May Day

May Day

Lenin makes a little foray
Into a million workers, about to chime
The anthem of what keeps man
Going from 9 to 5. The union
Is just a little confederacy where
Lenin followers gather on the roads
And on makeshift stages to convince
Some thousands of chants-men
That the worker is the soul of mankind.
And still the clock runs with
Little compensation, only a day wage
Feeding the mouths at home.

May Day is just a lot of outdated rhetoric.
Lenin was just a bald man who powered
A coal-run economy with words.
These words will keep on tumbling through time
As acrobats of a circus. It is all that a May Day is;
Words that roam inside our intellects
And die a natural death the next.

If you listen close enough you will hear
The noise of Lenin’s conscience
Murmuring beneath the voice
Of an orator on a stage.

The soul of May Day sending an SOS
To every avid listening worker.
“Mayday” “Mayday” “Mayday”

A harbinger of an impending day, not too far away……

Extinct by natural deselection.




Your body is an orchestra.

In the middle you have a percussionist.
The heart with open valves bloating like
A helium balloon and pumping
To let oxygenated blood flow down the aorta.
That is what keeps man on his toes.
The live-wire, elan vital, the keeper
Of the flame.

And above the diaphragm, you find two
Porous cheesy angel wings. We know them
As lungs. This is where you perform gas exchange,
When inhaled oxygen is ferried across
To the blood stream, in exchange for a good dose
Of carbonated gas. The wind in the windpipes
Is what makes this troupe truly woodwind.

And on the right side, you have the detox center
Filling with metallic ions – cadmium, lead and nickel.
A place where metals are purified and given
A detox. This is the locality where
Bailey’s Irish Cream and Morgan’s Spiced Rum are made
Into little innocuous products by a brass entourage, detoxing
An old-fashioned guzzler.

Down below you have the bean-shaped strings.
Strings of nephrons packed together
To form two kidneys that excrete urea
And uric acids, to cleanse the body
Of pollutants and decay products,
Plucking the water out through
Convoluted tubes and secreting a little cocktail
Of potassium from a monkey plantain
You gulped down at breakfast.

And in this orchestra, no player is less significant
Than the other. They work miraculously
Together, to play an opus called life.
What keeps man from being a carcass,
A lifeless piece of music-proof protein on bone.

And this orchestra keeps track of
Little percussion moments
When palpitation bangs like a gong
Or when a round of tequila
Salts a little sequence of memories
Or when a little cigarette bites into a little cheesy crater
Like a house mouse does, or even
When a coke is guzzled to the last drop
To hydrate, on a scorching summer day.

And life is what we do with it.
What tunes we play with that orchestra.
The waltzes of love and the oratorios of faith,
The marches of time and the symphonies of dreams.
And every tune will be finely articulated
By every tap, pluck, wind and whistle.

We are only as mellifluous
As the melodies we play, as we make
Our feelings jump an octave.
We are only as alive as the octaves we ascend
The cadences we bridge, the staccatos we accentuate
And the scales we rise to. Life will always be
A euphony of musical notes we play,
As we learn the hymns of our inner self,

When songs of innocence transform
To songs of experience.

Hard Love


I sometimes remember
My grandmother, who should now be somewhere
In heaven, perhaps even in the elysian fields.
I remember the saree she used to wear
The drape and the fall, in perfect harmony
Not letting the wind, serenade
Any part of her attire.

She taught me how to be an alloy
Of two poles. She knew how to be strict but loving.
Hard love was just business as usual.
My heart became a student of Darwin.
Survival of the fittest, became my dogma.
Natural selection needed me to be
Less gooey and more go-getting.

And sometimes I look in the sky
When I see David’s star shining brighter than ever.
And I wonder is that her looking at me.
Her heart was a sling that could kneel
Any fate-schemed goliath moment. She lost her beloved
In her 40s and yet made three children
Stand on their own two feet.

Hard love becomes a weapon of choice,
Knowing the deep end will swallow you otherwise.
Every child needs the safety wheels,
The life-jacket, the seat belt, and still,
They too need to cycle, swim and stand still
Inside a speeding car.

I search for her in me sometimes.
The granite and the marshmallow mixing beautifully
And I know that she instilled in me
That fusion of knowing when to stand upright
Your heart as firm as a monolith
And still be as soft as a soft sugary treat
That you burn at the end of a stake.

And the only battle she lost was the inevitable.
She could never fall from grace
Or rise in pride. She was the lighthouse
To my trawler, who no longer shows me home.
And yet on those days, I look up at the sky
To see the Star of David and I know
She is still watching over me.

Natural selection was my destiny.
She was all my forces of nature. Wind-ravaged
Cyclone-bombed, disease-plagued, I stand now;
A man who’s finally comfortable in his skin
Of being a dichotomy in my own right.

Hard as diamond, soft as coal

Graphite in between.