The many headed beast

It had heads many I saw, 

Two three and four
But one could never have been sure.

Some heads I got to meet
The others grew in peace
Some heads I did get to know
The others could barely grow.
Each decided to leave me a gift,
A string of pearls or maybe a rib.

Each head I encountered in time
Sometimes one I would meet
At-times two-three together would treat,
There was no greed I hope,
Just curiosity and some burning rope.
Each came to leave a mark
None was less sharper than the last.

The first came to teach me peace
Some laughter, explicitly for me.
Goodbyes are for sure forlorn,
So it left not a note from a song.
But a long list of possibilities 

To write a hymn on my own.

The second which came before the third,
Or maybe after for I can't be sure:
Taught patience with peace, and some more.
It left the mindfulness of minutes
Rented to many hours by me.
It spoke of continuity and time,
Stable forms and shrines,
Movements and songs which go on and on.

The third which came before the second,
Or maybe after for I can't be sure:
Came with a basket of fries and jam
Each with a new sense of plan.
It left a strange flavour behind,
For it never left me blind.
It decided to leave a simple note
Right under my wide open door.
It finally left by never leaving
And it taught me about dreaming.

The fourth is where I am losing count
For the heads now I speak of,
I care not to recall a great amount.
One I know left behind contagious laughter.
The other some form of compliance in me.
Yet another a ghost of a sad sad smile.
But one I care to remember
Let's call it the seventh, not more.
It left the law of force in mind.
The head I chose to slice,
Left myself in pieces too.
The force I thought was blunt,
Left wedges deep in the surface blue.

And then there was head number eight may I say,
For four-five-six I chose to ignore,
Whose fate was sealed the day it bloomed.
How did the giant live so long,
With one head consuming the last.
I remember watching as a new head grew,
The pain I imagined was maybe true.
So back to eight shall we move,
It was the youngest of the crowd.
It was maybe borne with its shroud.
Yet not sad it felt and left me a grin,
For it taught me quality of conversation.

Before it left, the ninth had already grown,
It was now taking place on the giant's collar bone.
Poised on a throne this one had style,
And it told me it would not leave anything behind.
It hasn't left much I would like to say,
But generosity and kindness
Are hard to weigh.
It hasn't left yet so I wouldn't know,
But head number nine loves to put up a show,
It often leaves a trail of breadcrumbs behind.
As Hansel once did, It too believes
Retraced footsteps will help it lead
This mighty giant homeward in peace.

Listen

Meet 'e'

(a piece under work, hopefully to take the form of a visual story and a larger setting called "Becoming No-one", it is for another day I leave to expand further on that idea. Until then I would simply say, come, meet 'e' )

‘e’ is neither he nor she
not young nor old
not white, brown, black or gold
(not god, nor devil)
not man, nor beast
‘e’ is alive and loves a feast.

‘e’ is both good and bad
both happy and sad.
‘e’ is brave and kind
even at times jealous and mad.

‘e’ learnt how to love and trust
to live on,
‘e’ knew ‘e’ must.

‘e’ was once young and male
and then a woman and frail.
‘e’ was then a goat shy,
and soon a falcon wry;
then a tiger both fierce and tame
finally ‘e’ burnt out the flame.

‘e’ travelled to paris and milan,
the new york, london and even the barn.
‘e’ went to the mountains and
then to the plains and the sea.
looking for more places and people to be.

‘e’ was once told to be a doctor
                                           a writer
                                           a lawyer
                                           a pea!
eventually ‘e’ chose to simple be.

‘e’ was mocked
     and bullied
     and pushed
     and shunned.
‘e’ complained but to no one.

‘e’ wondered and wandered
‘e’ clambered and pondered
‘e’ forgot and retained
and finally
‘e’ took a leap in great pain.

The free fall halted,
‘e’ was now beyond gravity
‘e’ floated around
for what felt like a century.
Now so high above
‘e’ was starting to freeze,
yet, ‘e’ enjoyed the breeze!

Soon ‘e’ began to float low
and saw a strange land below.
‘e’ took a deep breath and released
now floating down with ease.
as ‘e’ touched the shore
‘e’ was grateful for a new land to explore.

Breakfast in Red

Worth it?

Can worth be measured in the people we meet?
The people we touch and the people we feed?
Can worth be measured in the people we love?
The people we treasure and the people we trust?
Can worth be measured in the days of past?
The people we flatten and finally eat?
Can worth be measured in pounds of flesh?
In trash cleared and smeared on in with the mess?
Can worth be measured in days gone and to come?
Can it be tethered with the idea of justice and fun?
Can worth be equated to having tried?
Having cried and played by the rules, abide?
Can with be written in plain text, gain and pain?
Can it be defined by relentless love and game?
Can it be written not to be erased?
Was it just a phase?
Or can worth be published only with what you achieve?
For you neither have a penchant nor do you admit defeat.

Last published
is not necessarily last met.
I could meet people over pages,
and files, and messages.
Over virtual coffee and biscuits.
Over a pizza and brunch.
Over politics and then lunch.
I could meet people
over all the food and drink.
I could see them
within every blink.
I could make friends in two's
over texts and our blues.
We talk about all that is gone
Happening now and now torn.
We crib, direct and maim,
We talk of all the pain.
Much has come and gone,
we are still singing our song.

If everything could tremble
we could have done it.
If there was a rumble,
we would have done it.
If we were born in a jungle,
we should have done it.

Last met
is not necessarily last seen.
I could see you in pictures.
On turfs unsold and plains.
On beautiful canoes and trains.
In parties and in games.
Through soil and refrain.
I could see you in pain.
In sharing and in gain.
We met through a window,
we met in self contain.
Much has wilted and waned,
we are still not to blame.

If a fist could crush concrete,
we are the saint.
If they fell with a tumble,
we left out the paint.
If a dream capsized,
we didn't dream to dream again.

Last seen,
is not for sure the last has-been.

The Mask

The rebuttal,
the return
Bringing the colours
of the old and new.
Decision among fruits.

Inhale!
Being still.
a thought
a rebuke,
Exhale!

Language,
a trick in words,
a meaning behind the turf.
The layer removed,
unearthed,
reworked.
A peel
ripped,
gathered,
shed.

Inhale!
go back to
Being still.
a thought
another rebuke.
Exhale!