Delightful in what way,
this rush of cars and feet,
the tap, the honk, the race,
madness now has a busy face;
why not gather to hug and talk
stop a while,watch sunsets,smile;
From my window, I see only roads,
endless stream of traffic to & fro;
I plot stories for some of them –
people going places to create memories
a date, celebratory lunch or movies
with loved ones; hopefully not alone.
Show me a garden with pretty flowers
kids playing games after games,
picnics – food, drinks, ice creme
kindness and love taught in shared space;
that I would say, is the delightful event
when we never fall short of helping hands.
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Steering a path lined with stars, flowers of all colored quartz; She walks in shadows writing her last songs of lost tomorrows, forgotten curses, gratitude misplaced – life goes on heavy hearts, even emptier soul.
Today I spend the long weekend Monday off in bed with books and tea and catching up on some blog hop. Today Canada celebrates Labor day in celebration of the special significance for the labor movement in the country. It is a public holiday and the unofficial end of the summers as students return from the summer break tomorrow.
Labor has always been quite a confusing term for me, which first started with the question: Am I a part of the labor? the obvious answer was No if you consider the definition for white-collar, blue-collar and pink-collar jobs. Traditionally, the blue-collar jobs, which are of manual labor were the only jobs known, hundred years ago, we owe most of our labor laws to these folks.
When I was a kid, with no reference or clue about this day, I still knew the importance of labor and how we owe our smooth lives to many of these workers who work hard from earliest daylight to the late-night, much after we have put our work-life behind us. I remember the lessons my parents gave me on always being grateful and appreciative of the workers we encountered in our day and how their effort benefitted us and we needed their assistance always.
For years, I never understood my dad’s roles and responsibilities at work except that he always had a line of workers outside his office whenever I visited him there. Many of them visited him at our home with gifts from their hometown – especially fruits and grins from their fields and farms back home. It amazed me to know they always maintained one job in the city and also went back home to manage farms regularly whose produce was exported or consumed within the village. It taught me the importance of passion and hard work by looking at how my father was always understanding of their situations and helped them as he could. He worked along with these folks as much as he could – being available and guiding and managing operations of the factory he worked in – traits all three of his kids have learned by following his example.
dreams linked to pay checks mouths to feed, new life to make parents show us way
“I liked the rush, I liked the crunch. Never did look back at the fallout. I knew I wasn’t alone in the vast desert road as I frequently heard the howling animals follow my trail, while still hidden in the shrubs. I was not scared or worried, instead, I felt alive for the first time in years. ”
He hit send on the latest entry for the blog he was maintaining to record his daily progress and thoughts he had on his last adventure.
A thousand miles away, sitting in her bed, she read the blog as soon as it was published. This was her only connection to his world since he walked out if it to follow his passion.
Amidst a sea of faces,
I wandered alone –
politely nodding hellos,
avoiding unnecessary attention;
till she came visiting –
stretched on my bed,
she lazily looked at
the truly inconsequential ME!
knocking a few books off,
she declared her territory
(as if anyone had missed)
as she left me giggling
and responding to her welcome. MEOW i said,( little one, come again)
Reading the Poetics Tuesday prompt brought back a memory from my graduation days. In college, when I was so utterly bored in a class, instead of yawning, I said “meow”. It wasn’t too loud but neither too low that it could escape a few of my classmates around. The girls who lived in the same dorm as me of course immediately knew it was me. I realized later that “meow” had become my standard reply to anything amusing, including daydreaming of my bed in the middle of a boring lecture.
On and off, between silence and words; we switch gears, high and low our voices grow; surrounded by waves, limitless, as far as eyes go; I look at us, balancing this see-saw of emotions whichever way our lives flow; we laugh, we kiss we argue, but never miss beauty in all this.
“Why do you keep going back to that forest? “ “It just feels right to go home to rest” “There used to be your home years back. Also, do you feel tired? “ “No. I just feel that nights are to go home and rest.” “Uh Uh, There is something wrong in the code. You can not be showing ancient human symptoms. It has been ages they slept in the night. The Internet ruined that. “Am I not human, then?”
The idea of the poem below started with the poem Migratory Birds as Laura on dVerse Tuesday Poetics asked us to use one of the translated poems as an inspiration for a poem. It made me remember another song that has opening lines that birds , rivers and winds are not bound by borders, so what really did we gain by being the way we are.
It was another era, when my stories had wings riding on the clouds across time and space; It was folly of youth – to tie wishes to trees, praying for impossible outcomes; like birds flying across oceans, leaving home behind only to return later; always a stranger to lands and the trees that promised to nest.
This is the final part of the story. Part 1 & Part 2 [linked]
“I did not expect you to look older though”, he said genuinely surprised to find her standing in front of him.
“We age too, and part of this is to blend in when I visit Earth.” She replied as she settled on the mountain ledge.
“How did you even find this place ?”, she continued.
“Followed the signs from the old stories my ancestors collected. I realized quite late that stories are where all the knowledge is hidden. It’s a pity, people have stopped listening to them”. He said softly
“The stories are your bloodline, same as your son’s, all this while. I feared he would fare best as a storyteller. And he figured the same when he seeked you out to learn this dying art.”
“My son ?” he asked puzzled, till he remembered the young man at his home, the one who after a year, had left that very morning to spread the ancient wisdom in the world, as a payment for his training.