May Redness

Come May

and there’s greeting

in cloth and color

beret berating

the redness of defiance

defined and ill-defined;

come May

there’s flag and slogan

regurgitation and coinage

replaying of old themes

and words that seem new;

come May

and there’s redness

rising above man and market

flying over rally and march

as predictable

but ever so fresh

newer than other seasons

of protest and ritual

thankfully.

[Inspired by the photography of Ravindra Dharmatilleka]

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Epistles

Epistles I’ve seen

inked visitations

of observation and report

they’ve come in glance and innuendo

changes of expression

short-changed response

to things real and perceived.

Epistles I’ve read

notes of passing and no-return

senders moving on

not too long after

the finality of eternal claim.

Epistles now arrive

from far away and now

hand-delivered love

crafted in write and read

and these notes of endearment

come now as box

as bookmark and candy

inviting a philately

that is not nation-bound,

for these epistles

cashew-shaped and coconut-frosted

are fluent in the grammar of enigma

of flirt and toy

and celebrate

in confusion and clarity

the timeless insanities

the undisguised blessings

of anonymity.

Ode to a child

A twist of the hands of a toy-clock,

the arrival of a butterfly and a kite,
an unthinking word that tore your world apart:
is this how your hours were marked?
Did you collect any colours today,
any keepsake from a pavement
a dream that flew from a billboard?
When you mixed perfume and dust
did your mind erupt in an impossible fountain
in uncontrolled mirth
or as the most beautiful smile?
Did you birth the dawn with fire
did you feel life ebb away
in the startled ways
of the traditional homelands of warfare?
Did you pause to savour
moment and moment
or was it easier
or perhaps made more sense
to let the receding wave recede
and embrace the approaching one
with open arms made of unimaginable optimism
with open arms carved from a wood
called ‘lack of choice’?
In any event,
that smile,
is it the smile of a heart
that knows generosity and nothing else
even when encountering the tormentor,
the thief that sought to rob innocence
tried to re-paint magic in adult colours?
I don’t know your ways, your world,
and this is why I ask:
“Was your day a child’s day
or the residue left by an adult brew?”
I don’t know your ways, your world,
so I shall stop
and throw a smile
and make this request:
“take it and twist it with yours
unleash that fairy power;
cure me of the curse of adulthood”.

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