asleep sea, lighthouse rotates
crabs find refuge
crabs find refuge
the Buddha himself
did not start enlightened
he walked the path – (c) Cathy Tenzo
as obstacles and blessings
became one with his compassionate gaze
Above in response to Carpe Diem Haiku – the Buddha Himself
my little green lawn
dreams about the pampas grass
I dream of the stars – (c) Jazzbumpa
and mop the air with light
by riding a hundred fireflies.
Above in response to Carpe Diem Haiku – my green little lawn
crossing the footbridge
a sound that comes unbidden …
my wild beating heart (Lolly)
the shadow of light falls
on a boundary of communicating ants
Above in response for Carpe Diem Haiku – crossing the footbridge
Rosie requested me to tidy her yard and instead, had me listen to her love story. With my father. Over a beer. Afterwards, when I walked over to the flower-bed, she said, “another time, David. Say, visit me again?”
I saw the same longing in her eyes, that rests in mine. I figure, Sheila might have noticed the resemblance in me but she dismissed it. Sam is incapable of loving a boy who suddenly exists. Rosie is the only one who saw me.
I am used to indifference; but how to confront love which is thicker and quicker than blood?
Rosie, I will visit you. Again.
Word Count: 110
Above in response to voice week 2013 – voice 5
“There’s someone to see you, Sam,” the prison guard unlocked the door.
Sam wobbled his arthritic legs towards the booth as David stood up to greet him, watching him carefully. Head shaped like a melon; dirty blonde hair ruched back.Eyes the color of marble. David talked, while matching Sam’s features to his own. For clues. Sam pretended to listen, interrupting the monologue with indifferent silence – impatient to return to the familiarity of his cell.
David got up.
“Disappointed in me, kid?”
“Not really, I’m glad we aren’t alike at all.” David pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, crushing the paper Rosie gave him with his dad’s name and possible address.
Word count: 110
Above in response to voice week 2013 – voice 4
Here she goes, again. Is there a man? When Rob left her, I was relaxed. That drunkard vomited over my flower-bed every week. No wonder, the land is barren. Like Sheila. Many men and no children. The whole baby thing was such a turn-off for Sam and he ran straight into my arms. I hear he is locked up.
I like the boy who is mowing her yard. He was fixing her rocking chair, earlier. Lucky bitch! I am just an old, invalid woman whose kids never visit her.
He looks at Rosie Smith sitting on a wheelchair, in her patio.
She tightens her grip as he approaches.
“Sam,” she whispers.
Word Count: 110
Above in response to Voice week 2013 – voice 3
My house in a mid-size town in Central India has a temple, facing East. As long as I can remember, the Gods in it have been the same. In the center, is pot-bellied Ganesha (elephant God) holding a sweet in his hand. Known for removing the obstacles of life, he is seated next to a rat, his wise vehicle. To his right, is Lord Shiva (the ruler of universe) with a snake coiled around his neck – active and sublime. To Ganesha’s left, are Goddess Durga and Goddess Laxmi – the reservoirs of ultimate power and prosperity.
Every morning, my father used to light an incense; offer a few flowers from our garden and a sugar cube. His chanting, his devotional hymns and his concrete faith introduced me to a multi-dimensional God. Hinduism, the religion I was born in, became my eyes with which I experienced this world – colorful and even fearful; consumed in an eternal cosmic dance of creation, preservation and destruction. Here, the Gods were powerful and charming; they were fatal and they could be experienced if one loved them unconditionally throughout his/her life.
All was in harmony, until I started going to a Catholic school. I was introduced to Jesus and mother Mary in a quiet chapel on the second floor of my primary school. There He was – on the holy cross, with a crown of thorns. At first sight, I developed an instant compassion for Him. In contrast to a bright, Hindu Goddess standing victoriously over the chest of a bleeding demon, Mother Mary was a quintessence of forgiveness. I felt, I could confess anything in Her presence. Every morning, I spent a few minutes in the chapel, downloading my questions. Every evening, I searched the same, in my temple at home. The answers were different but the feeling was same. I was no longer clinging to one faith or a category of Gods; I was letting in more.
I must have been tender eleven or twelve when I became friends with a Muslim girl. She celebrated Eid and brought delicious sheer khurma to school. She fasted during the holy month of Ramadan which was a new tradition for me. I watched her determination and perseverance. I observed her self-control. I wondered how her God looked like? Later, when I went to her home and couldn’t find any deities, I asked: “How do you imagine God?” “In our hearts and everywhere else,” she said. Moving from several idols to just one was tricky enough; the concept of an abstract God made me infinitely curious and confused.
As years flew, I spread my wings – about faith, rites and religion. I came across Sikhism; I was reformed by Buddhism. I was baffled often and I tasted clarity once in a while. It was a lot of information to process – some conflicting in interpretations but aligning perfectly in essence and a supreme entity evolved from millions to a solemn figure to transcendence.
Till date, I remain a Hindu – it brings mysticism to my world. It has given me a great foundation of my culture and values. And it has made me understand human nature. Yet, whenever, I see a church, I want to go inside, kneel and feel the connection, I established in a small Convent. Whenever, I hear the prayer call from a mosque, I remember my dear friend who made me realize that God is in every speck of universe – willing to guide and ready to love. All you need to do is to open your heart and see.
Word Count: 589
Above in response to yeah write #134
“Goddamn chores!” Sheila Robinson pushed the screen door, shooing flies, adjusting her violet hat and frumpy dress. Her eyes caught him standing against the ax cuts on the oak’s trunk.
“What’s that fella doing? He reminds me of this man I dated with curly hair, broad frame – Sam Taylor. Sex machine, that Sam… goddamn keys!”
“Mrs. Robinson, lemme help you Ma’am.”
“Thank you … who are you?” Her glasses wobbled as a fresh scent of mint touched her.
The stranger smiled as she settled and started the engine.
“Could he? Nah, mama said my baby was still-born.” She wiped a solitary tear and concentrated on the dusty road.
Word Count: 105
Above in response to Voice week 2103 – voice 2
She walked with a slight limp, arranging the dowdy cap on her head like a barren flower bed in Mrs. Smith’s yard. She wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. Not while he was beaten in the orphanage or when he was given an old, seamless edition of Tom Sawyer or a useless sweater.
The old oak stooped over the fence, scrubbing the serrated wood. By the Oldsmobile, she fumbled with keys; her glasses barely hanging.
“Mrs. Robinson, lemme help you Ma’am.”
“Thank you… who are you?” She struggled as he pulled the ajar door.
“Hi, Mom.” The warm dust rose and swallowed the words.
Word Count: 103
Above in response to Voice week 2013, first voice