A Looking Glass

A fumbling hand strikes a glass,

Falling, shattering, breaking

Into pieces ten thousands

That lay dead on the floor;

Like a broken dream

I lie like a corpse in a deep slumber.

Hope I could have survived

This tragedy, loss and suffering

That has occurred to the world;

That lies in the nadir of pain, desolation

And whose wretchedness

Has spared no being - worthy or kind.

These moments have scarred

My heart, my soul, my self

And I see how cracks have appeared

Through which agony has found

Its course in the abyss of my conscience

Tearing and breaking me.

Like the glass pieces on the floor

That is sharp yet futile

And has no form or structure;

Separated, isolated and sequestered

Self, A face – broken and ruined

Is what I see in the glass.

Pen(is) Mighty When I hold It

I, I flirt a lot,

Going around, encompassing all

The thoughts, the words

And breed more in darkness-

The intense passion.

Initiation- make a move

I do it, do it all,

I play a lot with them

Swirl them, turn them, toy them.

They get better with more touch.

Our naked souls converge.

We get to the point,

Bereft of our coyness,

Ideas begin to penetrate my head,

Desiring for more and more.

Inserting pen on the sheet laid wide,

Expelling all that I am aware of

At the zenith of heat generated,

I deliver the climax and

The final sigh of pleasure!

Being Human

I walk down the skywalk over the Santacruz Station. Watching people pass by looking up-to-down at me; a stray dog has nothing to follow; so he wanders off to any strange sound, just like me. In a dingy corner on the bridge, which locals treat it as their own personal spittoon, is a beggar, very old with his palms stretched out to every walking person and simply pleading with mercy and calling out blessings for all who spare and don’t give a penny.

It was out of the blue where I will to share, only share a penny that belongs to me, give away and dish it out only because of my polite heart was filled with sympathy. Some more blessings from his mouth were transferred into the pockets of my karma. I walk away and stand aside to wait for my friends. Engaging myself into a Derridian talk, I divert my attention to something more significant and advanced.

On my route back, I check my pocket for the change given to me by the bus conductor. Finding it missing, I check again. The missing penny had its root in the morning when I offered it to the beggar. I then realized, how easy it was for me to forget the charity that started my morning. The CHARITY, perhaps, only namesake was actually an act of sympathy, pity, shame and self-loathing. If it wasn’t for sharing or sparing a penny but offering, it would have been a genuine charity. I heard bells ringing in my mind recalling a poem by Eunice de Souza “Feeding the Poor at Christmas”.

Lucky was that poor man, who didn’t have to think too much about morals and virtues. I, the giver is now muddled of not knowing what is genuine and ingenuine. We should be great liars to call ourselves connoisseurs and aficionados, while we can barely differentiate between our mind and heart. Playing GOD, is all we like to do but we are turning away from the real essence of being what we truly are, a simple human.