It rains all year in Serengeti

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And I’m struck by how easily the profound
& the monumental, live in the same space
as the colorful & the fleeting.

Every afternoon the rains arrive —
even the thunder is quiet here.

Time doesn’t have a fixed unit,
but expands, like the belly of a leopard
perched high after a fresh kill.

Time has the face of satisfied slumber.

The endless afternoons
take up a lifetime & a day
is more pregnant than a decade.

And I am left wondering why anyone
would let themselves be consumed
by anything but the wilderness.

Originally written for The Pastry Box Project

change, illuminations

Measuring time


No one knows that at the gates of heaven,
the only question asked, is how you spent your time

If we knew that time is measured in page flips,
in the shadows cast by towering trees and in contentment;
we wouldn’t measure time in punctuality and habits
nor squander it on obligations and thieves.

If time keeping didn’t mean trying to contain
but to hold close what is our most precious possession

We would know, that the ladders stacked around lead nowhere
and we would walk past them with no hesitation.
Nature would ravage these unaccustomed limits
and turn them into canopies to read under.

habit, illuminations

For those of us who live in the middle

I trace my steps back,
at the year end.
Look around,
find it altered.

Perhaps my eyes
have shifted shape.
Seeing things,
veiled before.

Perhaps my fingers,
used to the fantastic.
Refuse to accept,
a touch familiar.

The term ‘Home’ confounds me, is it the place where –
roots existed many moons back /
wind has stopped for a bit /
I am yet to go, but already feels mine?

Roots refuse to recognize me,
my body rejects the soil.
For those of us who live in the middle,
perhaps home isn’t a place but a time.


What could be

Its how you always run into moments of time
people and rain-sprinkled trees lining a certain tarred road
and for sometime you assume their shapes.

Sitting under a hard edged lamp many years later
none of those moments make sense, they dont fit in neatly
to where you are and where you want to be
and you start to forget that feeling;

Fifteen fan-palm leaves
seem to be the only witnesses to those undone nights.


Singing elephants

What is it about the present moment that is never sipped with relish
And that only when it is on the brink of falling back into the pathos of time is it really understood and valued

What is that compulsive need to have a portal into anything that is away, an escape even if for a fleeting moment

What is with these backwards feet and a mind with memories of elephants
And the constant pull to all other directions except the ground beneath.
Now. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.

Minutes of a ticking clock say to a cuckoo that lives for the next hour.
Sing now.