On a string

Yesterday,
he flew.
A grey-brown
speck in the
open sky.
Today,
as we walk
we see
that the trees
along the way
are blooming
with beautiful
kite flowers.
Red-orange,
purple-yellow,
green-blue.
We pluck them
one by one.
And there
among them
we spot a flower
grey-brown.
We pick him too
and try to
hold together
his sliced wings.
.

Links: Makar Sankranti, Birds, Manja

On a string

Yesterday,
he flew.
A grey-brown
speck in the
open sky.
Today,
as we walk
we see
that the trees
along the way
are blooming
with beautiful
kite flowers.
Red-orange,
purple-yellow,
green-blue.
We pluck them
one by one.
And there
among them
we spot a flower
grey-brown.
We pick him too
and try to
hold together
his sliced wings.
.

Links: Makar Sankranti, Birds, Manja

The Auburn Passenger

You see her on the train
with her auburn wig.
Neatly brushed and
carefully held in place
with a black cloth hairband.
And you see the eyebrows.
The painted twin arches
above her quiet eyes.
Giving a slightly bemused
expression to her
otherwise calm face.
You wonder what's wrong.
You wonder if her cells
are waging a cancerous
war against her.
Surely she has built
an army of her own
to fight those
impudent rebels?
But its artillery scars
the land of her body too.
The shells of medication
lay her to ruin.
The shrapnel of radiation
pierces through.
And as you stare unseeingly
at the book in your hand
you feel a little silly
to be worrying about crow's feet
and lost loves and to do lists.

The Auburn Passenger

You see her on the train
with her auburn wig.
Neatly brushed and
carefully held in place
with a black cloth hairband.
And you see the eyebrows.
The painted twin arches
above her quiet eyes.
Giving a slightly bemused
expression to her
otherwise calm face.
You wonder what's wrong.
You wonder if her cells
are waging a cancerous
war against her.
Surely she has built
an army of her own
to fight those
impudent rebels?
But its artillery scars
the land of her body too.
The shells of medication
lay her to ruin.
The shrapnel of radiation
pierces through.
And as you stare unseeingly
at the book in your hand
you feel a little silly
to be worrying about crow's feet
and lost loves and to do lists.

The streets

A little unfinished,
frayed around the edges.
You are.
Soot for skin, dust for eyes
and nails that dig for
discarded treasure.
There is a hole in your heart.
Running deep.
And unhope.
Running through your veins.
You grab the world in chunks
and tear it apart.
Keeping the pieces under your pillow
to make dreams at night.
Whirring helicopters and flitting lanterns.
Songs on your lips.
Yellow roses and monkey shaped balloons.
Brothers on your hips.
You are the helpless future
disguised as a lonesome child.
Sleeping under the bridge of destiny.

The streets

A little unfinished,
frayed around the edges.
You are.
Soot for skin, dust for eyes
and nails that dig for
discarded treasure.
There is a hole in your heart.
Running deep.
And unhope.
Running through your veins.
You grab the world in chunks
and tear it apart.
Keeping the pieces under your pillow
to make dreams at night.
Whirring helicopters and flitting lanterns.
Songs on your lips.
Yellow roses and monkey shaped balloons.
Brothers on your hips.
You are the helpless future
disguised as a lonesome child.
Sleeping under the bridge of destiny.