Upon Googling the Murree Hills – “first glimpse of mountains” – Some Haiku

first glimpse of mountains
smudged above weary plains; my
heart set to skipping

flat in illinois
massed thunderheads awak’ning
first glimpse of mountains

____________
Another poem and more explication here.

i miss that breeze off – Haiku for the past – Cedar Campus – Michigan

i miss that breeze off
huron, the expectancy
of mint. steeped sweet dreams.

_____
more here

“at aldis i feel” and “at home i shift some” – Haiku – Senryu

at aldis i feel
you amidst the aisles, amazed
at all the bargains

at home i shift some
cans you bought and smile to reap
this happy harvest

“you in your boxers” and “in summers, eating” – Summer Haiku – Eating Melons

you in your boxers
and banyan*, eating melon;
curved rind like your smile
___________

in summers, eating
melons with you; cool like an
evening in eden

*a punjabi word for an a-shirt

into illinois – a haiku

into illinois,
traveling old roads; driving
past into present

remembering rains – three haiku

we always had two
minds on rain; its lovely greys,
its melancholy

in the chair asleep,
the afghan nestling legs that
always found the breeze

we take lunch and tea,
the rain still falling; your smile
to me like sunshine

I miss you. Eager.

I miss you. Eager.
Hello Kitty, horses, cars.
Target dollar aisle.

_________

Like roadside bombs, you know they are coming, these emotional landmines, you just never know quite when.

coming home at dusk

coming home at dusk
leaves sunk into dimness; my
father’s weary voice
__________
coming home at dusk
incandescent greeting; my
father’s cheery voice

Dusk, time in between times, is always a difficulty, especially in the winter months. The sureties of the daylight have sunk and the lights in our homes are struggling to make a beachhead in the dimness. And it is often in this time when we arrive at home, transitions jostling in our souls, as we bump into our dear ones.

The readers of this blog perhaps do not know what my friends and family already do, that this past Sunday night my father, who lived with me, passed away somewhat suddenly. Driving home today, reflecting on the feelings that dusk often brings to me, I thought of the times Dad and I met after long days. Sometimes he would have arrived home ahead of me; sometimes me ahead of him. Sometimes he was worn out and low, walking slowly up my creaking stairs. Sometimes he was still energetic. Almost always, though, at some point he would lift up his head, his face glowing with a broad smile, reach his head up to cup the side of my face and say, “Hello, sonaay betai! How are you doing?” These are the things I’ll miss.

Poem Reprint: Grandma’s Hands

Grandma’s Hands

Grandma’s hands were smooth and white
When I was a child.
And labored long at tasks untold
From dawn till well past setting sun,
And sometimes cuffed me into line
Along with words though stern, still kind
To make a young boy wise.

And when I’d grown
They’d labor still
Well into the night
With untold thimbled needle thrusts
Punctuating time.
But then they were but skin on bones
That would wrinkle up in mine
As hand in hand we’d talk and sit;

I’d listen with delight,
To tales of life and love and woe
And watch those transparent hands in mine
And see the blood go coursing by.

Grandma’s hands were smooth and white
When I was a child.

murree monsoon: a suite

the clouds hang silent
ensconcing wood and village
a mountain monsoon

within the dimness,
a cicada cries, lonely
like the call to prayer

outside dripping dark;
inside our ovaltine and
braving of cold sheets

bright fog after rain;
we stand on the bridge watching
the cataract roar