odor of memories make me lurch towards you, my friend

after almost three decades
you have drifted away
you didn't look back
my cards sent back unopened
emails discarded
when I see you online
and connect with you
you turn away
switch off mentally from me
my thoughts frantic
I still try to be in touch

"odor of memories make me lurch towards you,
you, a friend I made in my first day of college-
don't let the show get in the way of life"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is about one of my closest friend of 27 years, who for no apparent reason refuses to acknowledge her old friends, me included. She might have her reasons. And we would understand those reasons if only she shared with us. I truly wish her well in whatever she does, wherever she is.

scotch-taped

flipping through that old album-
which you had scotch-taped
so crudely after I tore it up in anger once-
I see the photographs haphazardly placed
a few taped so badly that it doesn't seem
quite so right to be there

yet I find a order in there
I learned early your way of working
and in someway or the other
I have followed the same path
with thoughts running faster than light
there never was any other way

when like you, my anger gets in midst
I stop, blanking out everything
closing myself in, listening to the
sane voices inside my head
and yours too, which never fail
to comfort me in my anguish

another torn photo stares up at me
you holding me, you rebel daughter
looking morosely at nothing
yet you beseechingly smile at the camera
your hand absently soothing me
I close the album, calmed as of now

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lately I have been thinking of my father. He has been gone for almost seven years and I still miss him.

alpha and omega

howling winds almost rip at ears drums
day hides into startling night of doom
complacent gone, I listen to love songs
of the gusts of wind to swaying pines.
envious of those, assailed by melancholy
I kick out at the table stubbing my toes.
howling like the wind, I hobble around
giving a loud voice to choicest of curses.

my eyes fall on a ragged doll long forgotten
discarded now, a silent bystander to all
alpha and omega of my early years. now it
offers comfort. I hug it close to my heart,
smiling at its smugdy one-eyed twisted face.

'turbulent weather is perfect to revisit childhood memories'

# From my archives, dusted and .....

And do join in the Train every Monday.

Continuing Traditions---Sunday Scribblings/Cafe Writing

For me, Diwali holds beautiful memories. It is the festival of lights. We celebrate it by lighting up the surroundings. Tiny Earthen lamps are used for this purpose. More of a ritual, I think. Gifts and sweets exchanged and of course, it is never complete without bursting crackers.

However, it is not same since my dad passed away. I remember he was the most enthusiastic of us all. He was not much into gift –giving. He left it for my mom. Nevertheless, he used to get us the best of crackers. He taught me about wiring, holders and bulbs when I was barely 7 years old. I was always tagging along and he had no other option. He and I used to put up the lights together until he was gone.

After him, I did not feel like continuing the tradition. Somehow, on the eve of Diwali in the year, he was gone; I got out all the lights and sat down to check each one before putting those up. My brothers and their families were due to arrive at anytime. My mom looked at what I was doing. Without a word, she sat down with me. I checked the holders, wiring and bulbs. Mechanically repairing where there was a disconnection.

I put those lights, switched those on after plugging it. When the whole place lit up, I felt that my dad was there and as usual, I was helping him putting those up. All was done before my brothers arrived. I need not tell you their reaction other than that they hugged me!

My dad is gone. Not his memories. When I put up those lights each Diwali, I feel so much closer to him. I know he would have been proud of me. I did not let what he had taught me die away. I kept right on. I even give out money to all my nephews and nieces along with the gifts I get for them. My dad used to give them cash not knowing what to buy for them. I have to carry on what he used to do.

What I write here are not holiday memories or traditions. They are part of our lives, our living. I have to keep the memories alive for the kids. I do it as best I can.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Option Five: Timed writing for Cafe Writing for December Project.

untitled------Monday Poetry Train

deciphering words
amidst tattered pages-
resulting from folding
refolding,
of yellowing letters,
wrapped carefully
with love.

a single tear flows.


This is for my mom. She was going through my dad's papers. She found a wrapped bundle of old letters. Those letters were written by her to him. She never knew, he had kept every single one of those. I did not intrude on her privacy. Someday, I hope she allows me to read those letters.

I could not find any appropriate title for this.

photo courtsey: google images

More rides on the train...

Misted

watching the moisture
sticking to the glass,
reminds of my memories;
embedded inside the walls
of my mind

but only for a moment.
droplets trickle down
slowly sliding.
reminiscences remain
ingrained and rooted.

water cleanses away dirt
leaving the surface clean.
thoughts are jammed forever
troubling me, so painful
that I am almost numb.