Chaos is beautiful

She used to gobble his thoughts,
Straight from the dark porcelain vessels he boiled them in.
Unadulterated,
ugly,
beautiful.

His thoughts,
Overcooked,
Hot,
They ended up leaving a bitter after taste in her mouth.
Yet, she couldn’t help gobbling them.
They grew on her,
Like two pints of beer, 60 ml each.
Like the tune of a flute playing somewhere in the background.
Like hushed noises in the middle of a sleepless night.
Like life.

She would caress his walls,
And discover crevices.
Lever holding ones.
One gentle nudge and the oak panelled wall would creak open.
Dust flew everywhere,
Engulfing everything she had left behind,
She would turn back and know that there was no turning back.

And so she would tiptoe,
Tip toe tip toe onomatoepically,
To discover,
That he thought,
Too much.
About burying corpses erect,
to disallow them a chance to rest in peace.
About broken relationships,
And how they can be told backwards.
About chaos,
And how beautiful it is

Parth Arora
http://somuchfordreams.blogspot.in/

 

 

 

Lintel of my Life…

 

I sprang from bed and bumped my head and stubbed my little toe,
Then jammed my fingers ;turning down the blaring radio,

Couldn’t find any words to write about the one, who gave birth to this Leo,

Waving away the endless twists and turns,

Settled down to write the most cherished sojourn.

 

Her hands held me gently the day I took my first breath,
They helped her to guide me as I took my first steps,
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall,
They were quick to show me; she would take care of it all.

When I started school the first year, she walked with me every day,
And helped me shed the fears I had, that my world had gone away,
Every year as I grew older, and ventured  away from home,
I knew she’d always be there, no matter how far I’d roam.

She fashioned my dreams and  painted my hopes,
I’ve learned to make knots at the end of my ropes,
She mapped the way to the Heaven above,
By teaching me kindness, by teaching me love .

 

Her hands are now gyrating with age and years of work,

They need my gentle touch to rub away the hurt,
She flinches when you bump them and her grip is quite weak,
But these hands are a reflection of the woman inside,
Although curled up in whims, still strong with pride.

When opening a jar seems too great a task,
It’s only after great hesitation that she finally asks,
Don’t let that mislead you – for you must understand,

It’s not what they can’t do; but rather what they can,
These hands have the strength to raise a family right,
To wipe away every tear and hold you real tight.

I’m glad that you chose to be, all this and more to me,
You share a love that knows no end,
You’re more than my mother, but a miraculous friend.

 

You painted no Madonnas, on chapel walls in Rome,
But with a touch divine, you lived one in your home ,
You built no great cathedrals, that centuries applaud,
But with a grace exquisite, your life cathedralled .
Had I the gift of Raphael, or that of Michelangelo,
Oh, what a rare Madonna, my mother’s life would show…

Swati Achra

Amrita Vishwa Vidyapeetham