Poetry English • August 20, 2023

Because My Thoughts are Hands

My thoughts are hands holding a concept

Thoughts are hands just see how they are leaving me now….

“Someone you haven’t even met yet is wondering what it’d be like to know someone like you” - Inspirationfeed/Pinterest

My thoughts are hands
Holding a concept, an idea, a face
Muse-tendrils like hair beams
supported by fingers
Minutes uncounted in ridges

Afternoon of sorts
Grey indications and yet
A terrace, wrought iron tables
And that coming back to the old….

For a non-habitual like me
Chatter is music
Laughs exposing teeth rare
Decibels of happy drumming on
heart beats
The aroma of neon, nicotine and nostalgia
Here it is white, pristine, turquoise

Because you are rain
You bring poetry.
The mango tree welcomes you with a shake
You-laden wind heavy, non-relenting

But see my bones are leaving me….

Brain spaghetti dipped in water warm
Granite flooring flooding with dance
Of your splash
Mind floats like invisible bees eaves-dropping
on conversations,
The soul-fly has no time to be stagnant on the wall
Time to hover
Slip into her jelly existence…..

You don’t have to be a morning person.
It is morning when your soul is lighted by
your inner sun
Shining through rain
And painting the rainbows you don’t see
Your soul beams as a rivulet proliferates
Into a river touching life, giving life
Your soaked inside dripping creation…..

All powerful moments are architecture
of the cotton
space floating in light
The days, talks just carry on
Fleet of rain wash over the tall glass wall
Blur silhouettes moving in rhythm
Goblets expertly palmed passing in slo mo
Rain mingled,

The foliage erect in attention from the shower
But words horizontal, shaped in water
Twist and twirl, slowly gravitate
To chose their desk like scolded students

Opening an old book of poetry
To reach a place never visited
The ecstasy of written gems spiralling
into the unheard

The moments when your fingers crush a mud pulp
and release gold shimmers to the mist
Refuge of my weary self
Which dies everyday…..
Lives despite….

You know what I mean…..don’t you ?!

“There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle. You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken. Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again. Whenever it rains you will think of her. ” ― Neil Gaiman
So we went to an old locality, from where our school bus used to navigate and as child dreamers, we would ogle out of our school bus windows at the beautiful houses lined and wondered if we could ever have access to them.

The clock marched, tables turned.

One such property now is open to public, being converted into a Mediterranean themed Cafe, keeping the original architecture of that terrace, the mango tree, the banyan tree intact, now beautifully blended with modern amenities.
As we sat there it started to rain and I could feel things slowly coming back….
We had to settle with the indoor arrangement ,but it was a pleasure to watch people enjoy the summer rain outside. Though I came home with sore muscles as it turned humid, this was by far the most organically sobering experience for me this year.

Old wines in new bottles do acquire a taste to savour.

The mind-jottings then, have translated into this poem I wrote today as a gratitude note whispered to the walls for family, rain and poets.
If walls had ears.