Tired

On the road,
in a class
At the door
walking past;
There are faces
I yearn to know
I need to meet
But cannot reach.

The inability to express
The inability to shout
The inability to scream
A prisoner to doubt.

I cannot say what binds me so.
I am happy with a moment or two
of anger. To get me by.
I do not have the energy any longer
to fight.

I have fought and I have won,
and what have I gained,
but fire in my belly
and fire in my heart.

All the steam is rising
from the lake of my dissension.
I long to rest,
and feel the softness
of a kindred face-
To touch the wounds
of a blundering soul.
Someone to forgive
the crimes of angry nights,
And tell tales of struggles past
and overcome.

The fire still burns-
the embers low
The coals still glowing
with hungry heat.
I slave to cast away the fuel
Of my anger, and my wrath
For its hunger eats me up
Sucks the vigor from my limbs.

I sleep, and in dreams I see
Strangers that I love
and strangers that love me.
They say love is a decision
But I cannot afford to hate.

Lest it darken coming nights
Harden the sunset, once so bright
Turn the working hands to stone
Turn a life to brittle bone.
No one can afford to hate.

The sun is gone
The stars awake
The dreams begin
I lie awake.
No will to fight
A hopeless night…
What is there to do
but love, and wait?

Priyanka
24 October 2009

Unliving

Doubt flickers
inside the box..
for where there used to be life
there is only peace

In the constant movement
of the holding hands
She finds extreme irritation
in the fiery palm-lines.

She suddenly finds
something against life
and movement
and pain and joy.

But the possession
of this demon
passed away
and life comes and goes
along its own way.

Its impossible to judge
when or where or why
anything happens,
anything is done to us,
by ourselves.
I see your heart
Always returning to
the one place
where everything is meant to be.
But is it your heart
or simply a dream,
or a hope,
or a deep desire for goodness?

Where is the truth;
so lost in the mists of myth?
Where is the simplicity;
lost in the multiple facets of reality?
Where is the surrendering;
so essential to the beating of the heart-
but seems so abstract, so buried
Hiding beneath my feet
Crawling around
where it can’t be reached.

oh, breathing
of the summer air.
Is it any cooler up there?

Priyanka
15 April 2009

Boxtop

This is for a new heart to fill everyday
a hope is born TO SHINE
Not ever to fall or fade, but to be remembered
till the end of time,
Where it will rise again
TRIUMPHANT
over all things
without and within
the human mind.
Amen.
30 July 09

Flutterfly

Fluttering
Flattering
Settling Jitterfly
Jingling
Jungling
Glittering Jewelfly
Spiraling
Sprinkling
flowering Flutterfly
Bumbling
Nectaring
Hovering Suckerfly
Windy sigh
flowers die
Sailing by a Butterfly.

Season

Did they tell you?
Did they tell you the news yet?
There is a change of season.
A change in the decade,
colors in the sky.
People too, are turning red
and white, and dead.
There is light in the sky
but it is not of the stars,
but more of the scars
which are borne by the earth-
this green planet upon which we live.
This beautiful scarred planet of life.
Yes, a change of season
that leaves the icy mountains
and is riding down the wind.
It loves to chase and scatter the hopes we have built
in the stagnant air.
Thirst slowly drives us mad
as the fires of humanity
are extinguished and driven down;
the last portraits of empire
slowly fade away.
Here I am walking
from one room to another
in the care of myself or another.
I seem to exist
for a fraction of a second,
a flutter of a leaf,
a sheaf of candle flame
that is so slowly falling
to the ground,
to settle among the other leaves
of passing seasons.
There is a change of season,
did you hear?
And people are changing-
red, white ... and blue.
There is a place where these colors paint the sky with beauty
An overflowing of paint
upon fresh young flesh
vibrating and alive,
and shining with all the colors of the earth.
These are the children our race
Standing among the reds and browns of fallen leaves
and dirt.
These are the painted children
who are rising up among the ashes of our fire
To stand like rainbow silhouettes, against the sunset.
These are the winged children
who take flight
upon the driving winds of change
These are the gold and silver
the light and shadow
the sunshine and stone
of the future.
These are the children
that reach beyond this black block of time
that step through the waterfall of age
and fall of autumn leaves.
These are the children
of the seasons
And the light of the world.
4th Dec. 09

Hunkerville

Another day in Hunkerville
A place where men slump
and feet bump each other down the path to home
But the Sun still shines
like in the days of the young.
And occasionally the men
even have a heart to dance,
jiggle and juggle
have a bit of fun,
And then there are the rainy days
when the air frizzes up
and cranky turns crikey
and there's a little twist to the tale...
Hunkerville is weight
on the shoulders, even the lungs,
a bit of silence, stuffiness, coughing.
Where the mist plays with the sunrise
before it reaches the ground.
But oh, it still lights up their eyes
When they look up to see the morning sky!
Men don't go slow in Hunkerville
The world just goes slower for them.
There's no reason to die in Hunkerville
where the men stumble down their paths to home.
It's just a place to be
when the cloudy days are hunkering down
for the season.
Love is a reason to sing
in Hunkerville
And talking is a 'take it or leave it' deal
There are people there
who don't know where they came from
and are trying to find a reason to be there
But Hunkerville is a place to be
when you need a safe place to be for a while
Without any reason at all.
Hunkerville is not a question.

Hunkerville is a season
A walk down a muddy pathway
on a day when you've lost your balance
and people are a blur
as they walk by your place.
They don't stop for a glance at brown.
They are cool and cuddly
And sometimes they blink so slow
You get lost in the depth of their eyes.
They are beautiful between the falling leaves of fall.
All the colors
that come before white.
Hunkerville is walking on the right side of the road
and counting your footsteps.
Men count their footsteps in Hunkerville
till their boots are worn,
but they've lost count
plenty of times before.
There seems to be a sunset in Hunkerville
But no one knows the scheduled time
until it comes.
1st December 2009

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.

Obvious

That is enough to speak of for now.
A hope for tomorrow.
And a love of today.
Is all you need
to fall a asleep on a night,
where nothing is different
from the day before.
Why do we happen to search for those faces of yesterday
when they don’t even exist in the people of today?
People stare at eachother
for an awful long time.
God knows what they see.
A pot is the same,
whatever it holds.
Mine holds quicksand,
and flowers are growing from it.
I’m supposed to pick the weeds,
I might do it tomorrow,
When I find them.
Would you like to be back in yesterday?
I’ll meet you there if you want.
We can talk about what happened
today.
And remember the things
that didn’t really happen,
when I was three.
I’m sure we’ll know the answer
to the question I’m asking you now
about the color of the sky,
when you knew the God that hid there.
Mine was hiding
inside me.
And now I’m walking
to the beat of that new song
they stuck on the radio
last week.
I’m sure there was some subtle meaning
to what it said.
But maybe it was a bit more obvious
than I had believed.

Priyanka
2 August 2009

Witness

The pain of dark moments
in our past
haunt us between
the blinks of our eyes.
We turn around in our beds
To see them lunging at us
like dark monsters.
For us
these monsters come
and hunt.
The burden of fear
slows a man down
like nothing else can;
So we hold back from the future
While we’re running
from the past.
This is the curse
of evil moments,
to which we have been
even just witnesses to.
Witness Alone.
Sometimes this
is not enough to save a man
from the burden of guilt
for the crimes that are committed
on this earth.

Priyanka
30 July 2009