If we were having coffee…
I’d tell you I’m in Thekkady
That I’m basking in the lawn
While trying to stifle a yawn
— –
If we were having coffee…
I’d tell you I’ll write about it
Make some posts, take snaps
Even about me taking naps
— –
If we were having coffee…
I’d tell you how great it is
To sip steamy chai, to gaze
and make a hoopla for a thepla
— –
If we were having coffee…
I’d tell you I’m in Thekkady
That I see it’s god’s own country.
Or that I had scheduled this post.
Grew up together,
promised to keep in touch,
grew old touching screens.
He woke to a lone house
And walked in solo a path
Lived only by himself
And cooked just for one
With the radio for company
On days dark and gloomy
Each day was the same
Going on with no name
Except one day every year
Calls someone so dear
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”
With a passion for shades
and water colours for tools
he went looking for a school
to learn and become an artist
he knew no new technique
yet his views were unique
teachers told him bug off
you’re no good, get off
he strove still to no avail
all nightlong he scribbled
and daylong he dabbled
tried doing acrylic on canvas
and tested sketches on paper
shady outlines, weak curves
many hiccups and near give ups
years of toiling and redrawing
rework, redesign, recolour, repeat.
And people called Artists naturals.
She bruised herself at soccer,
her play doh castle crumbled,
she finished last in the game,
and always dropped the ball,
she missed homerun by a mile,
and was late for the park swing,
Her parents thought it embarrassing.
The four year old thought it fun.
The Chaos Within 