The castle is silent

The castle is silent
Golden moonlight filters through the window
Casting soft grey shadows across the hall
And highlighting the silver filigree of a small cobweb

In the fireplace stands a cast-iron cauldron
Hands on hips, greedily swallowing stray moonbeams
And gazing longingly
At the mantelpiece above.

A pair of antlered candlesticks stand stiffly to attention
Saluting time in the shape of a glass-domed clock
Around them dance dainty figurines, who mock the cauldron
With pretty, painted smiles

Higher still the looking glass watches impassively over all
Its unblinking stare never wavers and yet
Reflections brighten and fade as though
It contemplates each one in turn.

A door opens slowly and the room holds its breath
A woman floats in amongst a haze of ivory silk
Her image dominates the mirror,
As though its curiosity has been aroused

She approaches and gazes intently at her reversed counterpart
Apparently trying to see what lies beyond
She seems disappointed as, sighing,
She turns and glides away

The door closes quietly behind her, blocking her from view
The room sighs, relieved, and everything looks as it did before
However the unsettling aura of unfinished business remains
Leaving a mood of anxious expectancy

Jhumaka (Ear-rings)

My father was a brigadier in the army.  It was the year 1970.  My father was posted to Lahore from Quetta.  We all looked forward to moving to Lahore, because all my cousins lived there.  I never had a chance to mix with them.  Whenever I used to meet them it was always with reluctance.  All my life I travelled with my parents, never had a chance to meet up with my cousins properly.  They thought I was proud but I thought they were proud.

I had seven uncles and three Aunties. Of course I came to know afterwards.  But when I didn’t know I thought they were my Dad’s good friends.  All seven brothers used to sit around the large oval table and play cards.  I used to think they are such good friends, they don’t argue or fight.

When Dad told us he was posted to Lahore I was really pleased and yet I felt nerves at the same time.  We moved to Lahore in the summer holidays, the house was quite big.  Me, being nosy, I quickly started looking into the drawers and opening all the cupboards.  In one of the drawers I found only one Jhumaka (ear-ring).  It was silver.  I checked all the other drawers to find another one.  I was a bit disappointed but then I thought if I showed it to my mum maybe she can give it to the jewellers to copy the design.  It was quite pretty too.

I kept that Jhumaka with me for a long time.  I showed it to my close friends and to my cousins.  They all liked it very much.  Most of my cousins were one or two years older than me,  I was fifteen and they were sixteen or seventeen.  Whenever there were functions or marriage ceremonies we loved to dress up in nice clothes and nice beautiful jewellery.  My mum knew that I am not fond of any kind of jewellery.  My birthday was coming near and as usual I never took any interest in myself.  One day my family sat around the table.  My brothers gave me big smiles, big hugs and a box.  They said this is for you from all of us.  I felt as if I was in another dimension.  I smiled back at them and looked to confused.  I didn’t know what to say.  My dad got up from his chair and came to wards me.  He opened the box for me.  Those Jhumaka, they looked familiar, they looked so beautiful.  I asked Mum where did she get them from.  She said since you are so choosey I thought why not copy the design of the same Jhumaka you like so much.

Luckily my cousin was getting married the next month. I was myself seventeen and I wanted to look good too.  I wore those Jhumaka, they were a smash hit with everyone.  They asked me for the name of the jewellers, they all wanted to copy the design.  In 1997 I went home after nine years.  I met up with some of my cousins and they reminded me of my Jhumaka.  They told me that whenever they wear it on special occasions they think of me.  We all had a good laugh when I told them the real truth.  All my jewellery is in the bank.  I am not too keen on jewellery, but when ever I see Bangladeshi ladies wearing Jhumaka (earrings) on Eidd day it reminds me of my own Jhumaka which I found in the drawers.

Second Time Around

I see moments coming full circle
Fragments of past splintered through
Piercing the skin of the present
Reflected in things that I do

The perilous climb uphill
All the more higher for fear
But somehow the views not the same now
I won’t jump as I lean over to peer

I see valleys of pain
Filled with rivers of love;
Birds of harmony sailing above…

I see mountains of strength
Delicate flowers of beauties
And shining clouds full of my maybes

From here I see all that matters
Find balance in the sorrow that shatters
Lay still beside treasures in tatters

I can experience each moment
Through the peace, or the torment
Shed expressions, until I am spent

For right here, right now, I am free
And this is the place I belong;
Carrying myself through the tough times,
My whispering heart says, “be strong.”

So I pause and peer over the edge
Take a good look at the view
See my abundance of choices
Glistening like early morn dew

And I close my eyes, oh so lightly
Let dreams form inside my heart
Wrap them in live very tightly
Then, let go, so they can depart…

For here as I retrace past moments
I let nurturing blossoms unfold
And take root in my precious stillness
Writing my life story as told

The Deep

Beneath the waves
A different world
Creatures that bedazzle the mind
Every shape and size
This is their element
Making man the outsider
Few oxygen breathers here
Gills and fins command
Underwater highways teem with life
Yet no traffic jams
Only sub-aquatic order
Currents ebb and flow
The tides meekly follow
Obeying every commend
From their lunar master

MALAKHIM

Lords of the Dark- Light
Sons of Angels
Created by God
Only to serve an allotted time
Thus they bear forever
The pain of annihilation and dissolution

Yogis of the Blue-Void of
They see where knowledge
Ends and begins
Paying a fearful price
For the intimacy of their visions

Capable of infinite compassion and destruction
They obey only their inner commands
Dark and light
Yet transcending both

Out of forgotten spheres they appear
To perform certain tasks
Often incapable of giving others
Anything but a rudimentary idea
Of their Ancient Purpose

They cannot be bought
Pain bought them long ago
When all help fails
They will come to your aid
Invoking energies that few
Can either understand or control
Unleashing
The Shadow-Side of God

Make It Happen

Go make it happen, little man
All things can be gained if you try
Get off that sofa onto your feet
Life is for living, don’t just think
You must make it happen
Motivate yourself, Go, Go, Go
You can do it if you try
TV off, feet on floor, life is for living
No second chance
Go get it for yourself

Gnarled trees and pianos

Three gnarled trees lived in a beautiful garden, They were very happy. The dawn chorus woke them in the mornings. Birds were trilling and a nightingale singing. Where had all the maidens gone?

The trees watched a cat watching the birds with a hungry look in it’s eyes, but the birds were wise and did not oblige. The birds watched the cat who stopped at a mouse hole. A mouse popped out, watched the cat and popped back at 100mph. The cat shook with rage, the trees shook with mirth.

The trees had two friends in the house – grand pianos and they loved to listen to the beautiful (always) notes cascading on high.

One day a pupil tripped happily into the room and sat down at the piano. A scream of anguish filled the air. “Ooh my fingers” howled the hapless pupil. “Give it back.” The pianos laughed quietly, the trees applauded silently, the pupil writhed miserably.

The trees decided to give a concert for the pianos. They waited until black storm clouds appeared, lightning streaked down, thunder roared, rain pelted, wind howled. They danced in wild abandonment to the storm, twisting their limbs, shaking their leaves, which were caught in the whirlwind and danced fiendishly on the menacing clouds above.

The storm ceased – exhausted the trees slept.

The pianos were muted, but tomorrow is another day and storm music always goes away.

Drops

Drops, dropping drop
I like the drops
Bright
Wet
Over the leaves
At the beginning of the
Spring

Drops, dropping drop
I hate the drops
Dense
Red
Over the floor
Where the crime was done

Drops, dropping drop
I like the drops
Warm
Clear
Over your cheeks
While calling for love

Drops, dropping drop
I hate the drops
Covering
The eyes
Of so many humans
Innocent victim

Drops, dropping drop
I love these drops
Tiny creatures
Babies
growing up
looking at the future

Drops, dropping drop
I hate the drops
Coming down
From the sky
That devastate and kill

Drops, dropping drop
I like the drops
Typing
On my window
In cold winter days

Drops, dropping drop
I like the big drop
We call
The Earth
it is our home

Drops, dropping drop
I hate that drop
the seed
that makes us
fight and murder

Drops, dropping drop
I like my drop
I like yours
In spite
Of our sense
Without sense
of being a being

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