,
when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,
she decided to send me
to an art class.
Early in the morning
I was woken up.
My sketch book, 
pencils, paints
and brushes packed. 
My teacher had 
a grey beard, 
thick glasses,
a penchant for
clean, crisp shirts
and a smile
which made
his eyes crinkle.
He looked us over.
A large group
of barely awake kids
forced out of beds 
early on a
summer holidays
morning. 
He had two rules,
he said.
We hated rules.
You all need to 
take a bath before 
you come to class.
We hated baths. 
And the second rule?
When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.
A blue sun.
Red grass.
Yellow crows.
Pink elephants.
And purple people
were perfectly acceptable.
We stared at him
trying to fathom
a world where 
no one was telling us 
to colour within the lines. 
And just like that
we started taking baths
at 6 AM every day.
Without a single complaint.