The cloud formation on top
Told us that this was going to be
A monsoon eve. We went indoors
And took a poem from Neruda, toying
With a woman’s anatomy, that to me
Was as sensuous as making love.
I knew the world we’ve inherited
Doesn’t live in superstition, which to
The old-fashioned pilgrim, is faith.
And still, “what makes me a believer?”
I question this time and again.
I’m like a grotto on an acacia tree
Where you can put a lantern
The faith lantern, or I’m the inverse
Of those hungry for wanderlust
Or crazed love making. Still I don’t denounce neither.
I’m like that wall of Jericho that sits
Still and marks a perimeter,
Of the oldest continually living metropolis,
Where faith is more ancient, more relevant
Than any scroll, or shroud.
And I look at those specimens
Of the new world, the questionnaires
That they possess, and the catalogs
They call bucket lists. I don’t envy them.
I’m like a moss covered stone
Who is at ease with the moss, the slimy
Growth on my cover, knowing I’m
Just an interface of palms
And an ark of faith, holding together
A journey on beads that takes
Me to my promiseland, where incertitude
Is just as barren as a dessert, and hope
Lives like a far-away oasis, and the bible,
What else but those dromedary camels
That take me to and fro,
From doubt to conviction,
From Moses sands to Abrahamic springs.
A flower, a loved one,
Who wilts right in front of your eyes,
And blossoms flaws on skin
Only to one day become,
One with the residue of what doesn’t become gas,
But stays horizontal beneath earth.
Where new floral arrangements
Are placed every year, on the same date,
Next to an epitaph, that tells why she
Existed and why we ceased to exist
After her beleaguering fall.
Its amazing how intertwined life and memory is,
And all we have is an offering of flowers
To a flower that once was, to remind ourselves,
We always were, and always will be,
A bed full of rose blooms, whose thorns,
Only made our hands bloody, and yet stood,
Thicker than water, which always
Threatens to run dry.
An embodiment, a larger-than-life clown
Who sells happiness, in Scottish chunks,
– After all it is of the McDonald clan –
Which like the kilt, emboldens the pleats
Of one’s tummy, the tyres,
That when stacked as concentric rings,
Makes a child or a grown man,
A little heavier around the waist,
And perhaps quite obese.
Still, how can I not be exhilarant,
When I see how one single bite,
Into the trinity of meat, wheat and mayonnaise
Can manifest to a childish heart,
The essence of how miniature in form,
Happiness is. Those nuggets
And burgers that once were a part
Of a chicken or bull, now stand
Flatter than a pancake, making
Inroads to where it all melts, on the tongue,
Where legends rave of how a little Scottish conviction,
Which like the Loch Ness monster,
Has made a legend stick,
Sculpting a yardstick in fast food,
Of an American invention
Bigger than golf, merrier than bagpipes,
Commonplace as thistles,
More relevant than the Catholic church,
And just like Sean Connery,
Carries the license to kill the rumble,
Inside a child’s tummy.