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Thursday, 12 November 2009

Man is the author of his own destiny.

His eyes are fixed on that patch of green
In the distance. Its rich colours
Excite him - he wishes it were his.
But it's not - it's his neighbours.
He looks again - he is mesmerized.
The brightness blinds him - he cannot look away.
He wants it. He wants it now -
He can't take it though -

It's his neighbour's.
He laments. Blames misfortune.

Around him are his own bushes -
Roses, lilies and chrysanthemums -
His own patch of green.
But he cannot see - you can't when you are blinded.

He mourns and laments at his misfortune.
If only, if only - he says.

His obsession blinds him to the beauty

Of his own patch of land. He neglects it.

The grass grows dry and shrivels up.

Plants wither away and die.

Weeds begin to take over the land

Where flowers should have grown.

Bushes start sprouting thorns

That turn hard and sharp - in self defence –

Now, they wound him.
He cries out in pain.
He looks down at his feet - for the first time.
He is surrounded by thorny bushes.
- You are hurting me - he screams.
Blood trickles down their twigs -
- the bushes remains helpless and silent.
He has more reason to complain.

His cries and laments get louder.........

His eyes settle – once again – on that distant spot.

On that patch of green – that can never be his.

It’s his neighbour’s.

Time – the silent witness – passes him by.

Should I pity such a one?

I could perhaps find in my heart, the mercy -

To feel sorry for him.
But when I think of the grass on his patch

That thirsted for attention, then succumbed;
The little saplings that struggled - in vain -

To grow, to flower, to fruit –

Then gave up -
- then my heart aches,
and my throat chokes up
And my eyes cry blood

For those that did not have a chance –

Then I am convinced that this man deserves no mercy.
He is the author of his own destiny.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009

My heart is heavy...

My heart is heavy,
There is a tightness in my chest
That does not allow my heart
To beat to its own rhythm.
I need to sigh now and again
To give it the space
To fill up and then overflow
And spill into my blood vessels -
To ease the tightness elsewhere -
There is a tightness everywhere......

My lips are sealed tight,
Imprisoning my tongue.
My eyes shut tight,
Imprisoning my tears.
My hands are bound tight,
I'm forced into inaction.
The leash on my brain
Has my thoughts in restraint.

.......the tightness is everywhere
Stifling me until I am not me
But someone else.

He gave me three............

I miss my eye, my seeing one.
I understand now why He gave me two -
Two of all the things I need.
And then He gave me three -
He thought me worthy.
They were mine - the three
To nurture to temper to shape –

All mine -
Or so I deluded myself
Then I learnt something new -
They were all His - lent to me
For a while
To nurture temper and shape.
Now they, .......
They think they belong........
To themselves!

A false prophet

You reveal Yourself to Your seeker
In small phases:

In thoughts sometimes;
Sometimes in spurts of wisdom.
Sometimes through momentary flashes of enlightenment.

Man takes that as a Sign
He puffs himself up,
Considers himself privileged:
A prophet even.
He deludes himself
Gives himself false security.
Nothing can go wrong.

All his friends become lesser beings -
Almost despicable.
He struts around like a peacock
Patronising. Arrogant.

Then comes the fall -
He falls on his face
Flat on his face,
His face in the mud.

Hopefully --- he has learnt a lesson.