Friday, April 18, 2014

Tomorrow Morning's Haiku

We wrote haiku in our class today. Here's mine.

How many colors
of pink did I count today,
as the sun said hi

Thursday, April 17, 2014

I am.

I was recently asked to describe myself to be introduced in a public setting. This sort of stuff makes me quite uncomfortable and yet I am always sheepishly surprised with the words that begin to appear from the rhythmic clickity-clacking of my fingers uncoordinatedly pushing on keys. I thought many thoughts.

Who am I? Which part(s) of me do I want to share? How do I see myself? Am I good enough to share with others? What if people laugh at me? What if they think I'm rubbish? Etcetera etcetera.

When I push aside my gnawing self-critical and insecure mumblings, I produce this:

When I'm not thinking about the next unit, I love poetry, physics, tinkering in the kitchen with ingredients, my bike ride home from school and counting shades of pink in the sky, and Bollywood dancing like no one's watching (or at least like no one's laughing!). I am currently occupied by the Tower of Hanoi, Fibonacci poems, thinking about the next fun project to do with my nieces and nephews, and learning 4 chords on my guitar.

And I'm more. I am a partner who waits to hear her guy's heartbeating every time she hugs him. I am the kid who loves to lie flat on the concrete of a basketball court and feel a warm monsoon storm all around her. I am the teenager who doesn't know how to not start dancing to a Backstreet Boys song when it suddenly starts playing in a bar in 2014. I am the teacher who makes misnakes.

And I am still more. I am the unchartered space with boundaries and open doors. I am the map not yet finished. I am the tea that got cold. I am the book surrounded by nieces and nephews. I am the unsynchronized ticks of the clocks in my classroom. I am the precision of the atomic clock in my bathroom. I am the lazy Saturday morning that never left the couch. I am the masala that gets in your nails after devouring a plate of rajma-chawal on a Sunday with my Ma. I am the shadow following my Pa. I am the third earring in my right ear. I am the scar on my nose from a piercing that never became mine. I am the laughter echoed from my sister's untarnished joy. I am the muted greens of April in Colorado. I am the color that got left out of the rainbow. I am the punctuation mark at the end of an exclamation. I am the fool of the perfectionist. I am the bubble that popped. I am the girl who ran away in tenth grade from her friend of 13 years. I am the frog of the trog. I am the knee that never healed. I am the question no one asked. I am the drop in the ocean that fell in vain. I am the lone tree that benefitted from the rain. I am the feet standing on shoulders I can't count. I am now and one day I'll be was.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Red Faced

And as that red face creeps out,
from a silver silhouette,
to let us know
we're not alone in this vastness
of nothingness and
everything all at once.

And as that red face creeps out,
tempting me to stroke it -
to paint it,
if I could wield a paintbrush.
Teasing me to touch it -
sculpt it with fingers
more nimble than mine.

And as that red face creeps out,
It occurs to me -
just how small I am,
standing in my patio
some 238, 899 miles*
Yet feeling so big,
zooming through my camera,
balancing on my tripod.
Dreaming big dreams -
way bigger than my hands
and feet could ever reach.

So tonight, I take in all of that red face -
and hold it close to my nothingness.

* some benefit of living in the Mile High City!

Monday, April 14, 2014

The promise of today

green bud
with the hope
of life yet to be
and promises not yet broken.
That first green bud is here to stay
and so is all this
temporary lightness of life and the fleeting chance we have to live it. And it's
this first green bud soon to transform into a tree that brings hope of things yet to be,
meals yet to be shared, and new friends yet to be made today.

~My experiment with Fibonacci poems

Monday, March 31, 2014

Honeymooning Still

Day thirty-one
From being a blogirgin
to taking my writing
to a whole different level.
Is it really?
Already, day thirty-one?
From early days of the thrill
of writing for eyes
that are not mine -
To being moved by tears,
loud laughter,
and wonderment -
Through blogs I have learned from,
grown from,
cherished being a part of,
and commented on -
with words and without.
Thirty-one days
have passed.
And I am not the same
writer I was on February twenty-eight
two thousand and fourteen.
So here I am,
with some lessons learned
with the help of reading with Kam
and Teaching from Behind while
doing the Teacher Dance
we all know so well.
All the while knowing
that writing is a process
best left Under Construction.
And that's my two or rather
Prose Cents.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Picture Perfect

I can still hear him
She yearned to 
hear his voice
through the files 
of her memory.

Can't recreate him
through a picture,
a word,
a voice,
a moment.
But he lives on 
and on,
to tell stories through you -
to all you will make
and all the moments you will capture.
So with the new stories you write,
and the old ones you tell - 
don't forget to tell his.
The sound of his voice 
when you drive in,
or his open arms 
when you wake up,
warm like the coffee he's sipping on.
He lives on and on
in the stories that make him 
the person you hold dear - 
in those pictures,
those words,
those sounds,
those moments -
he lives on.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Janam Din Happies - Chiku

Do you remember
All those silly times
running around thinking
we would forever be young
and silly?
I still remember walking
around Subroto Park
feeling like time was endless
and our friendships would never change
and maybe they still haven't.
Thanks for being there, friend
over years, continents, times, and birthdays
So here's to you, the boy who will still be
Seventeen to me
And the friend, who continues to be rock solid
Even through some shaky times
when I didn't know where you were
or why you were where you were.

Friday, March 28, 2014

With age comes

Stuck in a life of zits and fits galore
It all began when I found myself looking for more
There must be more to life, I declared,
Than being stuck in a universe dictated by 8 to 4.

The price we pay for peeping into the future
You peep too curiously, you might share the fate of the cat
You might not be able to handle that
Handle the fact that your plans expired
Even before you got to taste them
Handle the lines, freckles, liver spots
And come to terms with the failure
Of all those pricks and potions
Handle the loss of those props missing
From your carefully choreographed show
You might learn that you can handle
More than you will ever know.

The price we pay for staring at the past
You stare too long, you might get caught
You get caught, you might get fined
Fined for driving your car in reverse
In the fast lane.
For not changing gears fast enough.
For dwelling on the specifics.
For breaking too many rules
Ignoring rocks, papers, and scissors
And picking sticks.
You might find a friend
From the class of 1976.

The price we pay for winking at the present
(Depends on your wink)
You wink too flirtatiously, and you may get
Nothing more than a blink
A fleeting moment gone too fast to grasp
You wink too cautiously, and you might end up
Forgetting to reopen your eyes
In the agony of how, you may suffocate why
And in the agony of a personal panic you may
Never know what
It feels to be broken.
To break.
You might enjoy that about the past and future –
You can only reflect and contemplate.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Negotiating with my imagination

Some mornings I let the dull sounds
of my imagination
lull me back to sleep.

I lie in bed and listen to the rain
that's not falling
glisten in a blanket around me.

I make up sounds of thunder and lightening
striking as I
blunder through the drops of my imagination.

Some mornings I could use a few more minutes
because my cognizance
misunderstood and let the rain lull me back to sleep.