Tongue Tied

voices
come and go,
impersonal
echoes
from distant
mountain tops;
words -
like shooting stars
zip across
a ribbed void,
burnt up
apparitions,
an abandoned child
searches
and wonders
with bated breath;
dreams of catching
fireflies
melt into
nothingness;
no lingering
goodbyes,
just one swift
nonchalant stroke,
a disappearance,
that stabs
an already broken heart
longing to sing
a different song
today.

Open

OPEN is how we were before we folded into ourselves like a curled up tendril or a coiled up spring - nondescript and lifeless to the outside world that knows not the raw power we hold within.

To open is to give in to life...to let the life force flow freely through....
Sometimes it is a slow and gentle unwinding,  a loosening, one thread at a time, like unscrewing a bottle cap to let out the trapped air and to be filled up anew.
Sometimes it is a pushing of a door that has been stuck for too long, with a firm shove, or an unlatching of a happy window to let in sunbeams and fresh air, or the whiff of a rain-kissed earth, and the darkness of a new moon night.
Sometimes it is the wonder and excitement of a child peering into the sheer magic of the unknown, yet to unfold.

It is seeing the mundane, watching the trodden, worn-out paths before us, with new eyes and stepping onto them with renewed faith.
It is standing in a swamp or amidst swelling waters of a gushing river with an upturned cupped palm, ready to receive both waters with grace.
It is an expunging of our boundaries, a tearing down of our fortress, to make space for something to leave and merge.
It is a release of the pain of having been a bud for too long, a readiness to unfurl the beauty of our newly formed petals, to become a flower that smiles and nods its head to every passing sunbeam or storm.
It is a bird taking flight after her well-earned rest in the folds of a dancing tree...trusting both her weathered nest on a quivering branch, and her own gift of wings that let her own two worlds at once.
It is a volcano exploding in all its glory, the earth giving way to a long-hidden spring, a parched tank speaking to the distant sky, asking to be filled up with rain.
It is a song bursting from the deep silent folds of a belly, the welcoming arms of a loved one into which one can sink into anytime, anywhere.
It is the carefree display of one's innards without fear or favour, lying naked under a starlit sky, because there is nothing more to uncover or hide; when even muslin becomes too heavy and dressy, for a free spirit to wear.

Opening is a celebration, a release from bondage, often self-imposed, a spilling over of joy like a cork plucked out of a bottle of champagne.
It is a becoming that cannot be hurried; it is a patience that yields to time and life, it is the thawing of seasons that has a rhythm of its own.
It is the womb and the midwife of a deep knowing - that a pupa will some day become a butterfly that will venture into unseen worlds, or an untouched fruit that lies on a forest floor, holds within its seeds, the birds, the bees and the trees of another time and place that we might never know or come to see.
It is about walking that edge, that magical space between knowing and becoming; exploring the rim of a container that has no top or bottom or sides even.

To be open is not a choice, it is what we are, even when we want to hide....
It is a trust in the shifting ground and space below our feet, as we take every step, walk through every door, every window, every turn.
It dances in the faintest parting of lips that holds the breath of freedom, a sweet anticipation of an inspired utterance, the first golden words set free from a tongue-tied existence.
It is an arrival in that moment of trembling hesitation; in the twilight zone where we often fear to tread, where even when we are running away, we cannot but open ourselves to other roads, other worlds, other possibilities.

White and Calm

It is calm, this cold,
roads look empty, like a premonition soon to be played out.
Fallen leaves tucked to the cracks under the sidewalks stop hissing;
glass on the lamppost glows, frosted from within. 

It is calm, this cold, as
a mother, two kids bundled in puffy coats, rush into an inbound train.
an empty park, the heron missing at the sepia-toned pond;
while a dog anxiously pulls on the leash,
to get home.

It is calm, this cold, for,
a flurry, then two and then too many will swish their ways down into the dried grass.
We watch, a storm will now steadily brew.
Chai sits still, sweet lady sprinkles bird feed;
sunless light streams through holes on a window screen.

It is calm, this cold, for,
a heavy sky soon folds every cloud in.
We drive to get this dog bathed,
through snow dusting the Charles;
it falls along the banks, on arches,
on brick walls of quaint bridges.

It is calm, this cold,
we come, into a home's warmth, all wet,
after trudging on paths, of new softness;
to trees' branches getting a thin neat lining,
from a fresh gently falling snow.
An inky sky turns orange,
a wintry life is now all white.

 ~ by Sowmya Sundararajan

Listen to White and Calm

 

Sowmya is a rehab counselor during daylight 
and a life searcher through nightlight,
with solace from words.












This is the first guest post on my blog and I am honored to share a tiny part of a dear friend's world,  as it touched mine....knowing that it will touch many more :).....
 

Alive

to feel the melting sunbeams
on taut brown broken skin,
to hear a bird out somewhere
fluttering its still moist wings,
to watch crisp golden ripples
stretch aimlessly across to a sleepy shore,
to unwrap the deafening silence
of a frosted morning score,
to untie ribbons of orange and blue
and peer into the empty vault,
to smell the brine in the wild wind adrift
and fall upon a long-lost happy song,
to breathe, sing, love and hate,
to smile, cry, rant and play,
all in one breath -
it is enough.
enough,
to be alive.