The angels are overloaded.
And I'm crying aloud.
In marketplaces.
In new frontiers.
Sobbing incongruously
From station to station.
Losing my past
And letting the present
Run off without me.
I am draining my momentum.
I am lock-jawed behind locked bars
And still I sing like the only dove In town.
Like travellers,
We cross this arid land
Aiming at the city of rest.
As we traverse the landscapes
We may, of a truth, sully our feet
With besetting dust of sin
But we must from time to time
Remember Calvary, the place of cleansing
Where mercy flows immeasurably
We go through marketplaces
Let’s be pleased with divine supplies
Lest we are tangled with vanities of life
We faint many a time
But we are resuscitated; we move on
We despair not.
We shall win!
We are soldiers in the warfare
Let’s fight, holding onto the cross
Beware of the scribes
Who like to go around in long robes and accept greetings in the marketplaces
Seats of honor in synagogues
places of honor at banquets
They devour the houses of widows and
As a pretext
Recite lengthy prayers
They will receive a very severe condemnation [Taken from MK 12:38-40]
One calm evening,
on a leisure drive with my wife
along the Inphal-Dimapur
National Highway,
I remembered
my overnight road journeys
to Guwahati for office work,
sometimes together with her,
before my retirement a decade ago.
Tedious journeys,
winding through the hilly roads
of Manipur and Nagaland ,
yet enjoying the beautiful scenary.,
Intermittent short stops,
taking tea and snack at roadside stalls,
passing through the busy marketplaces
in Dimapur and Assam.
Songs from Hindi films,
heard inside the bus
and at the marketplaces .
A longer halt at Jakhalaabandha,
where all took rest and food,
then arrival at Paltan Bazaar
in the morning,
searching for a hotel.
We decided once again
to go to Guwahati
when the covid pandemic was over
boarding a night super
to recreate once our past journeys.
Back home, our little grandson waiting
for me to play with him.
I remembered then,
as the days,months,and years pass,
there will be no true repeats in life.
Quiet descends on the town
The horizon deepest blue
Tufts and wisps of clouds long departed
Shadowy forms in their wake
A gaunt figure threads his way
through deserted marketplaces
All too aware, indeed
of the onset of Night
People who are on a mission
Trying to build their reputation
By shooting photos of stars on vacation,
Or maybe at some exhibition.
On possessing these famous faces
They quickly run to several marketplaces
Hoping to rake in millions of transitioned president faces
Then they lay back feeling like photography aces.
I hear the familiar sounds of Korea,
Of the crowing of roosters in the morning,
Of the fields, streams and marketplaces.
The tunes of shamanistic music band
The swirling of fire-lit cans of Jwibul nori,
The soup boiling sounds in a huge pot,
A crisp “tak, tak” sound of soybean burning
And the crackling sounds of dry branches.
Chanting at planting & threshing paddies
The singing of Hori and Gyeori songs
The striking of the bronze bell of Sangwonsa
Chanting-Beompae to Daeung Amitabh.
In the far-flung village of Sangyu
The flames of the daljips in the rice fields
Soars high in the sky on Jeongwol Daeboreum
Higher the flames, the greater is the harvest
Promising bounteous year and good health.
People dance Pansori at the tunes of Nongak
A feast is being prepared there,
The full moon catches people’s prayers
And spreads it to the high heaven.
Jwibul nori’-Mice burning game is on
Somewhere yet in another village.
The traditional burning of the rice paddies
To chase away the mice from the fields.
With crackling sounds of fireworks,
Warming and fertilizing the frozen fields.
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Third Placement
Contest: Sounds Familiar