Off a dirt road in West Virginia,
set far back in a weed-infested field,
an abandoned wood-slatted home stands,
kneels really, in the shadow of the
Blue Ridge Mountains. I imagine
it is free of worries that wore
the floors thin, free of the coming
and going that loosened nerves
and hinges, free of cries and laughter
now that only the voice of the wind
comes to roam its empty rooms.
A rooster might alight on the rusty
tin roof, but his cock-a-doodle-doo
alarms only the interloping field mice
asleep beneath a cast-iron stove
or the wintering bats suspended
from rafters by the hooks of their toes.
In spring, wisteria will climb
the grey, sagging boards, peek in
through broken-out windows,
like a cover-up to apologize
for the family that moved their lives
into a shiny trailer home closer to town.
I like to think the abandoned house
is happy, burden-free, collapsing into itself
like a body that has had enough of living
and is ready to let go, to relinquish
its heart to any weather, thankful
to be at home in nature.
What is pain?
What is strength?
When you know it shall kill you but you struggle to endure it,
When you are braving the pain,
When you want better for yourself,
When you have dreams and you are facing every demon,
When failure scares you but does not stop you,
Pain can be power,
Stubborness can be strength,
Make up your mind and stick through your pride,
Success follows hard work,
Pain may leave you sore for awhile but it also leaves you stronger.
Eyes..the windows to our soul,
the swollen pearls after you have cried the night,
the overflowing joy in them when you realize you are loved,
the pain they hide,
the happiness they portray,
the love that flows through them,
the beauty that they are and the beauty that they help us capture.
eyes betray us when we lie,
they mirror our heart and soul,
the lake reflects truthfully whom so ever peers into them,
our eyes, reflect who we are despite our attempts to not let it show.
Summer brings with it yearnings of lazy afternoons at the pool, soaking the sun with a chilled screwdriver and a witty book.
Summer brought with it the nostalgia of a childhood gone by, of summers spent at my uncle’s house with a dozen cousins running around. Summers where we visited relatives and guests graced our house,
Summers filled with mangoes and sherbets, books and ice creams,
sunny days with nothing to do but make memories.
Summers that were spent playing carrom and antaksharis,
That were spent riding in cycle rickshaws, giggling at passer-bys,
summers spent in libraries and museums,
summers spent running behind the kulfi wala and binge drinking coca cola.
Summers spent watching movies all afternoon,
Playing football and cricket in the scorching sun.
Summer is a time to relive our childhood memories, summer is a time to make new ones,
Summers, are they not always happy for everyone?