Hope can be a recluse that is befitting
Of a company or a crowd.
Sometimes the greatest dimensions are carved
By the promising hour and the dare of
Surpassing the courage you were born with.
To be brave is new territory, it is
Blossoming a crooked smile that is neither
Symmetrical nor flashy but a rule of law
In the cynical manifesto. Still you can look
Beyond that young man. The sun dripping color,
The rain dragging your face to a glass pane,
To look outside of your hermitage.
Hope is the best of two worlds, a summons
Of God to pave a road to a distant fate,
With a sense of carpe diem. The first is found as
Interfaced palms and the other, the grip of
Something that pushes you to raise the proverbial bar.
To be able to see tomorrow with precision clarity
Is by itself a beatitude. Ink that was liberated
From the pen of Norman Vincent Peale,
Was always secondary to what leaked
Out of the cranium of Miguel De Cervantes.
That crooked smile hides abyssal pain.
Those raining tears open shut floodgates.
And still the intercourse of smile upon smile
Has merit – there is a connection to be
Made there. Poetic words resonate inside
Me as I write this paltry verse,
Earning the beleaguered stripes of tomorrow, braving
The rough seas of an abject contemporary.
God repairs what is broken not
With a tube of superglue but with pasted lines
Obvious on the face of a bathroom mirror.
To read a line from that giant of a man, Tagore, is
An hour spent with a psychologist.
Oh Sigmund I pity you, there is so much
Joy in the superficial, the cosmetic, the sheer,
To resurface what was forgotten.
An empty washing line spanning ear to ear,
Flashing for a short impermanence,
Her brilliant white pegs.