i get that voicing your opinions and making sure that they're heard is huge thing that has to happen. but it's mostly for today's generation because whenever we try to speak we get talked over. we get backlash. we get " no they're older, wiser. they're right, just let it be. "

but it doesn't matter if you're older. it matters if you're respectful. it matters if you have enough patience to listen to what others have to say before voicing your own thoughts, because they can bring up some good points that make you wrong.

it doesn't matter if you've been on this earth longer or not. it matters if you have enough knowledge to let yourself be wrong.

we are all equal and all have a voice. no matter the age, skin color, heritage, or sexuality.

let us be able to use them.

The mountains and the valleys, the rivers and streams of my childhood call out to me and tell me to return to them and swim again, down below the underneath.

My father loved the meadows. Loves the wildness and the wilderness and the winters growth which is yet to be seen, in both the deer and the withering trees.

And part of me remembers still. Because part of him will always be me.

A child wakes up , to mosquito bites,
and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights.
the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried
as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried,
and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi
says today! god , to his land was ferried.

Afar, the bronze herald of worship time,
the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime.
and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual,
line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual.
but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy;
tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy.

mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung;
‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’.
‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor ,
‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners.
mummy is the last one , picking over the bones,
she always has been , for what a family she owns.

A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree
heads bow down and a pigeon flies free,
from the onion dome , below the staccato claps
‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps ,
and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow ,
and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and *****
soars high , and takes a bow .

hey presto! the night has come.
the moonless night of the homecoming lord.
sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us ,
laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord .

Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse ,
revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered ,
and coaxed never to leave the house
while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter.

The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet
the lord is home , to get things straight,
while the men all out on a greedy conquest;
pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still,
for the beckoning bait .

A child wakes up , to mosquito bites
gone now is the carnival of lights.
a goddess fled , a father bled
a child scrapes off the waxy remains ,
the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.