The rhythmic motion
Of an electric wind blows
drying my wet brows.
Back then before upheavals upheaved,
people were gracious
but lacked a common sorrow -
it made them a little dull.
Occasionally a local danger
would excite but rejoicing
and grieving never became universal.
Then came the Messengers,
the Messiahs. Devils
followed them like hyenas
to steal their words.
No wonder some wrote poetry
in notepads they carried around
like alien history books.
What with all the heavy heaving
and the collective maddening
we all need a personal testament;
something to believe in. Right?
I have seen the black face of his Kenyan father
With whom he didn’t go farther:
an absolutely Black Papa
Describing not the Diaspora Rappa,
His loudest trumpets for Jomo,
As Barak’s nearly were for The Homo:
Safer A self –reclaiming returnee
Than an ever groping escapee:
Better Kenya’s social leper
Than an American on paper
And heard have I of his unique white mama,
Who wouldn’t the flame surrender to coma,
Rockier getting than Nigerian’s Zuma
And quite the cougar of America’s Puma…
All that for fanciful catchers of History
And zestful peddlers of exciting mystery,
For say it I still
A-top our tallest hill:
The guy was all along full American,
To his boxers so, less Republican
His returns of cheers completely Un African
Ascents of staircases for the Mexican
His oscillating heard during speeches
Electric fan-perfect, no breaches…
Abort this try to find out
And –please- don’t fail to shout:
Ex-president Barrack Hussein
Lost only to the American smoking sin.
The lonely letters that
my tired thumbs are typing
on my cellphone know how
my heart breaks, bits by bits.
The silent ceiling, the white
bulb seem like telling the
carved cabinet to show their
sympathy,
while the walls,windows,
and electric fan
whisper the green curtain
to sway a little for me.
My blanket and pillow
are showing their support too,
they want me to feel
their softness as my comfort.
They are the allies of
my sorrow, no senses,
but they can feel, they
can clearly see
what I've been through.
Chilling in this house,
Chilling in my room,
Chilling-out in my own little world.
Chilling electric fan on desk,
Chilling tingling throughout my limbs.
Chilling outside in winter.
Chilling temperature numbing my fingers,
Chilling wind-chill freezing my face.
Chilling blizzard in which I race through,
Chilling cold replaced by body heat.
Chilling icy heart,
Chilling coldness against others.
Chilling mind and mellow thoughts,
Chilling out with others.
Chilling can mean a lot of things.
You make me happy in a way no one else can,
Always telling me sweetly that I am your man;
Wishing and caring for me to be safe and sound,
Not for a time you want to see me bruised and down.
The way you hug and kiss me creates a thousand thrill,
Giving me so much strength while climbing up the hill;
I see the rainbow only in your lovely face,
Painting my heart with colors by your sweet embrace.
I can't contain my feelings when I am with you,
The joy you bring truly takes me out of the blue;
The shadows of the night have just passed from my eyes,
There's nothing else the sun will do but shine and rise.
Yes, in the middle of the night I am still up,
Because loving you forever I just can't stop;
The flame all the more burns with an electric fan,
You make me happy in a way no one else can.
we are all budhas, we are all oshos
inherently, we are born with it
but our souls of mirror
get tainted by the pollution
the structure the system the education
and every thing is unclear now
we have to undust the mirrors
we have to clean up the dust of insecurity
then you will see who you really are
you will be a budha
then
you can count the hairs on your eye brows
your eyes will turn microscopic
you will realise that
you are an osho too
that is enlightenment
that might happen under a tree
or below an electric fan
it doesnt matter
by chanting under a tree for life time
by renouncing every thing
might not accomplish that
realise and fullfill only
by living in this moment
by the moment for the moment
artfully
neither worry about the future
nor regret about the past
you will reach home
the enlightenment
i, promis
The heat was scorching today
its flames licking the ridges of every soul to a boil
i was busy searching for a chill from an electric fan
an ice cream, the sea, a fridge, an air con, the azure pool
suddenly i heard a vagrant knocking at the door
”Pardon me, sir, I’m burning with heat
would you be so kind as to lend me your cold handkerchief?”
”I bet you are. So long as you’re on the street,
you always are. Only, I don’t have a cold handkerchief.”
”But the heat is really, really killing me, sir.
A cold handkerchief might just cool me down.”
”I don’t have a cold handkerchief. But, I’ll give you a jug of water.”
”Ah, thank you, sir.”
But I handed the hobo a cold handkerchief anyway
which he received from my stiff, frozen
glacier-like fingers
as his frail body was melting to a springing
kalkausar
that drowned me in
to a chill
.
The old balladeer sounds
like a tired man.
Under the wind of an
electric fan,
he blinks his bleary eyes
as fast as he can.
His breath reeks of tobacco
and stale rum.
As he hiccups through songs with
a coarse hum,
the drunken audience gossips
and chews gum.
.
Under the wind
of an electric fan
the old balladeer sounds
like a tired man,
blinks his bleary eyes
as fast as he can;
breath reeks of nicotine
and of stale rum,
crooning his song
with a gravelly hum,
the captive audience gossips
and chews gum!