In Limbo 2

'rain' in watercolors   humid weight of stillness accompanies me  as i sit on the porch; trumpeting of faraway peacocks makes its way across the scattered shadows of floating clouds. A sudden gust of wind rushes through the iron gate, toppling over a few cashew branches, and jangling the house into discomposition. It carries with it a whiff of petrichor and the promise of rains...however, one cannot rely on its over-zealousness anymore. For lately, many an impassioned storms have passed us by...teasingly Determined, I sit through the destructive squall, my eyes closed tight to shut out the dust.  Prepared to be hit by a loosed branch or a an airborne pebble, today, the being is resolved to abandon itself to the auguries of Nature... may be to invoke the blessings of the downpour that red earth in all its auric entity seeks and seeks some more. 'Rain', a poem by Jack Gilbert swerves onto the memory lane and sets an indolent mind on 'cruise' mode. While rain for G...

We all just sit, watch and wait it out. 'What's gonna happen?' I ask no one in particular. 'Who knows?' Some voices carry apprehension in their tone. "You tell me," some sound irritated as their minds, hijacked by social media, are suddenly coerced into thinking. Shrugging off the question, they return to watching reels.  the koils are at their best singing innocently their two-note song, over and over again, making the humid morning sticky with its cloying sweetness. They came in late this year, the koils. Without their encircling lyricism the mangoes couldn't ripen, and if they did, the magic of their luscious taste was amiss. The inkling of their first arrival reached our ears in the last week of May...and now finally, we are relishing the best mangoes of the season, thereof convinced that without the koil's song, this king of fruits we so rejoice will remain deprived of its royal delectability. TV screens explode with relentless fireworks-like ...

                        watercolors on cartridge paper gyrating flight of a gilded kite unlocks the skies. so much freedom flowing, glowing, rowing gently by,  yet with children dying, homes shelled to dust, tomorrow lies orphaned  outstretched wings of the raptor sweep through the matted hair of Shiva  its silence fills the screams of hunger in war-torn cities, haunts and claws at the night through which it steers holding no anchor,  no shore...tiny outstretched hands cling  to empty bowls, hope lingers with  nowhere to alight; the cardinals in Vatican await the smoke signal,  praying the invisible rosaries  the wings carry the sky; the sky reflects the glittering shards of broken dreams: shatter'd television screen, bob marley poster, walking cane, splinters of soda bottles...bubbles and froth of monsoon rains lashing furiously against hearts  that have forgotten how to love