24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
There could have been more
Why did it become such a chore
My soul walked out the door
Strength just crashed to the floor
Do you ever wish for visions
And if you could see, would it change your decisions
So so many unanswered questions
Maybe my life wouldn’t have had so many revisions
HOUR FIVE
In my yesteryears memories,
I see my ancestral home- an adjunct to my life
a home painted with
not just colors- but celebrations of life
I peeked into the rasoi,
a roshandaan- a quaint window with molds and webs
greeted nostalgia and paper boats swarms
like Poppy seeds chasing fragrant memories.
I see Grandma in the kitchen
making different kinds of bread and sweets,
While grandpa sits on the
beige colored sofa, his spectacle,
exhausted.
Mom wearing a silky shawl, and
starched cotton saree, with
a big Red Sindoor Bindi, blushing on
her forehead reminds me of hibiscus blooms.
Our home library cemented in a side wall
of the attic room; chirped like a hummingbird
an attic room where grandpa
used to keep his angeethi; the fading memories
glows with the touch….
A vivacious living room where everyone gathered
in winters to have chai and savory patties with tamarind chutney.
Yesteryears laughter now burns in the dying embers.
The family album documented all the excitement
of celebrations, festivals, wedding and meet-ups- now an heirloom
for my kids.
Dad used to take me to ride on his new scooter
while the old Lambretta roar fades into the past.
An empty derelict vase bought from a local potter
preserved near the B&W Television set with a shutter
unveiled crowded, forlorn and eager
memories, recollections, and glimpses.
The silence of the ancestral home is broken
by the loud speakers’ noises around festivities
and fond trips to haat bazaar.
Copyrighted by Ruchi Chopra, 2017.
angeethi* a traditional brazier
Its head resting on the crest, the lion still guards the Confederate soldiers buried in the aftermath of Civil War. Not a gargoyle spouting water, not an angel of compassion, not a soldier of upright honor: The protector of the Confederate Dead oversees those who fought in war, died perhaps in hopes of victory or in the long years after defeat. Childhood memories of this beast remain hushed For he lounged in his tomblike pose with somber silence an a permanent stone snarl everytime we visited Mario, our older brother sent to live in the state home for the others like him. "Retarded children" who grew into adults far away from their families in big cities, small towns, developing suburbs, schools with proms, sports teams, theater programs, rules about uniforms and hair, and the normal angst and joys of growing children. Separated. They lived, learned, slept, ate, and developed in every way within feet of this sad-honored, isolated lion. Set apart. The crowded home seemed ever silent, sitting directly next to the cemetery of the fallen. An odd placement for a state school, yet horrifically fitting. Both stood at the back-most spot at the edge of town: a place for the forgotten, the unpleasant, the no longer fit, the defeated. The soldiers' ages on the tombstones -- teenagers, young men, only a few who died aged. The children next door, born in times of poverty and misunderstanding, dying in childhood, in teen years, into their adult years still dying too young. No more than a few living fully. The school has closed, the cemetery has grown controversial in these cruel times, yet the lion remains, watching, seeing, observing, somber, cold, and cruel.
everwing playtime
using this time
sometime letting pass a time
no time wasted weighing option
letting some action
thinking about it in action
flying high to kill monsters
with dragons on the side
nothing is sinster
making it a global wide
still amusing
the musing
a time
for everwing
in no time
seeing the wings
again
again
again
Dedicate an hour each day to crying.
Cry as the sky cries, nor for yourself,
but for those who die hungry
and alone. Be the hand reaching toward
the old man who wraps a cardboard sheet
around himself each night when he settles
in a shop doorway to sleep.
He was once young like you.
Dedicate an hour each day to prayer.
Pray like the leaves when wind blows branches bare,
a scattering on the ground,
a dying season. Gently press the dahlias’ twisted limbs
into their sand beds and cover them over with dirt,
this hope the earth will love them for their bright colours
as you did and shelter them until spring.
Dedicate an hour each day to silence.
Be the wind when it falls still, the echo
returning home. Close doors softly behind you
and walk into the world as if you belong there.
Place your ear against the jigsaw puzzle trunk
of the two hundred year old pine in your back yard
and listen. It was once young like you.
There was a Mexican grocery store called Mi Rancho
Near the city jail
Buttressed by bail bondsmen and cut-rate law offices
A sweet spot for viciousness
This was downtown Oakland, CA in the seventies
Rough and raw and flush with low expectations
No gentrification to be found here
But to us kids, oblivious to the dangers of the streets
Mi Rancho was our wonderland
We could smell the chorizo as soon as we entered
Peppers and sausage and lard mixed together
Then perfectly encased in its delicate skin
That my mother would oh so carefully remove
With one flick of a sharp knife
How she didn’t cut herself I will never know
Then she would fry it, and the whiff of the spices
And the sparks of fat crashing against the pan
Lulled us into perfect bliss.
I found you, while out for a walk
I heard you calling
Through the sun spotted canopy
Rays of light, guiding
Analting the human sized boulder
Crawling up, scared and shaken
To lay upon the calming alter
Instantly embraced
Surrendering to mending
Grounded as I looked up
Universal love pouring down
Seeping through bone and stone
Into roots below
In that sacred space
Touching myself, connecting
Vaticinating into grace
I thought this will be fun a marthon of sorts. But now my hands are all sweaty and I think I’m growing warts
Haven’t even had time to check a prompt let alone Facebook (thank God I cooked)
Who am I kidding, didn’t sleep well in anticipation, no bother going to face this challenge like any other, with determination
I know this poem is corny ask me if I care.. because just finishing this one got me on step closer to almost being there…
Not really
Hand in paw
and paw in hand,
This tells a story
That man’s best friend
is this poet’s true love
and the sound of claws
on the hardwood floors
welcomes me home,
everyday
The country where I spend my old days
Observing natural phenomena under sun rays
The place, I enjoyed my childhood
To cherish my memories for good
My country is Pakistan, a happy place
A house of food and loyal face
Its streets were blooming with flower
I met with my love at this hour
