Orange orbs
with wicked smiles.
Fleshless bodies
telling lies.
Wrappers hiding
treats or tricks
darkness rises
demons licks.
Call for Rama
lord of all!
Light the lamps!
Let demons fall!
Fire crackers
sparks and flares
witches flee,
ghouls beware!
Remove your masks,
defang the night,
Halloween, make way,
for Diwali’s light!
“A surprise for me!!!”
Little Brother third birthday
and the first present arrives.
“Cool! It’s a robot!!”
“Open for me!”
Big sister five lingers nearby.
Her two-months-passed birthday
still fresh in her mind.
“Ooh. A TRANSFORMER!!
Can I play with it too?”
She sits close to her brother, with watchful eyes
Eventually, Almost Three loses interest in his prize.
He says, “I want to cook with Mommy!!”
Runs to the kitchen. Clambers up the stool.
“Bowl please! Want some water please!
Want spoon please! Man spoon!”
Alone on the floor now,
Sister works the cast off prize.
She has figured it out.
Put on the wings.
Make him fly.
Little Brother wants Man spoon.
I pull out a teaspoon.
“Nooooo!” silly mommy!”
I pull out a tablespoon.
“Noooo.” He rolls eyes.
I pull out a long-handled ladle.
“Yes!! That’s a man spoon.
Raaaaawrrrrr!”
He growls as he stirs .
She sings as robot flies.
The next morning
Big Sister’s sighs.
“Mommy, are there any
princess transformers?”
“I don’t think so.” I say.
She is unsatisfied.
“I know!
A Cinderella robot…
that transforms…
into a carriage!”
Her idea makes her smile.
And that same morning,
Little Brother carries
robot into school.
On his right hip,
gently cradling him,
Just like mommy
used to do.
Does this dress make me look fat?
(No. It’s too soon for this.)
It poofs out in front.
(But, you’re only five.)
And I want to look pretty.
(Is this my fault? Is this me?)
You’re cheeks are so round.
(That still stings, but just smile.)
And your belly’s so big.
(And so it’s begun.)
And so it’s begun.
And so it’s begun.
Has the damage been done?
No, my work’s just begun.
What are the boundaries of the freedom dream?
I hear the bells ringing.
I smell the dough rising.
I feel the rain falling on the dessert.
And then I wake up.
pic taken from uwishunu.com
Why this bleary eyed woman
is clutching her face.
Why this messenger-bag-clad cycler
sings loudly on his race.
Why Center City’s heart’s pounding
and I can’t match it’s pace.
It’s a blue fountain Friday
and I just want to sleep.
It’s a blue fountain Friday.
And my weariness runs deep.
It’s a blue fountain Friday
and all focus is gone
It’s a blue fountain Friday
just leave me alone.
And this Prada clad desi
flirts easily nearby,
and while her heel’s grinding downward
I look to the sky
It’s bright blue like the fountain
but I’m still not sure why…
It’s a blue fountain Friday
and I just want to sleep.
It’s a blue fountain Friday
and my weariness runs deep.
It’s a blue fountain Friday,
and all focus is gone
It’s a blue fountain Friday
just leave me alone.
American dream?
It’s time for us all to wake!
…some from a sweet somnambulation,
a walking reverie. We speak words
that cut. Our eyes are closed
to our fellow night walkers
and those sounding the alarms.
Many are trapped
in a recurring night terror,
heart pounding, dark shadows,
desperately trying to wrest ourselves
from a drugged, thrashing sleep,
limbs flailing. We hurt ourselves.
We hurt our bedfellows.
We hurt the sleepwalkers
who tread casually upon us.
And some of us
cycle from sweet dream
to nightmare
and back again.
Or find ghouls
in our meadows,
burn witches
in our fairy tales.
Some of us become
the dark thing
that moves inside
another’s sleep.
This American dream.
Sleepers. Awake.
Sleepers awake.
Sleepers, awake!
On that day
the morning dawned
dark and heavy.
But you said,
“We will make
the sunshine.”
And as the sky opened
and water descended
one hundred umbrellas
rose like butterflies
heralding our arrival.
We leaped like deer
towards our destiny
under a canopy
woven with mother’s love,
held aloft by blood ties.
We sat on our dais
receiving blessings
from all our gods
and all our people.
A wedding sprite
sat blithely atop
my left shoulder
and beamed.
With fire, chants
and circling women dance
we filled our cups
with a lifetimes’
rationing of joy.
On this day
seven years closer,
two children richer,
one family stronger,
let us take
another draught.
For this day,
my love
is always ours.
Kindreds.
I remember you
when I meet you
for the first time.
I feel the force
pulling us always
together, apart.
By blood or by bond.
We orbit the same sun.
Some kind of truth
we have been circling
all these years.
And if my summer solstice
tilt toward occurs
when you are in
your darkest days,
then you will know
a new day
is bound to dawn.
We hope to be released
from our unseen tether,
so that we may fall.
Dive into unending light
and burn away
the distance between us.
Each of us
on our own journey
we believe.
But seen together
a million miles from here
We are the cosmic dance.
Swimming lessons are first
to prepare for the worst.
I guess sailing could be useful too.
Some kind of marshal art.
When things fall apart.
Self-defense in a world gone cuckoo.
Perhaps building a fire,
or recognizing a liar.
Who knows what will keep them alive?
Building shelter by hand,
coaxing food from the land.
When I’m gone what will help them survive?
The world’s begun cooking
and so I am looking
for ways to build skills and plant seeds,
to help my kids weather
well, weather the weather
in the new world we made with our greed.
“Mommy, why can’t we see the gods?”
A sudden question in the moments
before the bedtime forehead kiss
that shields her from dark dreams.
She is laid out on her bed.
Arms and legs spread wide,
berry black curls splayed
beneath her head.
Her old-young eyes
are moonlit night.
I grasp for an elusive truth.
“Some people think
they live up in the sky.
Some people think
they live in our
imaginations.”
“What do you think mommy?”
What do I think?
What DO I think?
“I think they live
in our imaginations,
and in our hearts.”
My truth lands with
a thud and stumbles.
Her truth rings
clear and high
as a glass bell.
“I think they are
high, high, up in the sky,
through space
out in space.
And if you go
to outer space
you will see them.”
She wants to be
an astronaut mommy.
And now, I see
that she and her children
will meet the gods,
see them there
touch them,
know them
and dance.
american incarnations 