Father and Son

000_0048

Jesus had a crown of thorns,
And he was still God’s son,
Played out by God’s own plan.

I ponder, why is the bible filled
With stories of fathers betraying sons
Like Abraham almost did.

And that bond, between father and son
Is the one that keeps the name going forward
And preserves the heir in one.

I look at Jesus and Isaac,
And I look at my father, still giving
Me gas money, and I can’t help but wonder

How precious the bond between
Father and son is. One day I will stand
On his grave, with no words to pacify

My grieving heart, thankful
That he wasn’t like God or Abraham.
My father could only do one thing wrong;

He protected me from this world,
When he should have let me go,
To the waiting claws of tigers.

So that I too could earn my stripes.

Advertisements

Lady in Red

Lady in Red

She was the lady in red,
She walked in through the corridor
Of sight of every man in the ballroom. 
She shook something superficial,
With her careless wind and flustered
Something deep, like lusty aquifers
Springing forth as dewdrops on lip-ends.
She was everything – an apple orchard
With apples to pick, starry eyes
For the astronomer to gaze, a secret garden
For the gardener to find,
A smile that made clumsy-footed fools
Trip like their shoelaces were tied.
She was Cleopatra, Helen of Troy and Venus, all in one.
She lit the room with her blue eyes,
And walked as defiantly, as the lifted chin would let her.
Her red dress was the cynosure of the ball,
The doming hemline free in the windy dance floor,
Like a fly agaric mushroom – Amanita muscaria –
On top of her long slender stipe,
And the whole world was hers to poison,
Like the moon does every night,
With indiscreet beauty.

Being A Dad

dad 2

You, who took me for a ride on a reverie.
Oh the stork, I wish for, flying
Through a mucus plug and an opening,
To deliver a bundle, who will be
A joy, that is bound to be unheralded.
Nativity, is just a little Bethlehem,
In a nursing home, waiting impatiently
For a moment that will define
The next half of my life. To witness those fingers
That wrap around anything hold-worthy.
I’m father material I say to myself, how
I will put safety locks in the car,
Safety wheels on a push bike, safety glances
Every vigilant minute, and that feeling
That fate can throw anything at you,
Eating me alive. I will look at you
Suckling a breast, when I will realize
That I’m just the wrong half, a man
Who will never hold a milk bottle inside his breasts.
A man whose pectoralis major,
Can only hold a small head against him.
As I look at my son, to realize, why Oedipus killed Laius.
It was just to claim once again, what he dearly missed,
The homely uterus, the safety of the amniotic ocean,
The taste of milk. What is a biological father,
But a replica of a fall-guy gender, scapegoat of a being
Whose empty breasts, makes him into
A glorified purse, whose interior,
Fills up with tails of zeros, to make him,
Just as affluent as a chest filled with milk.

God’s Face

wedding-1146862_960_720

I look at old Renaissance pictures
To see god, a white man, with a beard
And strong eyes, as I picture how I 
Saw God’s face. I saw him like a man,
So weary, that his eyes were dropping out
of the eye sockets, and the mouth, was whispering
Something that we humans didn’t want to hear.
As I ponder, how that nagging fellow’s face
Has become wilted and gloomy in the 21st century.
As I pause for a moment, to feel in my conscience,
Some empathy for God, a little gifting
Of time and meaning, as I look at that weary face
Who I suppose will die one day not far away. And that day
Will be the end of a long and dragged-out show,
Of how one man stood between,
The easy and the difficult. And that faceless future
Will be our easy way out, when our
Consciences become true lemons, with no
Face-off with the difficult, while you realize
That the picture of God you kept on seeing,
Was your self-control, the discipline in you,
Not to do what was fashionably easy – to sin,
When there was a choice not to.

Learning To Fly

love 8

There is no greater joy
Than that moment, a fledgling bird’s feet
Become adrift of the ground.
And learning not to feel anything
On your feet, is when, you
Find your wingspan and slowly,
You gather wingspeed,
And together, you become,
A specimen of ornithology with a keel,
Learning that the azure sky,
Has endless possibilities,
Just like when you are an offering
Of flesh, reaching out to another body,
To become entwined as a pathology,
Of time bridging to timeless,
When your body and hers,
Are persuasive anatomies
Loaning each other,
To spark something electric,
That has both a plug point
And a switch.

Pitching Lines of Prayer

Rosary01

What do you pray for?

A question that looks at the power
Of a little conjecture that remains
Unproven in mathematics.

You look in the mirror at the wayward
Strands and the whitish face with scabs,
Just woken up to another day.
You remember asking God to postpone
Your hair fall when you were 21, after all the apple
Doesn’t fall far from the tree.
My father is as bald as a naked mole rat.

And you remember reciting
A novena that your mother gave
To find your true love, your soul mate.
It’s amazing how confident you become
After a little prayer. You’re the master
Of pick-up lines at a bar, your fluoride
Smile makes you as stubborn as enamel,
You don’t overthink nor undermine
Yourself. You firmly believe that every
Woman you encounter is ‘the one’
A little number that elevates you from
A zero existence, of ordering green curry
From a Thai restaurant and eating alone
Like you’ve done the whole of your 20s.

I’ve never prayed for some help at exams.
I guess that never mattered to me.
It was just a little fling with questions
When I just rose to the occasion
And filled little slots with binomial nomenclatures
And morphological features of
Biology’s inventories. And still
There are those day when you encounter
Mirages that fall left, right and center
Of little empirical results which are unreproducible
At the second try.

And now I don’t pray
I just tell myself this is part of god’s plan
For me. How I climb out of my safety zone
And live, will be my defining factor.
I will always be Dr Seuss’s archetype nerd.
Still, when I open the wardrobe to look at my shoebox.
I don’t plunge down to a world
Of strange creatures, my Narnia.
It is only a nostalgic finger molestation of
Heart-strung mementos of my once La La land.

And that shoebox is where you find
The praying mantis, reminiscing the time
I was as green as a little insect that holds the palms together.
I remember a woman who used to haunt
Me like Casper swimming inside my arteries.
She was all I wanted for a while. A teacher
Who made French as easy as taking
The wrapper off a chewy toffee.
And French was my cup of tea
For a long decade. A dream as obvious
As the moon in a pitch black sky.

Prayer is just a foray into a world
Of bucket lists, we call dreams. Where you find
Little indicator strips for a litmus test called love
And praying, polishes dreams and
Sharpens the blade, to an acuteness
That cuts through anything.
And palms when they unite from tip to wrist
They metamorphose a hope-blunted chamber
With a spark of St Elmo’s fire.

And the prayer conjecture will never be proven.
We can only pack ammunition
To a hypothesis, for the kill.
And all it takes is a silence of a church
And the whisper of a Hail Mary
To find the key that fits to a lock,
To open a secret doorway.

The details only you and God know.

Virginity

woman 5

Stringed like a puppet,
We dance to the tune of our ancestors,
In an education that is passed on
From one generation to another.
We learn that crossing our legs
And wearing a chastity belt is a trademark
Of a woman, who believes in love,
To the extent of keeping her hull ready
To be broken by first water.
And that strain, which deprives, and yet
Sustains, lurking under lips,
Inside buxom breasts, or even between
Hip bones, is beautified, by the notion
That there is someone out there,
In this boundless wilderness,
Searching for you, your heart and then your flesh,
To become instruments of music,
Jukeboxes, gramophones, even CD players
Transcending altitudes imposed by octaves.
And when patience overrides lust
There is a beautiful unopened bud,
Which, only when spoken in nuptials, affirmed by gold,
And shared in consummation,
Opens her world, petal by petal, to be a selfless offering,
To the most selfish thing about man;
His singular need to culminate,
In corporeal democracy.