Prisoner

Nothing can stop
the meeting
of angels.
Then fly on
through prison doors
To make homes in the heart
of our prisoner’s soul.
Prisoners- we have committed the crime
of silencing what you have said.
Our prisoner speaks
in the darkness of night,
among the bad dreams,
or memories of crime.
He speaks of innocence
like only the guilty can.
And, still, we listen
and we understand.
Though we are bound
to the seat of the soldiers
The prisoner stands like stone,
before the window.
Where a little light has entered,
To taunt the darkness of our eyes.
But we can see
the prisoner speak.
Angels ascending from the stone,
With the faces of children
who have gone.
With the faces of children
who have gone.
But the prisoner remembers them.
More than we.
Angels from heaven
or angels from hell,
bringing news,
And news, may be good
and terribly sad.
He knows the angels,
And sings to them
if they ask.
And angels meet
in the strains of his voice.
Nothing stops the meeting
of angels.

8th August 2009

The New Priyanka

The new Priyanka
walking around the neighborhood
with a green painter's hat
over her eyes
and earphones of an iPod
in her ears,
a jhola from Jerusalem
hanging on her shoulder,
knee length navy blue shorts,
with her hands fidgeting
with the penny in her pocket,
under a casual chocolate-brown t-shirt
and the emblem- ‘Hang loose’
dark blue, coming apart:-
A plain silver ring
On the strength finger
of her left hand,
picked up from the dust
of the Ghats;
As she walks to the rhythm
of the music and the cars;
Watching the hills in the distance
covered in trees and golden grass.
Staring at the blue blue sky
as if it is
her natural contestant.
Her eyes speaking
to that sky- 'Fine, you want to play this game with me...
Then here I am, waiting,
Here I am
And there you are...
I'm waiting."
And God stares back down
at this little girl,
Nodding at the blacks,
Nodding at the whites
Nodding at the Mexicans
A green glass Cross hangs
from the sacred red thread on her neck,
Hidden underneath the brown,
where only the Sky can see it.
Wondering if that car will hit her.
Wondering if God will take her now.
Wondering if she'll have to see Papa next week.
Wondering if she will weigh 2 more pounds tomorrow.
Wondering if this is how life goes.
Now, in an agreement with the Sky
A new Identity has been established
She is free to exist
in the form she was born
Free to face the world
Free to question without having an answer
She can now walk the streets
with a new name to hold.
A new cause to exist.
A new reason to be.
Smiling at purple flowers
So simply in bloom
She swings around to say goodbye.
She walks like she is lost
But at least she's still walking,
with a light white rose
in her hand.
She is not new,
she is not old
She just dropped out of the sky
And there
she is.