There are tears
but of a different kind
not born of one's own suffering
but that which affects our heart and mind--

that ubiquitous sorrow with which so many are afflicted
helpless in suffering, deprivation, neglect, loneliness, fear and pain
(who dares stand up and proclaim:? This is the age of  peace and plenty!'
it's the same political and business people's rhetoric---over and over again.

There's little hope or respite
wars darken the sky and soldiers fall
in daily battlefields
while leaders make their inhuman and infamous call

'To arms, to the glory of our nation
to the defence of our faith and ideology'
while on the roadside the innocent--young and old-
perish in cold and hunger-- who will shed the tears of our century?

That day I met her at the Shelter
She said, “My name is Dora",
While hanging upside down, off kilter,
“I’m Dora the Explorer!”
Balanced on the armoire door
Beckoning me to help her retrieve
Hanging high above the floor
A ballet that I couldn’t believe...
Up on one toe she dangled
As she demanded I help her reach
Some toys she longed to wrangle
Until we heard a commanding screech!
“Get down from there!  Wash your hands!
Asia, it’s almost time for dinner!"
Dora leapt-trusting- she lands
Her high-flying act a sure winner!

Oh, Dora, who is Asia?
She said, “I don’t like that name-sorry!
Later let's play a new game?
After dinner my name is Laurie!”
Since she answered to that name
I schooled her in her name’s history
But Dora just wouldn’t be tamed
“Not a CONTINENT-I’m a MYSTERY!”
Asia, alias Laurie Dora
After supper, brushed and scrubbed
Gave the best, my airy explorer-
Dora's monumental hug!
She sprang to my arms without warning
Like a monkey from a vine
I wasn’t aware until morning
It was the best hug of all time!

We are all stuck in time-
to such we have no remedy
life is a clinging-on---an endless waiting
hoping, desiring---what would the next moment be?

With time we wrestle
it's either too slow or too fast-
the present becomes the future
would it be as what had been in the past?

someone layed a blank book
in front of me, asking
What would the title be?

I looked as blank as those pages
I don't know the answer
I'm not a blank book
I have history, behind a story
but what are the chances
my story has already been told
in another's voice
What if there is another out there
that has made the same choice?
Stories are not unique
there is a chance we are already written
I'd take that blank book
and scribbled my name only
because I've read the stories
of my own life in the sound bites
of snatches of beleaguered songs
I'm not a blank book, looking
for a title
I'm where my blank pages
belong