Wall

Peeling paint. Faded patches. Mossy corners
I stand. Braving time.
Layers of paint. Through time.
One after another. Paint on the wall.

Accumulated history of thought. Pain. Grief.
Painted. Splashed. Smeared.
Painted over and over again. Time after time.
Each having an imprint. In every layer of Paint.

Peel. Scrub. Tear. Rip.
Pierce to remove the paint. Scathe through the layers.
Paint on my wall. The colour of your grief, joy, longing, nothing.
The brick on the wall is my heart. Bighearted to sock the splash.

Paint on me. Make the cerebral connect.
Through the ink of the colour you shape on me.
Splash the colour of anger, pain, rage, scream, echo.
Touch the paint of tranquillity. The wet walls speak.

Touch the wall of time. Touch with compassion.
The beauty of time caught still on the wall.
Opens to you your canvas. Seek yourself.
I will hold you in compassion. Paint on me. Pour. Splash. Spill. Splatter.

Wall-in the colour of your joy, trust, fear, panic, wrath and rapture.
Purple, Blue, Cyan and Turquoise.
Cobalt, Earth Yellow, Magenta, Red and Black.
Ocean Blue, Zaffre, Arsenic, Ash Grey and Sand Dune.

~~~*~~~

On Children By Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Transfixed at the Clouds

Clouds. Magnanimous. Drifting. Changing. Splashes of reflection. Still. Moving. Tugging.

I stand transfixed looking at the colour that play in front of my eyes. I am lost in the miracle that unfolds before me. The moving clouds spread in front of my eyes like ballerinas’ tiptoeing into the wide blue expanse of clear sky, dancing to the rhythm of serene music that quivers from the deep hollow bamboo flute.

I dissolve with the clouds. Etherised. Lost. Transfixed. The clouds change patters swiftly, in synchronous order. The patters are a wonder that spontaneously make the audience go on their feet, to give a standing ovation. Then quickly the synchronized patches fall like a glaze of snowflakes on an ember light Christmas tree. The delicate sprinkle of sugar spreads on cotton candy. An invisible artist appears spreading watercolours across the white canvas. Each stroke of watercolour is like a Rorschach ink blot. Santa the man with his long snow-white beard comes caring a bag full of calligraphy nibs and feathers, writing apocalyptic poetry across the translucent slate.

Staring at the play of colours is all for me to savour, in the grand consort of the mystical heavens. Tall haphazard buildings curtail the vision sometime. To catch a glimpse of the games that the clouds are immersed in, I sway from right to left. Buildings and water tanks on top of houses restrict my vision – I realise that people build houses on the earth and don’t really care about the grand landscape of the heavens that they disrupt in vulgar fashion. The semblance of a skyline does not exist for them as the earth is plundered.

That does not stop me in my meditative trance to catch the stroke of calligraphy that spreads across the translucent landscape where birds flying towards the setting sun. I see little boys on rooftops playing kites. It is for me a game of innocence. The kites reach the clouds and you can hear the giggle of pure joy. The long tail of the kites is like satin ripples that create rings of exuberance.

The kite flies higher and higher. I hear screams of excitement of children. May be it is the laughter of wonder - of how small we are to the clouds, of the space between the kite and the big roll of twine that is let loose. The wind has taken the kite with it further and further away into the clouds. The little boy knows that the thread of freedom is secure. The kite is still with him, just as the clouds are with him.

Gazing at the sky is tranquilizing - a drift into the world of wonder. The white clouds now turn to a little tinge of orange, as the kiss of ruche on the cheek of belle dancers.

Suddenly flamingos pass through, spreading their wings of twilight. A thousand at once.

The clouds change colour. The delicate orange becomes deeper. Suddenly it looks like dark curtains are going to come down on what was a magnificent performance of mysticism.

The child has rolled back the long rolls of thread. He brings his kite down. He places it under his arms as if the kite needs to be protected by the wind. He goes home and places it under the bed, waiting for the sun to rise again. Perhaps dreaming of coming home early from school tomorrow, to set the kite free to kiss the clouds.

The clouds float. They float into my life. I into them. Lost am I for a moment. Tranquillity curtains down silently.

I wait for darkness to settle in. I know the clouds have added colour to my life – like flamingos’ in the arid savannas, like ballerinas in the grand centre stage of the blue sky, where music and dance synchronize to leave you breathless.

~~~*~~~

Burn to Light

One must burn
To heal
To light
To shine

Burn
To heal the heart
To light the dark
To shine through the ash

One must burn
To cry
For yourself
Through the burning, you heal yourself

Burning is an awareness
The ashes are your balm
The hot streams of tears
Your rescue

One must burn
Just like the light
That burns to light
To shine despite the ashes

Burn to shine, to heal, to glow
Longing to embrace
The light, the hope, the despair
Claiming the earth through the ash

The ash is our body
The earth is our flesh
The soul, the dust of brown earth
Light the world through your burn

Burn to heal the soul
That is free of pain, sorrow and attachment
That resides in the temple of our flesh and winding veins
To light the earth of despair, rage and intolerance

Burn to cry
For the dust of the earth
Is kicked to create a storm
Sand filled eyes scratch vision

Light through the burn
For yourself
For the earth
For the dust of the brown

Burn to light the world
Heal. Shine
Connect the body with your soul
Thus your soul will be one with the universe.
~~~~***~~~