Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

A Life Lesson in Kindness

Kindness 2
##
From Botany bay, to
A business called Botanik,
To the Botanical prints
That fall off life size models,
We hear the whispers of
The dryads, those that occupy
Trees, as guardian angels.
We water the roots, and add fertilizer.
We are gardeners of an orchard,
The “shoot and root” beauties
That sequester carbon,
To erase our wasteful footprints.
##
We cannot see the tip
Of the tallest tree, the redwoods
Nor can we figure out, why
The Baobabs are withering now,
Yet we know why bamboo, forms
A circle, a grove, a thicket.
We are all abreast, like plants
That give a boost to dire hope,
The tap root, that tells us,
We are stuck in one earth,
And a flower on top, that
Reminds us, beauty is not frugal,
Neither is it, in excess. A garden,
Multiplying as blossoms of antheses,
Is where the eye triumphs.
How a bloom has a place
And time, like human blossoms,
That slowly wither, to age,
And then fall off, and the few,
Who die in full bloom, plucked
By God’s hands.
##
Death, is our way of knowing, that we,
Are all, one day, broken tungsten filaments,
And still, we rise above inertia, inside our auras,
An extravaganza, of breath and beat.
How the show doesn’t stop,
Until the fat lady sings.
Still beneath the cosmetic, is
The heretic, a heart that keeps
On battling a world, that tells us,
We should not care, or give a damn.
Yet, we turn argon, into oxygen.
A temple, where pilgrims arrive,
And pilgrims leave, as acts of kindness.
We tribute our obese hearts, for the
Offerings of human touch. We are only
Catalysts of kindness, not
Just mere proteins, that scaffold,
On marriage beds, but enzymes,
Gifted with the beautiful chemistry,
Of transformation; not just as substrates,
But also, what is held beneath;
A substratum, on top of which,
We build a pantheon. A single clone,
In this cradle of humanity.
##
Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

The Poor (Two Poems)

Old age

The Poor

Through the smudges of reality
They hoist their head high
And scan a hostile environment. 
The wooden cane, just an ally,
Money. just a friend in need,
The corner on the pavement,
A home for the daylight hours.
And hope, the reflection of empathy
Through a mirror on a frail face,
The smile lines as indiscreet,
As the wrinkles, forging a transaction
That sells plight on a silver platter,
Imploring, just a clatter of metal
Against the bottom of a makeshift tin,
Which becomes the noise, and then echo
Of smelting hope, through
The scattered lines of an open palm
To preserve the tenure, of the life line.

The Poor 2

It is through giving we extract the metal
Of one’s character, when metallurgy
Is just a science of extracting
The purest metal. We are only an offering
Away, the palm, just like the lip,
A token, just like a spoken word,
To shift the onus away from
A makeshift till, held in gripped palm,
To a heart that unsteadies the echo
Of filler, and keeps gratitude
Concealed inside the caving throat,
Letting it all go, in one instance,
In two words that always go hand-in-hand.
We can only look through the fractured eye
To see a clouded dream juxtaposed to reality
When we are just a hand-token away,
Selfless as a moth to a flame,
In the renewal of a mortal bond,
Which is, in earnest, like the holy Eucharist.
Incarnating touch, in its most human form