guilty

The sea is beautiful.
If stating the obvious be crime,
I would serve life sentence
for this one same crime,
for saying the same obviousness -
The sea is beautiful
over and over
beautiful now
and now
and now.
Beautiful nows of the beautiful sea.
I plead guilty
over and over.

Not supposed to!!!

A note on the poem "Last Year": the lines are supposed to be indented in very specific ways. Blogger insisted on displaying it this way, and my lack of technical skills did not allow me to figure this out. The poem was not "supposed to" turn out that way! :)

Last Year

In the blue-grey of my recent days,
certain things stand out.
Like, for instance, this clear thought - This
was not how the year
was supposed to go,
"supposed to" being a quicksand phrase notwithstanding --
clarity is what is left
after you ignore the illogical traps.
Coming back to my year --
New Years are better for stock-taking;
there is enormous company.
Birthday eves are not a great idea.
You have to smile a lot the next day.

Nevertheless.

This was not how the year was supposed to go
And I am missing yahoo emoticons here.
Too much has happened
And too much hasn't.
And since I write down my plans
they now look like
compiled jokes of the year.
Some great things have happened.
So, that "supposed to" is not so grievance-laden.
It was just so you know
I plan my year - in some general way but
with some specifics thrown in.
Like if I should study or work
and where;
and how many linen trousers - expensive -
I can buy.
This year, I bought just as many linen trousers
as I planned,
But ended up working when
I had planned to study.
So you see how this thing can go.

I like to feel in control
of something at least.
So I did channel surfing on the TV
so I could gag a newsreader mid-sentence
or choose an ad over the CBI murder probe.
But the TV went grainy on me
with just that gravelly hiss of absence;
"power-cut here," the cable guy said over phone.

Our lives are so interconnected.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to me! (tomorrow)

Footprints

Today, I cracked open the secret
of beach's comfort.
It is in placing and losing
my footprints on a sand ocean
of other footprints.
My worst nightmare had Time swishing
and flicking a magic wand,
clearing the sand of all footprints and
offering me the beginning
of footprint time.
I said a quick prayer
that if it comes to it,
I be calm enough to walk, remembering
that in the million footprints to come,
only Time and I would really know
the meanderings of mine...

Storms Without Warnings

Some storms blow without warnings.
Not even a muffled thunder
or an introductory lightning streak.
They cheat radars and land straight
in the heart
on a day when it is out defenseless.
Memories thunder around
and voices blindingly flash,
and paper-thin shutters of the heart
flutter wildly
and rip in the rising wind.
The storm has to pass;
to bow and not to resist
is the only way out.
If you love cotton candy clouds
and fragrant rain,
Learn also not to hate storms
that blow without warnings.