Mr. Takaya

 

I do not know
the sum of all feelings
that have already
been put in words.

Is what I write plagiarism
or is not?

I would never know
if Mr. Takaya,
living in Nogoya
centuries ago
had felt what I feel
and carved similar words
on a sacred stone.

From where I stand
I can only see
a sliver of the universe
and within my horizon
these words stand
unique and tall.

Plagiarism or not,
what really matters is
when words birth
they become joy
and an anchor
to hold my unsteady self
from drifting
in a shoreless sea.

In his own universe
Mr. Takaya may have
felt the same,
and even though
I would never know,
it is a decent bet.

Existential crisis, the beginning #6

 

Not too long ago, 
a day was just -
oh well, a day!

It was neither a despair,
nor a hope
merely a nondescript slope
that needed to be climbed
from dawn to dusk
to arrive at the summit,
then turn around
and head back home,

but now, 

there is often an urge 
to peel few layers
of surface on which I walk
and look at them under
a microscope
in search for meanings.

Climbing is no longer
a mindless task
now a day can wear
different masks.

A Winter Wish

Into six months of winter
comes the craving for summers,
dreams of wearing flip-flops,
watching people in colorful tops
sauntering in Montego Bay,
and visions of a cheerful life

lived in the Bougainvillea Way. 

When you get old…

 …it is hard to hit the floor running 

first thing in morning 

stepping out of bed.

That cliche, perhaps, 

was for a younger us.

Now, it is advisable 

to first count 

the number of toes, 

and make sure 

none went wandering

on their own

as you slumbered,

through a fitful sleep.

Only then, 

get up gingerly 

and touch

the coldness 

of the winter floor.