Rain on the roof
Lightening in the sky

Little blossoms bow their heads
and dare to wonder why

I said to myself,
   "Someday soon you will
     be dead and gone.
     Your consciousness dissolved.
     Forever."

Myself replied,
   "What does this mean?
     I have no experience
     with which to relate."

"This is true," I acknowledged, "but
     you possess imagination
     and thus may conceive
     of opposites."

"Yes," Myself agreed, "but
     imagination can only construct
     with what has been received.
     To conceive of
     the void of all conception
     is beyond my parameters."






- fr

It takes a lifetime to love.
It takes falling through the abyss,
being torn to nothing,
and still fighting for someone
after everything
to love.
Love is not easy,
nor is it always kind.
Love tells the truth
when the truth is not desired.
Love is easy to fall into,
easier to fall out of,
and nearly impossible to maintain.
But let it guide you and you’ll see:
love will ask but will also give,
love remains while all else fails.
Love will not conquer,
but instead will guide.
Love will persist
when all else dies.

We went through the motions
Until all went motionless

(The otter frollicked turning everything
into a game of joy to being alive)

Touch became accidental at best to our ways
Once we could touch but now nothing more

(The otter nipped at the turtle
flipped about as it played)

Words dripped from our tongues
Heavy like molasses as the intent fades away

(Down the grass the otter slides into the river
Over and over like a little child)

Reason lost to accusations , accusations took it's toll .
Accusations took our time , creating false crime

(I watch as the otter swims on it's way
Dipping , diving to where I can't say)

Now I sit in the darkness with full moon fever
Wondering how could something turn so wrong that once was so right

The twins came today.
They took their first breaths
On this first day of May.
Today, and all days,
I swear and I pray,
To love them always,
Come what may.

I was drunk,
Lying on the Delhi Street,conked,
I was thrown out of a bar nearby,
I can't remember why?
I woke with a start,
I found myself in a cart,
Pulled by a shabbily dressed man
With a tattered turban,
And a ragged **** cloth round his waist.
Was he here to collect waste?
Not to ask I thought best.
I threatened him to stop,
Or I would call the cop.
Immediately he put the cart down,
He thought I was gone!
We had a long talk,
His sorry tale made me baulk,
Made me sober.
He was a corpse collector,
With a six year old daughter.
For a few miserly rupees,
He collected corpses,
From the alleys and streets,
And performed their last rites.
The corpses were mostly of those who died of cold,
Their stories untold.
The man had no home,
Come rain,cold or storm,
They lived under an old building's  dome.
The little girl with him tagged along,
Looked at life as a song,
Never a complaint,
The little grubby saint.
On cold frosty days,
To stay warm,the only way,
The corpses became the child's blanket,
She cuddled amongst them as if in a basket.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
This was reality, not lies,
The strings of my heart broke,
From a lifetime of dreams I woke,
I have to turn the hands of the clock,
The Almighty had cleared my vision,
I was sent here for a reason.
I made up my mind,
Gambling and drinking I left behind.
I adopted the pair,
On the same street,I opened a Shelter,
For the needy and underprevileged,
And a Home for the aged.
In life I found my mettle
With wife and children I am settled.
I also work with other NGO's
For the betterment of people's lives.