INDIAN SUMMER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn comes as a chariot of nature's flame. From woodland browns are born reds and golds to warm heart and soul. The leaves, like flags waving in every sweet breeze, swirl in a wind-choreographed dance. Soon they rest upon the forest floor, embracing their destiny to feed each earthen wintry root.
seasonal trustees
summertime takes final bow
fall heeds her calling
starry autumn night
season brings artistic hand
harvest abundance
Can we do it together?
“Hi! How are you?” an Indian lady asked me.
After work, I left the building of my workplace.
She also worked there. Just in a different department.
This company is in Greenford. Very nice. It is in London.
“Do you have children? Do you have a family?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t”, I answered. “Can we do it together?” she asked.
I laughed and then walked to the bus stop. It happened many years ago.
She was very young. Innocent. She lived in Hayes, and I lived in Wembley.
I often think of her honest, pure glaze and beautiful black eyes. Hmm.
But I don’t know where she is now. Hmm. Too late. I was very stupid. Live alone
Heat, like fog, engulfs the environment.
Flora and fauna burn in the sunbeams.
Clamminess-filled vapor goes virulent.
Mirages glimmer like unending streams.
Tempests brimming with dust and debris blow.
Unquenchably thirsty, the parched lands crack.
With abstract sky paintings, dry evenings glow.
Thunder peals, on and off, like an earthquake.
Days taunt. Nights haunt. We burn in the furnace.
Sleeplessness and nightmares pervade our nights.
Flies and reptiles perform a crude circus.
Heat climbs the atmosphere's immodest heights.
With the nomadic breeze, black clouds elope.
Timely drizzles, yet, try to bring some hope.
1905
Geronimo went to Washington
to meet the Great White Father
(where he hoped to bury the hatchet)
and save his Indian Nation...
checking into his hotel, the desk clerk asked,
"Do you have a reservation?"
The perfect poker face when playing cards
(his guards were nearly always broke)
said to be blood-thirsty, his winnings used he
to pay for educating children of the Apache.
He later rode with Pawnee Bill
in what was known as the 'Wild West',
(and what a circus)
a chief he never was,
1909
died of pneumonia all too soon,
'Geronimo Now a Good Indian,'
read the headline of The Chicago Daily Tribune.
The Indian guru's
mantra of the day,
tho' somewhat strange,
goes this way...
'When words fail
and at a loss,
contemplate aural hygiene
with transcendental floss.'
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
older than the Englishmen who raised a bridge
over its Constitution, a nude Indian sped away
from a warring Englishman behind
absconding by canoe to an adjacent isle
but smallpox caught the indie afore ammunition
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
that witnessed the grapes of wrath in '37
and suffered its wine, the black potential rebelled
against the clear minority who had signed
emancipation letters without intent
ergo, cars with bodies went flying upon the riparian spine
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
leaning on treasonous city hearts, wrinkling under the trebled
degrees of island sun, chuffing at progressiveness
and how the colour schemes lightly redesigned
black power free, it seems, walks unfettered to its banks
carrying tackle, tiki-torches, tourists, a picnic, and gun
Indian Paintbrush
Cinnabar to rum.
Bluish to a pink rose.
Curious toward a new path.
Waltz through painted daffodils.
Crystalline ruby sky.
Scarlet blood red devine.
Indian Paintbrush.
Open fields, red sun.
Thine crimson deep.
Fall asleep, can’t speak.
Mesmerized by reverence.
Rows of labyrinth.
Soon be a beautiful brown color
For naturally brown lover.
It is the world of Shiva and Shaitan
It is the world of Krishna and Kant
Devi on Nandi holding Demon and Son
Devotees, Deities, Ash, Claps and Fun
Fragile girl carrying child in her arm's
Not mother but a sister’s virgin palms
To Die for him but not a bruise to touch
Just Bottom pinching nothing too much
Anguish in her arms to shut the door
Hammer or Paedo, they break the core
Unreal city under brown fog of cold dawn
Slogans, Sighs where savage zombie born
Cow with a nose grip lost her way
Is she mute or has nothing to say?
Another one eating her own skin
Is there Anyone left? kith or a kin
Her body is torn open with the blood
No milk, No Calf. Here screams flood.
Blended spices mixed and
boiled with chicken and rice,
Best with mutton or prawns,
but tastes good even with
basic fresh vegetables!
Blast of flavoured richness!
Bewitching special treat!
April brings more than
showers
Spring sometimes
cowers
To Winter after
flowers
Years ago, in Budapest,
I bought ceramic mugs
As presents for my son and wife;
They thanked me and gave hugs.
The pottery was quite unique;
I bought some for myself,
Which sits there in my kitchen
On a front-and-center shelf.
I couldn’t carry too much home
But always did regret
I didn’t buy myself a mug
(Or two, to make a set).
Yet since that time, my son has bought
Ceramics of his own.
His coffee cup collection
Has considerably grown.
The gift mugs are no longer used;
They’re stored way out of sight.
I knew if they were on display,
They’d bring me great delight.
Could I possibly reclaim them?
It’s a practice that’s taboo
(Which I’m well-aware my title,
Very not P.C., is, too).
But my son was very gracious –
Wrapped them so they wouldn’t break
And they’re hanging in my kitchen now,
Correcting my mistake.
I won’t do this again
Though I am glad I had the nerve
To speak up, for these two mugs
Bring out my smiles on reserve.
high upon a jagged cliff
a painted horse of many colors
stands under a cloudless sky . . .
a native girl gazes at the vast land of Canada
as one eagle feather from her Indian war horse flutters away
lost . . . it glides, it dances in the wind, it soars, it floats
White Supercilium, black face mask,
White collar,
Dark buff head with Black central stripe,
Dark gray stout bill,
Gray eye-ring with white awake – eyeliner,
Buff crowned,
Glossy blue, dark green, Turquoise-Blue,
Shocking white wing-coverts,
Thin black trace, garish scarlet Underbelly,
Black blue-tipped tail,
Toned, endless, enviable strong pins
pink
Divine ensemble apt for
Wallpapers, earrings, motifs, art, stamps and study
They sit shy, inconspicuous, in
Leftover dense forest
Mad for being naive in
Sartorial world, they keep
Picking up worms under leaf-litter
On forest floor, autumn always
Secretive Monomorphics
Complain to Sun
Once at dawn, once at dusk,
risks
To migrate preferably at night
Opulent pair dances to mate
Nests to breed, care their chicks,
Teach their fledglings to hide and play
Along predators’ plenty,
Teach their fledglings along
Stressful achromatic life,
to fly away
Crimson saris, silk
Woven with threads of gold,
A dancer's graceful sway,
Reflecting ancient lore,
A turban's vibrant hues,
Sun-baked earth, spice-scented air,
Desert whispers tales,
Of caravans afar,
Carvings deep and bold,
In temples, ancient stone,
Echoing centuries old,
Stories yet untold,
From the Himalayas' snow,
To Ganges' holy flow,
A sacred, mystic show,
Diversity unfolds,
Ghats, where souls ascend,
Prayers to deities blend,
The fragrance of incense,
Mystical events unfold,
Bhangra's rhythmic beat,
A joyful, vibrant heat,
Dancing in the street,
Celebrations complete,
From the bustling city's hum,
To villages' quiet drum,
A world within a sum,
India's soul, profound,
Flavour's bold and bright,
A culinary sight,
Spices, herbs, and light,
Taste of day and night,
A thousand faces smiles,
Across landscapes, miles,
One nation, mixed styles,
India's spirit, which beguiles
A symphony of sound,
Stories whispered around,
Diverse and ever-bound,
India's soul is profound.
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