Message

Mother,
tell me about
your Revolution,
tell me about
the way the bullets
rained down
when the sky
itself was falling
down,
tell me about
the last time
you felt defeat,
Your fake smiles
cannot hide the scars
on the anatomy of your
bones
(They run so deep),
You were
never meant for
the confines of four walls,
your heart still thrums
with unheard valour
with gentle diligence,
the silence
is so deafening,
tell me the truth
mother,
about your
Sikh parents
and how your
Fingers still
tremble when
You see the
Golden Temple
awash in blood,
tell me about the bullets
you aimed at oppression,
Tell me about raised fists
and  fearless lions
marching up
to take the king
down,

I wish I had your fire
mother,
I wish the gentle fingers
of your Revolution had
grabbed my heart and
Squeezed and
Squeezed

Until I felt it,

The soft thrumming
of hope.

But you do not speak to
me about those times Mother,

And sometimes I wish you
would.

My mother is a Sikh convert, her parents were as well. She faced a lot of discrimination due to our Catholic family. In 1984 my mom went to India to expose the treacherous systematic elimination of Sikhs. Those who fought back were labelled as terrorists. My mother worked as a journalist at that time and tried to expose the truth on the Indian Government and the Sikh genocide. But no news network would accept the report, not even BBC. To this day my mom carries this like a blanket of guilt. To this day Sikhs have no sovereign rights in India. My mother lost many of her friends to these tragic events .

I remember the
way my
brother's hair
looked like spun
gold,

and now he is packing
up all these memories
and putting
them in boxes,

I remember my mother
and the lady from
across the street,
how they used
to talk,
how they used
to laugh
between their
teeth,

but the lady
is dead,
her house
inhabited
by strangers,

The orchid that
grew outside,
has given up
in old age,

and my father
does not
hold me up
on his shoulders,

he says I am much
too old,

My friends
we used to ride
our bikes
down the avenue,
the smell of bakeries
and pastries
in the air
like morning dew,

but my friend
has committed suicide,
and now we
are not the same
anymore,

Now we do not
laugh,
and the bakery on
South street
has gone bankrupt,

When I look back at
it all,
I wonder if I made
up all the good times,
I wonder why
things
turned out so sad.

So many years of education;
Yet no one taught us how
to love each other.

Out from the skies
came the
bombardment
of American
eagles,

as we
watched
those
incoming
disasters,
-we pulled
our
children
closer,
we wiped
their
tears and told
them
that
they were
destined for
a better
world.

A reflection in the solemn events of the U.S's airstrikes on Syria.
No one deserves to become statistics.

I buried you alive in
the winter,
trampled over
your
limitless
dreams,

but
I
could
only trample you
so far into the
earth,

before you
came back
(stronger)
in the
spring.

You were
art,
framed,
ashamed
of yourself,
and although
your
colours were
never understood
by the world,

I will never forget
you.

And even though you
came in pieces,
you gave your
best to me,

I will never
regret you.

I had heard of the
colours ,
so vibrant,
so gentle,
that I intoxicated
in curiousity
when't to
go see
his dazzling hues,

but instead I
too got dyed
in the blessed
colours,
everywhere I turn
I see the colours
of the colourless,
and
in the night
when only the
sorrowful
stay awake
- I too
do not
shut my eyes
for my
heart
hurts,
it screams
jugni
jugni
and bleeds
in ways
I could
never
fathom.

In spiritual poetry Jugni means the spirit of life, or essence of life.
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