In the pursuit of happiness
Americans chase fortune and fame
gold galore and a place
where everyone knows their name
but they could tone it down a bit
and not go loudly announcing it
to all and sundry with every word
it seems infinitely preferable
if some are seen and never heard
but on the other hand in another land
while leading lives of quiet desperation
trapped in their traditional ways
the British hang on in hope
of distant future better days
and tho' always first to join a queue
there are the few exceptions who
break the rule at every chance
don't give a whit or backward glance
hats off to them for their contribution
as every generation needs a new revolution
The Oak—was never loud—to prove—
The Mountain—made no Plea—
It held the Winter—in its Palm—
And kept the Sparrow—free—
The Hands—that bore—the Splinter's Mark—
Still offered Bread—to One—
Who came—with empty Apron tied—
Before—the setting Sun—
The Promise—was no Trumpet's Cry—
Nor Banner—in the Sky—
But Morning's Fire—and Evening's Door—
Where weary Hearts—might lie—
Yet Time—has taught—the strongest Limb—
May Bow—to Wind—or Grief—
And Honor—is not made of Stone—
But Mercy's quiet Leaf—
If there are Men—still built—of This—
The World—is not undone—
For every gentle Act—reveals—
A Kingdom—never won—
She stitched the Morning to the Day—
With Thread no Eye could see—
The Kettle sang—a Hymn of Steam—
The Bread—a Liturgy—
She knew the Language of the Seed—
The Seasons—and the Sky—
She watched the Sparrow choose its Home—
Without inquiring—Why—
Her Kingdom had no Marble Gates—
No Trumpet marked her Name—
Yet every Child who learned to Love—
Inherited her Flame—
She held no Scepter—but her Hands
Could quiet Fear—and Pain—
A Garden answered every Step—
With Lilac—after Rain—
The World may barter Crowns for Dust—
And Praise what glitters—Bright—
Yet Hearths are built by Patient Hearts—
Who kindle—Silent—Light—
If Time forgets such Gentle Souls—
The Roses will Recall—
For those who bend—to lift another—
Stand—Quietest—of All.
Five decades ago, one dusk after field duty
I stood at Moirang Lamkhai by the roadside
waiting for the passenger bus.
No bus came the last one might had gone I feared.
Then I spied an old man, dhoty hitched to knees,
shirt of cotton coarse sleeves long.
Bare foot he strode in the hush of the twilight.
I hailed, " Uncle has the last bus gone ? "
" Yes, it has gone, no more tonight." he replied,
" Homeward bound ? Don't worry stay at my house tonight."
No hotel in the bazaar but a pure hospitality.
We walked the road, his voice was gentle.
" See how the land developed - going on the road
feels like going on my home's floor (earthen)."
Then Gopaljee Sharma,Asstt Registrar C.S.
rolled in by office jeep post duty.
He called me aboard : I thanked the kind elder,
bade farewell, returned to my residence.
Now Moirang Bazar boasts hotels.
But such a kind hospitable old man,
which was the characteristics of people in the old days,
is not seen again.
Grand Greenery.
Frontenack kneeling.
Keening upon the front line.
You will moan me into my
own kind of oblivion,
A particular B graded death,
cornered in my own upheld dim fantasy,
ever much so fancy free in this prison.
a crow swoops low above trees
the birds are silent ...
a deep
waiting pause
Start with rich bolognaise sauce
Add lasagne sheets
Smother with béchamel sauce
Repeat this process
Grate cheese on the top.
Oven baked
Bliss!
Now that the secret's out
up to you to make your move
~ what's ahead in our future?
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
[Poet’s Note : this is a wry autobiographical memory written in traditional pirouette verse viz. 2 quintains, line 5 & 6 repeat, which is the toe turnaround. I wanted to write a narrative of a weird syncopated vignette, when I was knitting a pink mohair jersey at the time of my imprisonment. I reduced the narrative to a pirouette. When in prison, one of my interrogators was knitting the EXACT jersey in the exact colour & exact wool ! ie. in the final analysis, (in retrospect) everything in human life can be reduced to a pirouette, a turn-around dance ! ]
knitting a pink jersey
mohair with cables fine
to process flying thoughts
political activist
south africa turmoiled
south africa turmoiled
security police
came with casspirs and cuffs
interrogation chamber
police knit jersey pink
~~~~~~~~~
November the Fifth )
layered in a liquid fog ) SHOW
firework party starts- )
sweet chestnuts roasting slowly )TELL
potatoes baking harden )
memories of Fall
bonfired in smoky embers-
re-light once again
Traditional Sayings
Traditional sayings that are
widely understood as
being true clog the
arteries of
the strange.
On a winter evening,
along a lonely country road
I rode my bicycle and saw,
far ahead, a young couple
dressed in traditional
ceremonial clothes.
The setting sun cast it's light
as they crossed the wide paddy field,
brown with stubble,
quiet and still
May be they were returning home
from a religious ceremony,
a beautiful moment
I know will never happen again
in my life
Today, the paddy field
by the roadside is disappearing
and the road has started to buzz
with the noise of change
So conservative the wild animals habits are
And the birds are behaving traditional
But there’s a one animal who’s gone too far
To show off he progressed from original
The results that were reached are impressive
No one dares to deny the Man’s genius
Man was destined to become progressive
Self-boasting and often fastidious
Though his tastes can be fickle at times
He owns one or two constant traits
He kills other men for the reason he likes
To get what he deserves, then he bates
So a Man seems a bit contradictional
In comparison to other animals
Whose behaviour still goes like traditional
Withing their own kind, they’re not enemies
Hear the Orangutan speaks to his son:
“Seen a man, then rush quickly to hide
They spoil what they touch, and they cease everyone
Man’s a killer, who haven’t yet died”.
A poor little girl's gone missing,
Where's the knight to rescue her,
There he is and he's insisting,
He will find poor little Blair.
First he found a treacherous lake,
Full of sirens so alluring,
Slaying them was a piece of cake,
And the bloody screams reassuring.
After sweet song came a homely village,
Full of helpful denizens aplenty,
They'd seen no girl so the knight did pillage,
Taking all til the town was empty.
With plunder from the raided village,
Was he ready to face the dragons visage,
The third hurde to be overcome,
Was real difficult, how irksome.
The dragon was immortal but slain,
Incapacitated for a bit, killed in vain.
To the girl the knight ran,
Justifying all that he had done.
The girl turned and her face was gone,
She'd no mouth with which to sing a song,
Her limbs were thin as twigs,
Her starved body as heavy as bricks.
The fire in her eyes was gone as well,
With no strength left to quell.
She was too far gone he said,
About her they didnt have to worry,
Off and rolling went her head,
The killing was a mercy.
as seeing royal well trained fighters, all folks regain hope in battles.
October 13/2023
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