{"id":2790,"date":"2016-10-16T23:22:44","date_gmt":"2016-10-17T06:22:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/?page_id=2790"},"modified":"2016-10-17T20:39:55","modified_gmt":"2016-10-18T03:39:55","slug":"poem-english","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/?page_id=2790","title":{"rendered":"Poems-English"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Leela.\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\"VishavBig\"<\/a>\"SurtiBig\"<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\"ShubhchintBig\"<\/a>\u00a0\"Leela.\"<\/a>\"This<\/a>\"Tegore<\/a>\"BullockTitle\"<\/a>\"The<\/a>\"Nirlajj\"<\/a>\"KomagataMaru\"<\/a>\"DoojaPBig\"<\/a>\"DoorstepBig\"<\/a>\"A<\/a>\"BlueMedBig\"<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Stroll in a Particle<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

If you can find
\n<\/span><\/span>a path into it
\n<\/span><\/span>there is enough
\n<\/span><\/span>space in this particle
\n<\/span><\/span>to stroll for a lifetime.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Take My Hands<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Take my two hands
\n<\/span>make eight feet of them
\n<\/span>give them to the spider
\n<\/span>I soaked in hot water in
\nmy kitchen sink.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I will hide my arms
\nin long sleeves, will
\nfinish the last painting with
\n<\/span>brush in my teeth
\n<\/span>but take my two hands.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

If the spider
\n<\/span>curled up into <\/span>silence, <\/span>dies
\nshe will weave her next web
\nin my soul
\n<\/span>will travel with me
\n<\/span>through all the lives
\n<\/span>eighty four hundred thousand
\n<\/span>and more<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

If you can find
\n<\/span><\/span>a path into it
\n<\/span><\/span>there is enough
\n<\/span><\/span>space in this particle
\n<\/span><\/span>to stroll for a lifetime.<\/span><\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/a>Your Dream<\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/h1>\n

If you have forgotten your dream
\n<\/span>don\u2019t worry
\n<\/span>I saw it with my own eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

The figure that stood before you
\n<\/span>with a bouquet of fresh roses was
\n<\/span>not me
\n<\/span>The arm that wrapped round your
\n<\/span>waist tightly was not mine, nor the fingers
\n<\/span>that stroked your hair.<\/span><\/p>\n

The umbrella that suddenly escaped from
\n<\/span>your hand and disappeared in the sky
\n<\/span>was me
\n<\/span>leaving you free
\n<\/span>in the rain
\n<\/span>to walk, laugh, run and slip
\n<\/span>before you awake.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/a>Kalli<\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/h1>\n

\u00a0Kalli followed me eight miles
\nto the market where
\nanimals were traded like slaves.
\nCows goats bullocks camels\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Kalli was black beautiful and six
\nprime age for a water buffalo.
\nShe was dry. Repelled bulls as if she had decided
\nnever to go green.
\nHard to afford, my father decided to sell her.
\nShe obeyed as I led her by the steel chain,
\none end in my hand \u00a0the other round her neck.<\/span><\/p>\n

I was fifteen.
\nHer nervousness was over
\nsoon after we entered the market
\nwhere sellers occupied\u00a0their given spaces
\nlike matrimonials on a large weekly page. <\/span><\/p>\n

Kalli sat down with no emotion in her eyes
\n<\/span>like an ascetic close to nirvana.
\nI sat stood walked around like a neglected calf.
\nNobody bought Kalli.
\nShe followed me 8 miles back home
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

I wasn’t sure if Father was sad or glad
\nto see her back.
\nHe just looked at her
\nlike a family member
\nwho had missed the train.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

Mustard Flowers
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/span>If you see an old man
\nsitting alone <\/span>at the bus stop
\nand wonder who he is <\/span>I can tell you.
\n<\/span>He is my father.<\/span><\/h3>\n

He is not waiting for a bus or a friend
\n<\/span>nor is he taking a brief rest before
\n<\/span>resuming his walk.
\n<\/span>He doesn’t intend to shop in the
\n<\/span>nearby stores either
\n<\/span>he is just sitting there on the bench.
\n<\/span>Occasionally he smiles and talks.
\n<\/span>No one listens.
\n<\/span>No body is interested.
\n<\/span>And he doesn’t seem to care
\n<\/span>if someone listens or not.<\/span><\/p>\n

A stream of cars, buses, and people
\n<\/span>flows on the road.
\n<\/span>A river of images, metaphors and
\n<\/span>similes flows through his head.
\n<\/span>When everything stops
\n<\/span>at the traffic lights it is midnight
\n<\/span>back in his village. Morning starts
\n<\/span>when lights turn green.
\n<\/span>When someone honks his neighbor’s
\n<\/span>dog barks.<\/span><\/p>\n

When a yellow car passes by
\n<\/span>a thousand mustard flowers
\n<\/span>bloom in his head.<\/span><\/p>\n

A tall man passes with his shadow
\n<\/span>vanishing behind him. My father
\n<\/span>thinks of Pauli who left his village
\n<\/span>for Malaya and
\n<\/span>never came back. A smile appears
\n<\/span>on his lips and disappears.<\/span><\/p>\n

When nothing interesting seems to
\n<\/span>happen he starts talking again:
\n<\/span>where were you born, and where
\n<\/span>have you come?
\n<\/span>Shall you ever go back?
\n<\/span>It is all destiny, yes a play of
\n<\/span>destiny, you see.
\n<\/span>He muses
\n<\/span>and nods his head:
\n<\/span>and where will you die my dear?<\/span><\/p>\n

The thought of death is most
\n<\/span>interesting and lingers on
\n<\/span>He stops talking and thinks of the
\n<\/span>Fraser Street chapel where he
\n<\/span>has attended many funerals:
\n<\/span>He thinks about the black
\n<\/span>and red decorations and
\n<\/span>imagines himself resting peacefully,
\n<\/span>a line of people
\n<\/span>passing by looking at him
\n<\/span>for the last time.
\n<\/span>His eyes are lit. Perhaps
\n<\/span>this is the image he enjoys most
\n<\/span>before it is demolished
\n<\/span>with the rude arrival of a bus.
\n<\/span>Passengers get down and
\n<\/span>walk away briskly like ants.
\n<\/span>The bus leaves.
\n<\/span>He looks
\n<\/span>at the traffic again to see
\n<\/span>if a yellow car is passing by.<\/span><\/h4>\n

<\/a>A Little Extra Hug
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/span>If you hug a woman
\n<\/span>a bit longer than she expected
\n<\/span>you will be instantly rewarded
\n<\/span>with scores of possibilities.<\/span><\/h4>\n

One of which being
\n<\/span>that this will be your last hug
\n<\/span>with that woman
\n<\/span>or with any woman.<\/span><\/h4>\n

On the other hand,
\n<\/span>I mean if you\u2019re lucky,
\n<\/span>she may turn into a grown-up child
\n<\/span>looking silly
\n<\/span>face covered with lilies
\n<\/span>ready to fall in love, go further.<\/span><\/h4>\n

See how little it takes to experience
\n<\/span>one of the myriad forms of love
\n<\/span>if you know the amount
\n<\/span>of that little extra hug.<\/span><\/h4>\n
<\/a><\/a>The Moon\r\n<\/strong><\/span><\/span>\r\nShall I call the moon female<\/span>\r\nor male\r\n<\/span>who pushes the cloud away\r\n<\/span>and extends its hand\r\n<\/span>quarter million miles\r\n<\/span>to caress your body\r\n<\/span>as you undress\r\n<\/span>leaving\r\n<\/span>the bedroom window\r\n<\/span>undraped.<\/span><\/pre>\n
<\/a>Once She Dreamed
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong>Once she dreamed she was Mileva,
\n<\/span>the long haired Serbian girl
\n<\/span>who married Albert Einstein. She
\n<\/span>quietly watched when Einstein twisted
\n<\/span>the absolutely
\n<\/span>flat space with his hands.
\n<\/span>She watched
\n<\/span>when Einstein broke the absolute
\n<\/span>flow of time into pieces and
\n<\/span>spun them around at different
\n<\/span>speeds.
\n<\/span>She was there when Einstein
\n<\/span>reconstructed the shattered universe.
\n<\/span>As he became greater and greater
\n<\/span>he grew modest and tender.
\n<\/span>When finally the world came to
\n<\/span>touch his hands
\n<\/span>Mileva smiled and left.
\n<\/span>She said she still liked to live
\n<\/span>in her own absolute space
\n<\/span>and move at her own pace.<\/strong><\/span><\/h4>\n
Once she dreamed she was
\n<\/span>Francis Gilot.
\n<\/span>the young woman who married
\n<\/span>Pablo Picasso.
\n<\/span>She saw Picasso with the tip of
\n<\/span>his brush
\n<\/span>tear apart the calm, surrounding
\n<\/span>the objects on his canvas.
\n<\/span>She saw faces turning into cubes
\n<\/span>and cones.
\n<\/span>When Picasso was engulfed
\n<\/span>in cubes of fame <\/span>Gilot left.
\n<\/span>She said she wouldn’t become a cube.<\/span><\/p>\n
Then she dreamed of Jeanny,
\n<\/span>who married Karl Marx.
\n<\/span>Jeanny read stories to her
\n<\/span>hungry children
\n<\/span>as Marx fed the hungry of the
\n<\/span>world in his imagination.
\n<\/span>As his beard curled more and more,
\n<\/span>Jeanny saw Marx grow into a
\n<\/span>prophet trying to unseat the lords.
\n<\/span>When infuriated gods came
\n<\/span>upon him Jeanny stood at the door,
\n<\/span>wondering.<\/span><\/p>\n
Last night she dreamt nothing.
\n<\/span>The man she married
\n<\/span>had quietly disappeared.
\n<\/span>She says he was confused, depressed
\n<\/span>and needed care.
\n<\/span>A sad vacuum expanded in her
\n<\/span>and burst.<\/span>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n
Knock gently
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong>Knock gently
\n<\/span>when you reach the cottage
\n<\/span>of my soul.
\n<\/span>The door shall fling open
\n<\/span>a flood of light shall
\n<\/span>wash your tired feet.<\/span><\/p>\n
<\/a> Genetic Solitudes
\n<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span>Nothing is perfect
\n<\/span>so there will be questions,
\n<\/span>ever, he said.
\n<\/span>Perfection is courage, she said.
\n<\/span>If you accetpt it\u2019s perfect, it is.
\n<\/span>Even the crack in my heart
\n<\/span>has followed a perfect path
\n<\/span>leaving undisturbed
\n<\/span>the quarks
\n<\/span>spinning with all their degrees of freedom
\n<\/span>in my genetic solitudes.<\/span><\/h4>\n
<\/a>Labels
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong>The baby
\n<\/span>just born into this
\n<\/span>world has been greeted
\n<\/span>and well taken care of.
\n<\/span>Already a variety of
\n<\/span>labels have been
\n<\/span>etched on him.
\n<\/span>One for race.
\n<\/span>One for color. One
\n<\/span>for religion and maybe
\n<\/span>one for a caste.
\n<\/span>At the same time he
\n<\/span>is told
\n<\/span>you are born into a free world \u2013
\n<\/span>Congratulations!
\n<\/span>The baby smiles and
\n<\/span>accepts every thing in
\n<\/span>good faith.
\n<\/span>One day when he grows
\n<\/span>into a boy and the boy
\n<\/span>into man it will suddenly
\n<\/span>dawn on him;
\n<\/span>no body knows him
\n<\/span>but the labels.<\/span><\/h4>\n
Those Times
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/span>Children will read
\n<\/span>and wonder
\n<\/span>what times on Earth
\n<\/span>were those
\n<\/span>when people sent
\n<\/span>their love and
\n<\/span>best wishes in
\n<\/span>white and black
\n<\/span>their yards grew
\n<\/span>yellow red lilac
\n<\/span>Every summer they
\n<\/span>celebrated a new color
\n<\/span>yet human face of a
\n<\/span>different color
\n<\/span>they barely tolerated<\/span><\/h4>\n
The Sphinx In Me\r\n<\/b><\/span>\r\nIt is our dining table.\r\nMy little daughter\r\npulls a face, says\r\nshe wasn\u2019t chosen to play fairy\r\nin Cinderella.\r\nI was better than Cindy,\r\nit is not fair she said.\r\n\r\nI gently move away the curl\r\nfalling on her eyebrow and say,\r\nlose or win is the thing\r\ny<\/span>ou have to learn<\/span>\r\nyour are a clever kid<\/span>\r\nnext time will be your turn<\/span>\r\n\r\nThe child forgets and<\/span>\r\ngoes to bed to walk on a lake<\/span>\r\nfull of stars. My eyes stay open.<\/span>\r\nSlowly a sphinx rises inside me<\/span>\r\nand throws the riddle:<\/span>\r\nwas it or wasn\u2019t it the color<\/span>\r\nof your child that robbed her<\/span>\r\nof the chance to play the fairy?<\/span>\r\nKnowing my fate if I fail<\/span>\r\nI ponder over the talents<\/span>\r\nof my daughter and<\/span>\r\nthe morals of her drama teacher.<\/span>\r\nCould he be a racist?<\/span>\r\nMeanwhile the monster inside me<\/span>\r\nexpands to full Giza size and<\/span>\r\ndemand an answer.<\/span>\r\n\r\nWith my soul squeezed to a dot<\/span>\r\nand my heart flattened to the skin<\/span>\r\nI get out of the bed and hurry<\/span>\r\nto my basement library.<\/span>\r\nI nervously examine the books<\/span>\r\nto find the common roots<\/span>\r\nof mankind, to attest we are all<\/span>\r\nthe same, to establish the school system<\/span>\r\nis fair, to affirm it wasn\u2019t the color.<\/span>\r\nAt times like these<\/span>\r\nhistory books become<\/span>\r\nmost relevant<\/span>\r\n\r\nYou wonder why<\/span>\r\nIndo-European is not taught<\/span>\r\nin every\u00a0 school<\/span>\r\nand you long to touch<\/span>\r\nfeet of Darwin.<\/span>\r\nAt times like these<\/span>\r\nyou fall in love with primates.<\/span>\r\nI hurriedly pulled out<\/span>\r\nmost beautiful picture<\/span>\r\nof a chimp to hang on my<\/span>\r\ndaughter\u2019s wall.<\/span>\r\n\r\nGenes of chimpanzee, I knew,<\/span>\r\ntravelled over and over<\/span>\r\nmillion times to survive<\/span>\r\nin me in my daughter,<\/span>\r\nCindy, in the drama teacher.<\/span>\r\nThe chimpanzee<\/span>\r\nwas the great Oedipus<\/span>\r\nat whose feet I thought<\/span>\r\nthe sphinx will collapse<\/span>\r\nFeeling light<\/span>\r\nI turn the light off<\/span>\r\nand turn back to climb the stairs<\/span>\r\nThe sphinx sat<\/span>\r\nat the door laughing<\/span>\r\nSize larger than<\/span>\r\nhis Giza avatar\r\n<\/span>\r\n\r\n<\/a>Blue Beaks<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nThere was no temple around and\r\nhe didn't miss one\r\nFather simply bowed in the open \r\nand started working. \u00a0\r\nEvery year he sowed wheat \r\nin the dark brown soil\r\nof his fields\u00a0 \u00a0\r\n\r\nBefore he buried the first seed \r\nfor his family \r\nhe took a fistful \r\nscattered it and said \r\ngrow for the birds. \u00a0\r\nThe second he scattered \r\nfor the wild animals, a\r\nnd the third for the travelers \r\nwho might pass by and want to \r\nnibble raw grains\u00a0\r\nAs he started pouring the seed \r\nbehind the plowshare \r\npulled by a pair of white oxen \r\nI walked beside him\r\ncaptivated by the opening and closing \r\nof the furrow. \r\nPresent and past happening \r\nin the same instant. \u00a0\r\n\r\nLater when he moved\r\nto the Fraser Valley farms\r\nof Western Canada\r\nhe picked blueberry\r\nSometimes he paused \r\ntook a fistful of the fruit\r\nhurled in the air and uttered,\r\nthis one for birds.\u00a0\r\nA whole bunch of song birds \r\nran riot in his head.\r\nBeaks blue with half eaten berries.<\/span>\r\n\r\n\r\nLittle Steps<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nOver and over he heard it<\/span>\r\nfrom his children<\/span>\r\nthat Earth is round<\/span>\r\nBut it never sank in<\/span>\r\nFor him<\/span>\r\nthe Earth was flat<\/span>\r\nendless<\/span>\r\nabundant<\/span>\r\nbenevolent and forgiving.<\/span>\r\nLittle doings of his hands<\/span>\r\nand feet hardly mattered<\/span>\r\n\r\nUntil the day he stepped<\/span>\r\non a coiled snake<\/span>\r\nThe folk song<\/span>\r\ndried on his lips<\/span>\r\nHe knew no mantra<\/span>\r\nnor of any snake deity<\/span>\r\nhe could pray to<\/span>\r\nTied a piece of cloth<\/span>\r\nround his leg<\/span>\r\nand hurried back<\/span>\r\nto the village<\/span>\r\nbefore it was too late<\/span>\r\n\r\nAnd as poison<\/span>\r\nworked its way up his ankle<\/span>\r\nit occurred to him:<\/span>\r\nlittle steps on Earth matter\r\n<\/span>\r\n\r\n<\/a>Meditation With Feet<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nFather meditated with feet\r\nin a pan of warm water \r\nbefore sleep every evening. \r\nHe never expected my mother\r\nwho brought him the water to kneel. \u00a0\r\nRather than wash in hurry \r\nhe wanted his feet left alone\r\nlet the dust particles loosen\r\nas he quietly thanked his feet, \r\nand a supreme being \r\nhe vaguely believed in\u00a0\r\nDislodging particles \r\nspawned sensations he could experience\r\nno other way \r\nNot even from the touch \r\nof Mother's caring hands \r\n\r\nSlowly his feet calmed \r\nforgetting the bare-soled work in \r\nthe rugged fields where \r\nI sometimes\u00a0joined him \r\nto help end the day\u00a0\r\n\r\nMeditation must start in the head \r\nsaid Hegel\r\nHead is where the mind is\r\nand mind is where\r\nimpure spirit waits healing. \u00a0\r\nFather had never heard of Hegel \r\nand his dialectics \r\nstriving toward spiritual perfection \r\nNor of guru Patanjali who said\r\nyour body is your mind \r\nstretched into bone and flesh. \r\nIt matters littlew\r\nhere you start the meditation\u00a0\r\nFather simply dipped his feet \r\nin warm water every evening.\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\r\n<\/a>Playing with Big Numbers<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nThe human mind\r\n<\/span>is essentially qualitative.<\/span>\r\nAs you know,<\/span>\r\nwe are easily excited by<\/span>\r\npinks and purples,<\/span>\r\ntriangles and circles<\/span>\r\nand we endlessly argue<\/span>\r\nover true and false,<\/span>\r\nright and wrong.<\/span>\r\n\r\nBut quantitative analyses<\/span>\r\nrarely touch our souls.<\/span>\r\nNumbers were invented mainly<\/span>\r\nby men to trick each other.<\/span>\r\nI am almost certain women had<\/span>\r\nnothing to do with them. They<\/span>\r\nhad more vital tasks, survival for example,<\/span>\r\nat hand.<\/span>\r\n\r\nBut playing with big numbers<\/span>\r\ncould be interesting.<\/span>\r\nIn fact it could be really fun. Say<\/span>\r\nif I were to sit on a gravel pit and<\/span>\r\ncount one billion pebbles non-stop<\/span>\r\nit will take me some 14 years;<\/span>\r\nor if I were to count what Africa<\/span>\r\nowes to rich<\/span>\r\nforeigners \u2013 some 200 billion <\/span>dollars,<\/span>\r\nit is impossible. \r\nI will have to <\/span>be born \r\n40 times and do nothing<\/span>\r\nbut keep counting 24 hours.<\/span>\r\n\r\nAlthough things could be simpler\r\non a <\/span>smaller scale. \r\nSuppose as a result<\/span>\r\nof the debt, five million children die<\/span>\r\nevery year , as in fact they do,<\/span>\r\nand each dying child cries<\/span>\r\na minimum of 100 times a day<\/span>\r\nthere would be a\u00a0 trillion cries<\/span>\r\nfloating around<\/span>\r\nin the atmosphere just over a<\/span>\r\nperiod of five years.<\/span>\r\nRemember a sound wave once<\/span>\r\ngenerated never ceases to exist<\/span>\r\nin one form or the other,<\/span>\r\nand never escapes the atmosphere.<\/span>\r\nNow one fine morning, even if<\/span>\r\none of these cries suddenly hits<\/span>\r\nyou, it will shatter your soul into<\/span>\r\na billion pieces. It will take<\/span>\r\n14 years to gather<\/span>\r\nthe pieces and put them back<\/span>\r\ninto one piece.<\/span>\r\n\r\nOn the other hand, \r\nmay be all the\r\ntrillion cries could hit your soul\r\nand nothing would happen.<\/span>\r\n\r\n \r\nCoffee in A Clear Glass Mug<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nIt was the first time<\/span>\r\nI made coffee in a clear glass mug.<\/span>\r\nIt was fun<\/span>\r\nand a bargain.<\/span>\r\nThe gray coffee beans I bought<\/span>\r\nwere absolutely fresh,<\/span>\r\nfragrant,<\/span>\r\nand cheap.<\/span>\r\n\r\nI poured the boiling water with all<\/span>\r\nits bubbles, sounds, and hisses<\/span>\r\ninto the mug.<\/span>\r\nNo color yet.<\/span>\r\nI put in a sugar cube<\/span>\r\nand couldn't resist watching<\/span>\r\nthe cube slowly dissolve and turn<\/span>\r\ninto an irregular shape.<\/span>\r\nSweetness traveled<\/span>\r\nto every molecule of water without<\/span>\r\nmuddying it,<\/span>\r\nlike an affectionate touch of<\/span>\r\na child's hand traveling to every<\/span>\r\ncorner of grandfather's soul.<\/span>\r\nIt was beautiful.<\/span>\r\nI dropped in a few beans of<\/span>\r\nroasted coffee.<\/span>\r\nLight brown color emerged,<\/span>\r\nturning slightly darker around<\/span>\r\nthe beans.<\/span>\r\n\r\nTo my delight a display of<\/span>\r\nGrey shades began. The infinite<\/span>\r\nvariety of shades between<\/span>\r\nblack and white fascinated me.<\/span>\r\nA stem of color rose in<\/span>\r\nthe center, branching irregularly<\/span>\r\nhere and there.<\/span>\r\nThere were shapes like flowers,<\/span>\r\nand thick dots like coffee fruit.<\/span>\r\nIt was indeed a branch of<\/span>\r\nArabian coffee with flowers<\/span>\r\nand seeds.<\/span>\r\n\r\nSoon more color rose from<\/span>\r\nthe bottom, adding richness and<\/span>\r\nexpression to the plant.<\/span>\r\nI added a few drops of rum at the<\/span>\r\nside to make it a coffee royal.<\/span>\r\nThe plant trembled, and<\/span>\r\nstrangely enough<\/span>\r\nit now looked like a human figure.<\/span>\r\nWas it a coffee picker<\/span>\r\nfrom Sri Lanka India or somewhere?<\/span>\r\nIt indeed was a coffee picker<\/span>\r\nwith reed thin legs,<\/span>\r\na loin cloth, no shirt and no waist.<\/span>\r\n(The likes of which you see<\/span>\r\nsometimes on tv to evoke sympathies<\/span>\r\nin the would-be donors)\u00a0\r\n<\/span>\r\nI picked up the mug and had a<\/span>\r\nsmall sip. Curiously enough the<\/span>\r\ncoffee picker was still there<\/span>\r\nalthough slightly thinner. After<\/span>\r\nanother sip the figure was<\/span>\r\nstill recognizable.<\/span>\r\nShall I swallow it?<\/span>\r\nWhy not. I smiled.<\/span>\r\nIf those burger sellers can make<\/span>\r\nbaby faces on the burgers and<\/span>\r\nlure my children to eat them, why not?<\/span>\r\nChildren, after all, are much more<\/span>\r\ntender hearted.<\/span>\r\nThe thought suddenly made me<\/span>\r\nupset. What are they doing to our<\/span>\r\nchildren?<\/span>\r\nStill engrossed in the baby faces<\/span>\r\nand burgers I picked the mug to finish<\/span>\r\nthe remaining coffee.<\/span>\r\nWhat am I<\/span>\r\ndoing to the coffee picker?\r\n<\/span>\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>The Maharishi And The Baby<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nThe maharishi whispers:\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>\r\nthe flesh is maya, temporal,<\/span>\r\nthe soul is eternal,<\/span>\r\nthe truth.<\/span>\r\nThe baby<\/span>\r\ninside the starved mother<\/span>\r\ninsists it must come out<\/span>\r\nthe mother has to eat.<\/span>\r\nThe maharishi<\/span>\r\nand the baby in the womb<\/span>\r\nstare across<\/span>\r\ninto each other's eyes.\r\n<\/span>\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>Spanish Banks<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nThe grey sands<\/span>\r\ninvite me to follow the<\/span>\r\nreceding sea water<\/span>\r\nto recognize a clam shell<\/span>\r\nthat could be the house<\/span>\r\nwhere my ancestors began.<\/span>\r\nI walk slowly with respect.\r\n<\/span>\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>Try A Red Hot Coal<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nTry a red hot coal on your palm<\/span>\r\nyour hand may not burn<\/span>\r\nThe sun that rose faithfully<\/span>\r\nfor a billion years<\/span>\r\nmay not rise tomorrow<\/span>\r\nThe table in front of you<\/span>\r\nstuck by the force of gravitation<\/span>\r\nmay fly to the ceiling<\/span>\r\nany moment.<\/span>\r\nAbsurd?<\/span>\r\nMaybe<\/span>\r\nBut my imagination has refused<\/span>\r\nto circle around the sun\r\n<\/span>forever.<\/span><\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u00a0 \u00a0 Stroll in a Particle If you can find a path into it there is enough space in this particle to stroll for a lifetime. Take My Hands Take my two hands make eight feet of them give them to the spider I soaked in hot water in my kitchen sink. I will hide […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"full-width-page.php","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2790","page","type-page","status-publish","h-entry","hentry","h-as-page"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2790","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2790"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2790\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2855,"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2790\/revisions\/2855"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ajmerrode.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2790"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}