Poetry – Fleeting Muse

Old Rudy’s Poem

” east is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet” – Rudyard Kipling

oh, how I wish we
prove these lines wrong and
before the sun rises in the west,
and hell freezes over,
we forget all directions,
of labels there would be none,
of borders, all erased and gone,
we meet as brothers and sisters and
embrace each other only as human;
in the grave crumbles his bones,
as his poem all but forgotten,
except mistakenly the lines we quote;
how would old Rudy smile if
all that divide us are suddenly gone.

Pranabendra Sarma, March 3, 2022
San Jose, California

Fellow Traveler

Neither an atheist,
Nor a believer,
No, not a doubter;
Neither rightwing,
Nor leftist,
No, not taking a middle path;
I walk that path,
On which only,
Humanity is my fellow traveler.

The Path To Lonely Nights

Time stood still as I considered my options,
Standing on the square looking to my right and to my left,
I looked upfront and I looked back to from where I came,
There, standing on the crossroad I was perplexed.

Out come the preacher from my right and asked me to hold his hand,
Follow me and my scriptures and rest assured,
If you do as I say, have faith and not question,
Rest assured your path will be smooth all the way to heaven.

The politicians, blabbering all, came from the left, and
some did follow the preachers and came from the right,
Follow our paths, we shall lead and you will be alright,
New age and new dawn is coming and your future is bright.

From the front came the financier, greed written large on his face,
Give me your hard earned wealth, what you have,
It will be invested well and you shall be see it grow beyond belief,
Yellow brick road to Oz shall be littered with gold for your relief.

There was a cacophony behind my back and I saw a crowd,
Shouting at me they all asked me to get out of the way,
Each of them are running to their chosen future in a hurry,
Go back if undecided, shouted day, and come back another day.

I searched in vain for my friends to see where are they,
Alas, they have chosen their camps and going merrily on their way,
Pushed and pulled with fear of being ran over and killed,
There on the crossroad, looking for the path not taken, I stood still.

They called me atheist, they called me dumb, they called me names I dare not utter,
Leftist, rightist, unpatriotic, traitors, they threw the whole paint bundle at me,
And all I wanted to do was to listen to what my conscience said was right,
Alas, choosing the path not taken will lead me to many lonely nights.

With a heavy heart I moved on, standing still was not an option,
Up came another square on the path I have chosen,
There in the middle of the square a roaring party was going,
Making merry and feasting with glee and gaiety were preachers, politicians, financiers all,
A long line of lost souls lining up the crossroads to the square for the crumbs to fall.

Taking Stock

This road that lies ahead I had traversed,
Many a times through the ages alone,
Uninvited I come and will leave unannounced,
With memories erased of lives bygone.

I have sailed down this river again and again,
Navigating blind, downstream to ports unknown,
Many a port of call I crossed and stopped in vain,
Alas, the erased memories of yore had let me down.

The path was never paved smooth nor was it sleek,
The road bumpy at times and full of potholes,
Thrill of the journey unknown, adventurous and never bleak,
Continuous cycle of coming and going in the company of eternal souls.

Oh what a fantastic sailing on this ever flowing river called life,
Full of potentials, cyclones and whirlpools, sail without fear and thrive.

Burn and Old: Set of Three Haikus

Sun burnt leaves wrinkled,
Withered like an old man’s skin,
Dogma shrivels minds.
**
Burn down the bridges,
Divided and conquered cry,
Corrupt old men rule.
***
Old wound bleeds silent
Rejected heart tries to heal,
Burn the memories.

Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku # 391- Burn and Old

False Promise of New Year

I wrote the poem below today morning in my mother tongue Axomiya ( Assamese) and translated to English just now. Posting the poems in reverse order here.

Isn’t the year about to end,
Why no one has let the bird
singing merrily know;

I asked the half-bloomed rosebud
Stiffened in the winter cold,
No, no one told her,
The year is just about to end;

I asked my dog
Sitting and lookin out,
Did anyone tell him,
In a little while
The year about to turn;
He ignored me and
kept looking out,
Maybe waiting for
winter to end and
return of spring, when
He can frolick in
the cradle of nature again;

I asked nature
Are you getting ready to
Welcome the new year?
Smiled she sadly and said,
Will you listen to my pain?
I haven’t figured out a way
To protect my children from
the madness of mankind
shouting hoarse about
Global warming and
climate change;
Spare me the additional pollution
of your insanity,
The false promise of
A Happy New Year.

ভুৱা প্ৰতিশ্ৰুতি নৱবৰ্ষৰ

বছৰটো হেনো শেষ হব ওলাইছে,
কোৱা নাই কোনেও বাৰু কিয়
আনন্দেৰে গান গাই থকা চৰাইটোক;
সুধিলো শীতত ঠেৰেঙা লাগি
ফুলো ফুলো কৰি আধা ফুলা হৈ থকা
গোলাপৰ কলিটিক,
নাই, কোৱা নাই কোনেও
বছৰ বাগৰিছে বুলি গোলাপীক,
বাহিৰলৈ চাই বহি থকা মোৰ কুকুৰটোক
সুধিলো জান জানো ত‌ই
বছৰ বাগৰিব আৰু কেইটামান ঘণ্টাত;
আওকাণ কৰি মোক
চাই থাকিল সি বাহিৰলৈ
হয়তো অপেক্ষাত
কেতিয়ানো হ’ব শীতৰ অন্ত,
আহিব বসন্ত আৰু
আনন্দৰে সি কৰিব বিচৰণ
প্ৰকৃতিৰ কোলাত;
সুধিলোঁ প্ৰকৃতিক মই
হৈছানে সাজু তুমি আদৰিবলৈ
নতুন বছৰক?
প্ৰকৃতিয়ে হাঁহিলে দুখেৰে, ক’লে
শুনিবাজানো কথা মোৰ বেজাৰৰ,
ভাবি পোৱা নাই উপায় মই
ৰক্ষা কৰো কেনেক
সন্তানক মোৰ
বিশ্বব্যাপী উষ্ণতা আৰু
জলবায়ু পৰিবৰ্ত্তনক লৈ হাহাকাৰ কৰা
উন্মত্ত মানবৰ মূৰ্খামিৰ পৰা;
নালাগে মোক অতিৰিক্ত প্ৰদূষণ
তোমাৰ উন্মাদনাৰ,
ভুৱা প্ৰতিশ্ৰুতি এটা নৱবৰ্ষৰ।

Now the question is how do I say happy new year to my readers after this. The bird sang in my ear and said, yes you can in the least polluted way and my dog Skooby barked his approval with a loud woof. So here it goes my dear readers, A Very Happy New Year 2022 to You.

Raindrops: Set of Three Haikus(photo by author)

Raindrops on leaves drip,
A transient impermanence,
Expectant earth waits.
**

Tomorrow leaves fall,
Moist earth embraces the dead,
Rejuvenation.

Cherish the beauty,
Short life,lifelong memory,
In death, renewal.

I haven’t posted much on my blog for some time now. After a long forty day road trip of 9425 miles across USA, I was most probably getting lethargic. Few weeks back I started to write a long short story in my mother tongue Axomiya (Assamese) on my Facebook wall. Well, to make a long story short, after twenty eight episodes and nearly twenty seven thousand words, I haven’t yet seen the light at the end of the tunnel and falling very far behind. To be precise, still traveling hundred and eighty years in the past. I have still a long time to catch up to the present. I took the photograph of raindrops on rose leaves yesterday morning and as I was looking at the photo today, and it’s a gorgeous sunny day today, thoughts that came to my mind were transcribed by my fingers to a set of haikus. Obviously the rust shows.

A Feeble Voice

I’m just a feeble voice
in wilderness and
am thankful that I have;
I decide to raise it,
However feeble it may be,
Maybe it will be
lost in the din, but
If every feeble voice
takes courage and
raises it,
Soon the cowards will
take notice and run,
Hope that day will come soon,
When the feeble voices
of the world,
Will rise up in unison,
For peace and justice,
For all.

Thanksgiving Day

I give thanks,
not only on this day,
But on all the days,
To be able to still
have my say and
oppose the cause
behind Thanksgiving day;
I am thankful on this day
for not being a subject
of the lands,
Where a misplaced word
may be construed as
blasphemy, and
the kings and
the queens,
( do they have any),
or all the potentates,
At the drop of a hat
can proclaim,
Off with his head, or worse,
Cut one to pieces,
Stuff in suitcases,
and fly away to their
Holy lands;
I am thankful
rather to be able to
carve my turkey in peace,
(did I say Turkey),
On this beautiful
Thanksgiving Day.