The greatest danger the world,
Has on saturation point,
Is not to touch upon the
Gift of all gifts, the democracy
Of our hearts to unite in palm, extend an olive leaf,
To address what makes our circumstances
Different. The darkest midnight,
Is not to, put into practice, the greatest
Virtue we have in our midst,
To veto the resistance of our own
Diabolical nature, to welcome,
That what makes us different, is not just
The mosaics of our genes,
And the abstraction of our color,
And personalities. We are never
Birds of a feather, only our songs,
Separate us. What makes us
Soft, is what gives us a bounty in gold,
Midas, is really about the human touch,
To transcend, our anemic selves,
Searching for another’s light.
Love is an onus, what mules
Carry in secret, trying to look,
As if they just don’t care.
The greatest hitch in our hearts,
Is that however much we try,
There’s a conscience bursting out
Like leavening bread in an oven.
We are, men, who, upon their hearts rest,
The greatest paradox of them all,
No man is too strong, as if, not to care.
The “bear” in us is not about,
The family Ursidae, or the fur coat,
Only the “bear”, the “carry” in our hearts.
How we look at the Ursa Major,
The great bear, knowing that we too
Have a big dipper. Our palms,
Our own spoons, our dippers, that reach out.
To bear, is our way of reminding ourselves,
That upon our hearts is a duty,
To leave behind our strength, our muscle
To do unto another, when cometh
The hour, when kindness, is not about
Showmanship, or making ripples, only
Courage, of opening one’s hardened fist, to
Know your fingers, and who they touch.
Touch, humanizes the palm, to show
That being mortal, is not just about
Our vice-prone nature, it’s also the mercury, in us,
What flows and ebbs, blitzing one minute,
Downing the next. Mortality, is not just,
Sinking, to our own kryptonites,
It is just as much, how we rise,
While living, by our capes.
The power not to react,
Is invested to our hearts and minds.
You can walk away from a scene,
Pouring water on your burning inferno,
Holding diablo back and letting an angel loose,
Trading in a commodity, that has
A longer half-life than the opposite emotion,
What does not bludgeon or
Run amock, what has no adrenaline
To spray the limbs, and yet
Softens the minute before, into
A beautifully-fitting Jigsaw puzzle.
How human bricks can fit together
To make a fortress, more
Beautiful than the Taj Mahal,
Where cheeks are prone to distend
Marketing a sling-like smile.
How every entry point to surrender,
Has a beautiful preamble,
How beautifying is walking away,
From hate. We are all bound to actualities;
The black man and his ghetto,
The gay man and his truth,
The terrorist and his change of heart.
The reservoirs of kindness, trickling
Out of sweat ducts, the palms,
Like suspension bridges, holding
Onto the human ore, that
Transforms in barter. What mastery
We have, in selling a brief smile,
Without any morsel of hope or expectation,
Just to paint the cloudless sky,
With arcing lips, looking as fresh,
As a curving rainbow, hammock-style.
The weather forecasts of humanity,
A meteorological smile, becomes,
The falling cats and dogs, torrential love is,
And the pummeling monsoons, what else,
But the rupture of obese clouds,
Breaking in the middle, like consciences,
Too heavy on empathy.
History is littered with mad men
Who saw everything as a rope and called it a string theory
And those who drew blood from blood sport
And called it a world war.
And it takes a man or woman with empathy
To make true, the kindness of our palms
To draw water from the callous eye
And grit is a rustproof body of armor
That draws courage from man. Like an oil well
That needs piling, through metal-rich sheets,
To extract. And just like oil, courage maketh
Man battle-ready to resists the tempests
With an unflinching heart
And in a rundown street in Calcatta, a woman made
Mattresses livid consciences with a cause
And cared for the dirty melting skin
Of lepers and bubble-warted paupers.
And she only asked for a prayer
A token of leverage for the belief-prone
Where you find a conjecture that can never be proven
By probabilities or odds, but transforms
A roulette game to a favorable practice.
And the legend of a woman still lives on
In spite of mud slung on news briefs
Of a Macedonian rose that had no thorns.
Kindness is just palm-works
Of a conscience that expands limitlessly
In the baton exchange between emptying and filling.
In the shortest distance between two beings
It is the polar chemistry between give and take
Of what the heart absolves. The unreturnable clause,
Of freeing from your palms, a token free of expectation.
A curio that appreciates at the point of exchange
To become a relic in memory.
I told my son, be kind – it doesn’t cost anything
And it gives you something back, called “Karma”
So he asked me “What is Karma, Daddy”
I told him it’s like when I call your momma “beautiful”
And when no one is watching, when you’re fast asleep
She gives me snacks and steals sweets from me
M & Ms, gummy bears, chupa chups
And all sorts of sweetened toffees.
And then I told him, be kind,
Even if your Momma is in a bad mood, like when she is blue
Like the walls in your room, even then
You be kind my boy, even when she is old
And wrinkled and cannot give you anything back
Except for what her heart is full of
What we adults call “love”
And he asked me “what is love, daddy”
And I told him it’s like when your heart is full of jellybeans
And every time I kiss Mommy, some jellybeans
Come up to the lips, and that’s why we kiss
And those jellybeans never grow old or bitter
Like they are always in a fridge
And I looked at him, still wondering
What “karma” and “love” were…….
I didn’t tell him how cruel the world was
He will find out on his own someday
And I knew he too will know jellybeans one day
And I hoped he would find his own fruity flavor
Color coded as beholder’s eye candy
I told him a short story in bed
Closed his eyes and kissed him on his forehead
When something went dancing up my throat and on to my lips…
I could taste jellybeans, through of a different flavor,
Sprinkling on my lips.
An offering of the elastic conscience
Stretched but rarely breaking
Seemingly obese around her waist
And that offering is a portmanteau
Of a nuance of the youngest feeling invented by man
Yet the oldest when you keep heart
And subtract groin, in blissful nuptials
With selfless unconditionality
And like bamboo grass in a grove
Bushing out new shoots
Heart-works are divided and multiplied
In the absence of motive and gain
In the darkest of nights – when parasites are feeding on light
You see moonbeams bouncing off tall yellow islands
The beautiful glow of bamboo wood
Slanting across, curving over a river-bank
Slender culms reaching out
Like pashmina shawls over troubled shoulders
Passive rarely authoritative
Kind and unassuming, full-beta and never alpha
The worker bee or ant and perhaps a hunting lioness
Who plays many roles, of nurturer
Guardian and unconditional donor
A person enflamed by the conscience
Unappeased by the status quo, enraged by injustice
A crusader not for Jerusalem
But for a strain of love that sees no color or creed
A person of inner strength and outer-crumble
Shattered by rocks, mast-fallen
Hull-splintered, yet who will rise
Like a seedling, to bear one pre-destined day
The ripened fruits of labor
For the broken and needy