The hakea blooms

Sunbeams to the soul,

refreshingly radiant.

The hakea blooms. 

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Welfare unto all 

Rab rakha 

The sentinel

 Beyond the bethel,

mundane humdrum existence. 

People going about their routines,

rushing with their chores and errands.

Everyone, hurrying for everything.

And the bethel stands there,

watching it all unfold in its lap. 

The hamlet waking up at cockcrow, 

running helter-skelter from dawn to dark,

and finally, 

yawning and slumbering at witching hours. 

At times, the faithful visit the precincts,

gravitating herewards to find peace

in its sacred confines. 

But that's not often too.

And yet the bethel stands sentinel, 

watching our comings and goings. 

Dutifully, the bells toll,

the tradition remains. 

A subtle pause midst all the hustling.

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Welfare unto all 

Rab rakha 

Crumbs of our love

The crumbs of our love,
the morsels of our affection,
(raw and crisp mostly,
a little stir fry here
or mayhaps a sauté,
generously mixed with
grated mozzarella, and,
seasoned with basil
black pepper and oregano)
served on blank whites,
with lots of heart.
The platter ready,
a bit of us on the serving pallette,
and they call the sizzler, poetry.

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PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Welfare unto all
Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗 

Life in moments

Beyond the chaos,
someday we will start living,
and
we will celebrate.
Lavish candle light dinners
with
tables and timelines ,
both reserved.

Amidst this mayhem,
when the world is all topsy-turvy,
between the uncertainty of it all,
amongst the fleeting moments,
we will celebrate.
All of us, together,
A home cooked meal,
simple, yet sumptuous,
set out on that grandpa-table,
with extra dullops of love,
and extra-large servings.
Luxuries, only a few can afford.
Such moments of simplicity,
when
through the gossamer curtains of nonce,
that mesmerizing gander of life.

Love for those who matter,
when it matters.

Amen!

For PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Roger's

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Welfare unto all
Rab rakha 

Shades of life

Eerily empty,
places all around, forsaken.
No scampering feet,
no jostling crowds,
no haggling customers,
no springtime frolicking.
Nothing.
The fountain sings alone,
old coins rusting at its base.
No hushed secrets,
no whispered confessions,
no more a witness
to furtive kisses.
Everywhere, all around,
a ghostly silence,
thick grey shroud,
beneath which,
the questions lurk,
the whats, whos, wheres,
their answers eluding,
confounding.
Deep inside the caves,
there is science and reason,
the protections, the preventions.
Out in the garden,
the flowers are blooming,
red and yellow and white
and the birds are chirping
and cat, basking in sunshine.

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The picture prompt for this week is

PHOTO PROMPT © Ceayr

Waste to wonder

Last month we had a family get together and we visited this place in New Delhi - The Waste to Wonder Park - a unique theme park. The park features the miniature replicas of iconic seven wonders of the world, created from industrial waste,  auto parts, cycle chains, car engines, truck springs, petrol tanks and what not. From The Taj Mahal to The Colosseum, we relished every single creation... Delhi sun, street food, family... Some memories...my throwback to the visit in 100 words

Crafted from waste,
scrap here, cast-off there,
the metallic replicas
of wondrous monuments, glisten.
Something like,
broken cups remade with gold.
History playing hide and seek
on that sunny Sunday noon.
The curious explorations,
bewildering;
revelations that follow,
mesmerizing.
Happy squeals,
zealous spirits,
awe-inspiring moments.
The structures,
coming alive
with our innocent laughter.
Oh! One perfect world tour.
From waste to wonders
and a walk
through those wonders, wonderful!
Throwback to that tickled time,
spent with tribe.
Throwback to that history class,
attended with friends.
Throwback to lively fragments
of time frame.
Handful of pictures.
Bag full of rich memories.

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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Skindeep

Underneath the silken layers,
sans the make-up and the hair-do,
without the dash of code red lipstick
and perfectly lined eyes,
beyond the glowing radiant skin,
your soul painted in perfection.
So come to me, as you are,
minus all these masks.
You, with all your scars and flaws,
pure, authentic and real,
glowing from somewhere deep inside.
And I shall love you sweetheart,
with all my heart,
for how you are made up.

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PHOTO PROMPT COURTESY Ronda del Boccio
Welfare unto all
Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗

Shopping spree

Strolling hand in hand
in the bustling market,
we looked for
pieces of happiness
bartering our yesterdays
for prettier tomorrows.
And in our shopping spree,
we bought tiny little moments,
all for free.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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Picstories

Pictures,

in black, white, grey

and beautiful colors of the pallet,

unstained

with the insistence of being liked,

unedited memoirs,

undisputed testimonies

of being joyously alive.

Such pictures that tell

our stories,

that echo the sweet times.

Digital albums,

suddenly bereft of

such pictorial verses.

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PHOTO PROMPT COURTESY TED STRUTZ

The calm of rushed mornings

The tea simmering in kettle,
the lentils bubbling,
the clothes churning in washtub,
the deft hands ironing
the wrinkles of rumpled clothes,
the brooming, the mopping, the dusting,
the suppleness of fresh waters,
the crunch of crisp morning air,
the scattered mild sunlight,
filtering through woods.
The calm inside.
The stirring of gravy,
the fluffing of bread,
the frothy blend of minty buttermilk,
the running for school and office,
the rinsing of utensils,
the hanging of clothes on the line.
Simultaneous. Synchronous. Sudden.
The chaos outside.
The discipline. The mastering of sprint.
The pace settling to a soft rhythm.
Harmonious.

Written for Friday Fictioneers 

Come soon

Spick and span,

fragrant with the bloom of your favorite flowers,

the house is ready to greet you, my love.

Come soon!

For the daisies will wilt,

and dust will gather

in the crevices

of that designer wrought iron railing.

And darling! I am growing old now.

The dusting, the watering, the climbing of stairs

have all become once in a daytime things.

Amidst the places to visit and errands to run,

I long to hear you ramble

from the diwan bed in the lobby,

munching the home-cooked culinary delights.

And my arms are aching to hold you. Come soon!

 Linking with Friday Fictioneers 

PHOTO PROMPT COURTESY : ©Ceayr

Home

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PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Crimson. Deep crimson.
The shade of passion.
The other one toned down. Lovely red.
Ah! A whole bunch of different hues.
There is that delicate blush.
The peace of bluish-white.
The subtle saffron.
Vibrant yellow too.
Standing tall.
Persisting.
Through thorns and storm
and sun and rain.
Beautiful. Becoming.
Radiant. Ravishing.
Fragrant. Fragile.
Brave. Defiant.
Bold. Resolute.
Alluring. Bewitching.
Blooming because they are blooming.
Perfect. Just the way they are.
At all moments, at all times.
Just like you.
Oh! I planted them all
so that someday,
when you walk through this rose-bed,
you will see yourself through my eyes.

Linking with Friday fictioneers

Sea-shells

The buoyant waves,
swirling, twisting,
and swiveling festively,
crash at the shore.
The majestic tides,
those irresistible, raw,
liberating bursts of energy
recede.
The shore sand shines,
littered with beautiful
seashells.
Those empty carcasses
with echoes of ocean
resounding in their depths,
reminiscent of a
life lived beautifully.
Such impermanence,
such transience,
such evanescence.
All temporal affairs
so short-lived.
All joys come to pass.
But in the wake
they leave behind
their indelible mark.
That beautiful ink stain,
bearing exquisite testimony
to the cliché,
not how long you live
but how well you do it.
What worth your life carries?

Photo prompt @ Sandra Crook

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Baby steps

Small strides on a rough path
strewn with fireflies.
Small steps that lead
to beautiful roads, over the time.
Small short steps
that brought us this far.
Baby paced, each day, we walk
with a hope
that we will reach the destination,
that alluring terminus
which keeps us awake most nights.
Small baby steps each single day
praying all the while
that we walk in the right direction,
striving to carve our niche,
howsoever small,
in this majestic expanse.
Walking slowly
underneath the umbrellas
of very many blessings
feeling the bliss, living the moment.
Tiptoeing,
lest the harmony is disrupted.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

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Keepsake

Some yesterdays,
we sat together
on a rickety age old chair
made of teak wood,
treacherously balanced
by our uneven weights,
sharing little tidbits,
browsing the galleries that held
our picture-perfect kodak moments.
The ever responsible you
had warned me about
the splinters
I might get
and the madcap that I am
I unheeded,
laughed off your caution,
and sat right beside you.
Caught up in simplicity
of such moments,
we attempted to
fathom our complexities.
The chair sits empty today,
forsaken and gathering dust.
The keepsake
breathes our laughter.
And I can't bring myself
to chuck out the relic.

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You, unplugged!

I found you thus!
Oblivious to the
loud banter of
stained machines,
rattle of motors,
squealing belts
and hustling cogs.
Bent over a lathe,
with a staff member,
perhaps runing some diagnostics.
That metallic beast
held your complete attention.
Your skilled hands
moved deftly over her,
tracing her sleek cuts
and exploring the nuances
of her body.
You skillfully maneuver the lady.
Tweaking, twisting, teasing.
Until she trembles
and springs to life.
You pat her gently,
"That's my girl!"
And then someone calls
you over,
and you busy yourself
with iron-teethed gears.
Mesmerized, I revel
in this version of you.

Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Wandering

In retrospect,
I figure that hitherto,
buses and bus stops have been
featuring consistently in my life.
Rickety public buses and
busy bus stops
keep flitting, in and out,
in chapters of my life,
like a recurrent background theme.
My journeys,
the exciting ones homebound
and the silent, somber ones
taking me away to
whatever being my passing engagement.
Transient travelling.
Waiting. Boarding. Getting off.
Jammed roads. Twisted streets.
Jerky rhythms. Swirling bodies.
Shoving and pushing.
Squeezing in tight spaces.
Close stinking confines.
Unfamiliar companions.
Repeat.
The entire cycle.
Monotonous. Lackluster. Drab.
Glimpses of life, blurred,
as I shuttle around.

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Closed door

Closed, bolted
and locked,
the lonely door,
rattling in winds
makes me curious
as to what lies behind it?
Mysteries unopened!
Wild and wonderful
whispers of heart!
Tales and travails
of blessed ordinary!
Remnants and oddments
of smiles and tears!
But to reach that storyland,
where words weave magic,
bringing excited narratives
to reality in your honeyed voice,
I'll have to get
thoroughly tangled in you
and forget the world outside.
As of now,
I hang around yours,
slightly opened, slightly closed,
seeking to sneak
to your soul
and I love this wait,
this trying and testing
outside my destination.

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Caprine jam

Gaddis are on move,
for food and fodder and life.
Large flocks of sheep
and some goats,
the wherewithal of this nomadic cult,
block the highway oftentimes,
that treacherous mountain road
with its serpentine circuits,
steep falloffs and dizzying heights.
The slow but sure-footed bleating caprines
making their way through hairpin turns and narrow hilly lanes.
A sight to behold in itself.
There is a beautiful melancholy in their move,
a harmony, a congruence of elements,
a comfort in this roadblock.
A couple of blind lefts and rights,
and I will be home.
Home, that I carry in my heart.

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