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Manual Rooted Reflections: A Collection of Hair Stories, Trials and Triumphs

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Chicken George 2 episodes, Emayatzy Corinealdi Belle 2 episodes, Shannon Lucio Patricia Lea 2 episodes, James Purefoy John Waller 2 episodes, Erica Tazel Matilda 2 episodes, Derek Luke Elizabeth Waller 2 episodes, Anika Noni Rose Kizzy 2 episodes, Tony Curran Connelly 2 episodes, Adam Fergus Sir Eric Russell 2 episodes, Nokuthula Ledwaba Binta Kinte 2 episodes, Carol Sutton Miss Malizy 2 episodes, Chris Obi Kintango 2 episodes, Roman Armstrong Newborn Chicken George 2 episodes, David Shiflett Chicken Fight Gambler 2 episodes, Darrell L.

Waller Slave 2 episodes, Calvin Williams Edit Storyline An adaptation of Alex Haley's "Roots", chronicling the history of an African man sold to slavery in America, and his descendants. Edit Details Official Sites: Edit Did You Know? Trivia LeVar Burton makes a cameo as the slave Ephraim, being transported in the caged wagon from the Waller plantation. He stares at Kunta Kinte. Burton played Kunta Kinte in the mini-series. Goofs From the trailer when the cannon is exploding, all the gun crew are wearing wide red stripes on their trouser kegs. The stripe was only worn by sergeants.

However in the scene the cannon is being tested, ALL the crew are specialist NCOs and the scene comes at the very beginning of the Civil War, before there has been much action. Hence the artillerymen are carrying no personal weapons and their uniforms are particularly clean before the explosion and all have red trouser stripes. Connections Referenced in Movie Nights: Frequently Asked Questions Q: How could Chicken George be a slave in England?

Was this review helpful to you? I see the word hope displayed all over and that washes away any depth the word ever had for me. I cringe when I see it now. To me, hope is the last ditch effort to hold your head above water before giving up and drifting into the great abyss. Hope arrives when everything else goes to hell. Hope is something to grasp onto while putting one foot in front of the other, until you can walk without thinking about it. Hope is faith in the idea that not matter how bad things get, nothing ever stays the same, and someday it will change.

All of this is suppose to make it beautiful and reassuring, I understand. And I do think that is true for some, but not everyone. In many ways I think hope is a luxury of the rich and privileged in western societies. It's a "first world" perk, an accessory. Plenty of people have suffered and died regardless of how much hope they had in their hearts. I have hope, and I have faith, but I feel these things in regard to that which I know to be true and real. I'd like to think, when I'm at a point in my life where I might need hope, I'd go down fighting instead of wishing things were different.

Fighting is my brand of hope. Being an active participant in my "fate" is the absolute least I could hope for. Anything else feels like a fairy tale to me. My image doesn't really relate to what I've written. It's just something I was working on at the time. I suppose it could be seen as my kind of hope, standing strong against the prison bars of despair, instead of cowering in a corner. But then, why is my prison made of a flower. I'm tempted to firmly plant myself on the other side of the generational divide known as "old" by saying, "There's not enough respect these days What else is new?!

I am a firm believer that respect is earned, and shouldn't be a blanket philosophy that leads to automatic acquiescence to authority. I was taught to question authority. In my youth I thought that meant that calling my teachers Mr. Now I understand that teachers are people with lives and mortgages and dreams. I understand that they chose a difficult job that paid next to nothing, and in my case, in a neighborhood that had potential for violence and the assurance of poverty.

What an incredibly daunting path they chose. They weren't all good at it by any means. Some actually did it because they had nothing else they could do to earn a living and they were biding their time, trying to make it through. Most showed up everyday, in every way, and they did their best.

They were owed that respect, I just didn't understand that. I couldn't have possibly known. In a sense, I wasn't suppose to know because that's where we are developmentally in grade school or middle or high school. It's a good thing that paying them respect was institutionalized etiquette or I don't know how I could live with myself now. My point, I think, is that I get the sense that some of us never really grow out of the developmental stage where we just don't understand what the word means.

And that is something that that we are sorely in need of. Over at Urban Dictionary they have a way of defining concepts by committee. People contribute their own definitions. The ones on respect are surprisingly different than what you find on more traditional dictionary websites. I guess some of us do know what the word means. What I forgot to mention is that the teacher experience I related helped me to see that while I still don't think respect should be automatic in that it is blindly given, I do think that most people have often earned it without our knowledge.

It is that conclusion that makes me inclined to have and act with respect toward others while always evaluating, always watching, that it is cared for by those to whom it is given. If they abuse it, I snatch it back. It's, therefore, a blanket philosophy with a caveat for stitching. Respect is a philosophy to me. Do unto others as you would have done to yourself, or so the story goes. I believe that somewhere inside of everyone is a good and decent person.

And I try to act accordingly by respecting their space, their privacy, their rights, their opinions. I love the diversity of thought and expression that exists in human nature and respect that each individual conveys emotion and life in general so, so, so differently.

But when I feel disrespected the black and white philosophy begins to crumble. My kindness goes topsy-turvy. I feel unsettled after putting so much effort into being a good person, a good driver, a good friend. I don't know how to act and I don't know what to say. This is the grey area where many, if not most, people might hold a grudge.

But unless actual harm is done I cannot and will not hold a grudge. You taste like shoe. I know that you are an amazing vegetable that is well loved in many cultures and I remember tasting you one time and you were actually extraordinarily delicious. I will try and try and try you again because I respect you, eggplant. I know there is good in you. Maybe eggplant isn't a person, but it makes sense to me. I was in fourth grade the first time I truly experienced clarity.

Until then I had no idea that the world was blurry. I thought that the chalkboard was hard to read because I sat in the back row but for no other reason. When I stepped out of the doors and looked at the empty lot across the street I gazed at the trees. It was as if I was seeing them for the first time. Now, clarity has more meaning for me in the realm of photography. Clarity comes when an image conveys an idea that the viewer can clearly grasp and connect with.

Clarity comes when an image is balanced in both composition and color, when nothing is left to question. Yet there is still comfort and excitement when none of these are met. I am huge fan of hunting and capturing bokeh — the out of focus blur and circles of light usually in the background of an image. I love the blur of colors together, where leaves on trees bleed seamlessly within the spectrum between blue and yellow. Perhaps it is reminiscent of my childhood, when everything was literally a blur. My lens was focused too close and the scenery was completely bokeh. I suppose, to me, there is clarity in the blur.

This topic, for last week, was honestly, supremely ironic. For the first few days of last week I was in some kind of massive and sudden funk. Here's what I wrote about it:. But, It's been a long time since then. Maybe I should think about this in terms of what I do feel clear about. A clarity list - I began it in my head but the length of it and the relative importance of the words on that list belies the enormity of the emotion in being bogged down in the muck of uncertainty within a very deep small place within myself.

It's those questions we all ram up against at different point in our lives - Where am I going? What am I doing? That night I slept for 12 hours. The day after that, I was all back. I've had a lifelong relationship with depression. I take medication and for the last 15 years or so I've been relatively stable in mood. There are lows of course. It's the soul sucking abyss of despair that you can't pull yourself out of that is the dangerous kind.

What happened last week wasn't typical for me in any way. I was pretty clear about what felt broken in my life another irony just not why it came to be so intense so suddenly. I'm also unclear why those same issues no longer bother me.

An American Girl Grace Stirs Up Success (2015) (full Movie)

The intensity of it rocked me to my core. Having lifted after a much needed rest, also was atypical. Another strike against clarity. I can't say that I have gained too much wisdom from this brush with the abyss. Image is of a pond's surface, with photographic layers of light, shadow, rain, and other water, over top of it.

It's what my brain felt like. That word scares me. It might as well be synonymous with "nightmare. It meant disappointment was inevitable. And disappointment was lethal in my child mind. There are a lot of hows and whys to this development but that is the dull, sad part. The far more hopeful part is the slow climb up from fear of good things snatched away toward a self possessed, fierce ability to snatch them back.

I often call them goals, or hopes, or fantasies, but they all mean the same thing. They are things I love that words. It means anything and everything I want. Love is a dream.

Alan Beale's Core Vocabulary Compiled from 3 Small ESL Dictionaries (21877 Words)

My child's happy life is a dream. A place in the world that makes me feel closer to the land, to the natural rhythms that make far more sense to me than human constructed ones do. Romance is a dream. My work, being seen by others, is a dream. I have bigger dreams too, but those scare me the most. It's good that they scare me because that's how you know they are big enough. Unlike the fear I have of all dreaming, this is a clean kind of fear in that its the kind of fear we all share. It's the fear of thinking so big that you might fail. When I need to hold a dream and the fear of that dream together in my hand, to claim it, possess it and own it, I do it gently.

I don't "white knuckle it". I don't, "go big or go home. When they're big enough and strong enough, I move in and live there. I know this is bit of an odd reflection on sustainability, but it's been a difficult topic for me, one that has brought up a lot of dark and cynical emotions about humanity's abuse of our home. Instead of inflicting that on you, dear reader, I decided to look at an aspect of emotional sustainability. Make it your strength.

Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you. Okay, I realize this might actually sound pretty negative on it's own. But, I don't think it is. I think that we all face times in our lives when we feel vulnerable to others with less than friendly intentions. Part of learning to live a fulfilled, actualized, contented life, is to learn how to protect ourselves from those who would turn their pain on us. Owning and accepting and gathering to us those things within us that make us feel weak, will ultimately make us strong.

If we deny our weaknesses, set them away from ourselves, they are still part of us. We still are wounded upon an assault to them. But, if we keep them close, wear them with pride, accept them are parts of us, no one can touch them. If we love our faults, our vulnerabilities, no one can make us ashamed of them. At the beginning of this week, struggling with how I would approach the theme of sustainability, I asked my husband what comes to his mind.

Sustainability for me has been a key word—a hot topic—in my journey, generally in regards to the environment and agriculture. And here, at the end of the week, I am still struggling with choosing just one of my thoughts on sustainability to focus on. Sustainability has been a big part of where I came from, where I have been, what I have done, and who I know. As a kid, I spent my summers on a huge farm in Idaho where the fields would change each time I returned.

I had a friend who lived there and shared with me all of the magnificent systems they had in place, including a composting toilet, solar panels, grey water system, and bike-powered blenders mama needs her margarita — pedal faster! We had sustainability fairs on campus where Woody Harrelson would come by in his bus and preach about the benefits of raw food diets for health and the environment.

I have eaten cookies baked by the sun in a solar oven. Around town you could smell clouds of fried food where vegetable oil-run vehicles had just passed by. I hoed weeds for countless hours on organic farms in trade for vegetables and plants for my garden. I always thought that if the rest of the world ceased to exist that we would do just fine maintaining ourselves in our isolated ecosystem.

When I moved away and into the real world I learned how fortunate I was to live in such a place. I took for granted how easy it was to recycle and find local produce in the market.

But even though I had moved away, that little town was still in me. I started working with fisheries and aquaculture. Of particular note I am excited that seaweed is becoming more and more popular in the aquaculture world for so many reasons. No fertilizers, pesticides, or need for precious freshwater as in terrestrial agriculture. Unlike animals, it needs no lower-on-the-food-chain food source. Now this is where I would normally digress and go into a spiel on how seaweed will save the world but I will save that for another place, another time.

It is like seeing your first amazing sunset over the Pacific. You want to share and describe every glorious memory and image in detail to encapture the whole experience. As I approached 42 weeks pregnant I had anything but patience. I wanted my baby here. Not next year he was a late December baby. Now that he is almost five months old patience is the theme of my life and I practice it every day. But by that standard, I have finally achieved the status of virtuous. If she could see me now. Patience is many things. Patience is learning not to get upset or aggravated when your schedule is shifted or goes completely out the window.

Patience is persistence humble cousin. This week for me, patience was waiting through a few more minutes of rocking to be certain that he is absolutely asleep before I can go pee, shake my arm back awake, and knead the blood flow back into my hand. Patience was being content with a cold dinner or cup of coffee, both badges of parenthood.

Patience was learning and relearning to read his cues and using that knowledge to attempt tear-free days. Patience was not cutting my hair drastically short in response to my peaking postpartum hair loss. The hair is going to fall out whether it is short or long. I just notice it more because it is long.


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Patience has taken me a long time to learn. And it took a person brand new to this world to teach it to me. This is my patience. This is my struggle with patience. This is my son's struggle with patience. Living with this is something akin to trying to drive a car that isn't working correctly. The breaks only half work every 3rd time you pump them; the windshield wipers and horn won't shut off; the mirrors are foggy, the back window is cracked, the transmission keeps jumping out of gear But, you can't get out of the car.

And you have to sit still in a classroom and learn new things everyday while trying to drive this insane car. You have to control your stress level, reactions to others, and be socially appropriate while learning what socially appropriate means. You have to try to sleep at night, wake up when others say so, make friends, and communicate needs.

You have deal with disappointment, frustration, anger, loneliness, fear, etc. And, you have to do this while also processing the stress and frustration inherent in driving a car that doesn't work. The nightmare that is this disorder is only mitigated by the fact that there is help available Occupational Therapy and these kids also tend to be quite bright, thereby allowing them to be reached and for them to reach out to others. My son was diagnosed about a year ago.

Full text of "SENSE AND SILENCE: COLLECTED POEMS"

We started therapy right away and it has helped tremendously. He is just finishing his year of first grade. He did two years of Kindergarten during which we saw countless mornings of full blown meltdowns because he didn't want to go to school. At the beginning of this year he refused to do all classwork. It was getting really bad. We sat down one day and talked about class work. I let him vent about it Then I told him that I remembered feeling that way when I was a kid. Then we talked about why school is important i. I asked him if he had any ideas as to how we could help him to make class work more tolerable.

He came up with a to do list that his teacher had sign off on at the end of the day. If she didn't, he would get screen time after school. It was all his idea. Two months later, we didn't need the list anymore. He was just doing his work. Homework got easier in tandem.

I still see the difficulty he has with staying focused on his work. At the end of the day, when he is tired and that car is at it's most dysfunctional, we sit down together and work on the things that are hardest for him writing due to fine motor issues, and spelling due to memory issues. Writing a sentence that has three spelling words in it can take 15 to 20 minutes. I have to remind him of the sentence he thought of many many times while he is writing it. Meanwhile he has dropped his pencil or eraser countless times on to the floor and has to pick it up; He's made a mistake that he's tried to cross or scribble out instead of erasing and then I have to ask him to erase and write it again; He's erased the mistake and then rewrites the same mistake because he pushes so hard with his pencil that no about of erasing will completely remove it and the visual que is just too much to resist: He's started daydreaming or thinking of something and wants to ask me questions it; He wants a hug or a kiss He is a trooper.

I'd have become homicidal by this point. Sure, he gets grouchy and whiney but mostly he's just a very sweet, sensitive, loving kid who keeps trying to do what I ask him to do.

Enthusiasm : Week One

He has some self esteem issues and we are working on them along with his OT. But, otherwise, despite these huge challenges, he's a kind, adventurous, fun loving kid. It's crazy what we ask his small brain to do. But he does it. And he inspires me. Every time I start to lose patience, with anything, I am humbled by the thought of what he must tolerate.

We are teaching each other patience.


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We try to be patient with learning patience too. Beauty is a difficult concept for me. I don't really know what it means. Like the words love, or happiness, or success, it's meaning seems to be highly contextual, fluid, relative, and contradictory at times. What is beautiful to me, at any given time, at any given place, at any given mindset, may not only differ from what I might find beautiful in the next moment, year, breath, next to a different person, on a different shore It's an elusive and squirmy kind of animal. That's hard for me because I like words to always mean the same thing. I like being able to use them as precision tools without having to calibrate them upon each use.

I also love the maddingly elusiveness of these kinds of words. One thing that I can say I find overwhelmingly attractive within my personal aesthetic sense is the interaction of two, or more, elements. I love the mingling of fog or clouds within a stand of trees. I love the play of river waters amidst smooth stone, it's fluid caress, it's sticky surface tensions. I love the unpredictable nature of overlaying watercolor shapes as they choose to mingle or repel or combine to form something new. It's a lot like what people do when they meet, fall in love, become friends or enemies, etc.

It's a lot like collaboration within a project I am taking advantage of these days and getting out as much as possible. It is peaceful to walk at my own rhythm. The courtyard stormed with dried leaves and tamarind: From tree to courtyard cotton balls blown on the wind- seed in the centre Her scarf — a rainbow of flowers moving in the sky Her visit — a transient painting on holiday's floor Painting mom's smile with broken crayons — smiling Winny Intruding her voice on the phone Switching on the hearing aid: With her saree hitched up between the legs my wife in bed Raising her saree above the thighs bends to ease and blocks my way Rising early to make tea for everyone the newly wed wife As the duo sit lights go out — sofa springs creaking Dissatisfied with each other the two of us in an empty house In the grey of dusk sway between hope and despair their dream promises Leaning sideways she looks at mango picklt caries ache She repeats my ills to express her anger but I know only her love Basking in the sun files nails in garden chair my wife's friend No joy in lighting the candles this Diwali: Awaits his son's phone call from the border: His son's voice not relayed by wire: Distance mounts each time he visits home: Shadow of age on the wall — second full moon Whiteness of the moon and rocks howl with the wind- December in the veins The sun not yet set but the full moon rises as if in a hurry Enveloping all of the moon at night- white chrysanthemums Setting moon leaves behind sparkle on the waves Noisy birds don't let me sleep: Through the window gaze at the moon hid behind cloud after cloud Caressing her pregnant belly — water lily Still night nude kisses in park images haunt Standing behind the window bars observes darkness in shapes Night bombing leaves the garden white as death Vultures waiting for the leftovers of the sacrifice In the ruins searching her photo: Rutting dogs sleepless the whole night cries for sex Parents pelt stones at the mating street dogs- nosey children Nothing changes the night's ugliness in the lone bed Alone in a shrunken bed aged love In the well studying her image a woman Knitting silence my wife on the bench after lunch The lone mushroom — a pregnant woman stares out of the window Under the tree in meditation sunken a lone stone Alone on the National Highway Hanuman So many headlights and my myopic vision- walking difficult They walk on red coal matching steps with drum-beats: Keeps him sleepless fireworks and high decibel puja all night Sleeping on the cold floor a mother with child Awaits sunrise to hire an auto safely sits at the bus stand Two women argue over price and weight offish: Carbon flakes drift high above the flat I cough they widen the roads Burning tap water and seething house in the morning heat wave cripples Chanting mantra with wine in one hand and torch in other Building bridges where there is no river— the politician A mother and child stuck between concrete rubbles: Setting ablaze Muslim houses and children seekers of Ram White-yellow trail the Mirage on mission: Amidst roaring guns clouds blossom snow lotus: On the margin of home-to-work-to-home routine — life's achievements Shivering in the cold young boys sell balloons late night- New Year revellers Journeying tries to raise his silence to prayer Never enough the earth's hunger for graves: In measured pace hit for divinity two political golfers Disposable blades one over the other- dusty switchboard Seismic lab a network of cobweb: No Zen thought — scribbling haiku with gun in hand Staring at the huge stone penis at Shinto shrine- two female lovers With her breasts bobbing up and down she challenges the moon as she walks Sees the eyes in walls as I rise to kiss her Drowned in empty whiteness: Wiping tears from each other's eyes two souls in love Writing with strands of watery hair on her back a love haiku Love of three decades extinguished in a moment- anger in the mouth Shedding bitterness of the tiff in sex act she and I Moist lips parting on a tea cup promising expectation Bending down to pick up apple she presses piercing embrace She preys the body behind obsidian sheath fatuous flap After burns leaving the body the dead skin Her palms the only lingerie in Fashion Show Crouching out of the bath with hand on the genital his new tenant A pregnant woman bending over the mushroom bloomed under a tree Awaits the bloom of love in her womb: Lovely with hope the glow in her eyes: Her body — the night's perfection in dim light Seeing her a liquid sensation between the thighs On a canvas a poet in twilight painting her skin Sensing her presence he stares down the street- lingering perfume A star in making — but an island appears: Sipping gin with lime he says he loves sex each night but hates the smell Bleeding fingers draw new domes of betrayal in windy matrices His tongue between the teeth- sudden sneeze Fed up with my sex she threatens to move to our daughter's room Leaves him alone to escape daily rape in bed his wife The bedroom altar no substitute for temple- sacrifice of sex Winter's chill — sweating under the gown her thighs and breasts Scanning her stooping breasts — the first night Measuring life with ejaculatory rhythm — envies sparrow sports Her thighs — resting place for my head on bed Trying to decipher the complex curves on my palms in the morning rays Fondling her breasts I incite a poem on her body A film of mist between my eyes and her image Locked in her eyes the bright glow of the goddess Melting in the colour of the heart the sun in the west A lizard shrieks before the climax: The blood passes through green veins I hear the heart play melody of dews Every breath love in action — fire in the hole No bottom reader but the shape and the lines do tell she can stir the soul The aching limbs and blood dripping between the legs: With his head between the knees he squats and smells the body's sweat Bones rattle to make a song of flesh in the night- togetherness Insomnia blaming her not old age Lies with her in freezing cold: Invisible jangles odours presences- twinges in bed Drying on the line pork venison and beef-- the room smells their vests Don't know their tongue — the stars beyond the mountains whisper among themselves While I lie alone shapeless fears rest on my eyes heavier than time Searching salvation a moth flies into the lamp: Colours sparkle in the morning's dew on the blooms- my breathing changes Nobody cares burial of my dreams in coal dust Besides allergies so many other complaints: Bronchial breathing — the only sound audible in the soulless space Cleaning dusts from the old sandals for a walk: Peeling paint from the drawing room- shadows flicker Seeing no image in the mirror of time- foggy blankness Hot bath or no bath — the cough persists unmindful of the New Year's eve Sees in a flash — opening the eyes takes a long time Linked with anxiety my comfort at his home: Fear of forgetting — car insurance premium paid a month ahead Fears the approach of night with him — twisting tassels In the lone room prefers haiku to yoga drinking scotch Sunday afternoon- waving into gin two drops of lime Difficult to change I am what I have disowned- dressing down salads The bed is short and the covering shorter — crouching alone Unruffled by passions and clamours — Buddha's calm Seeks Buddha's stone bowl to win the bamboo princess: Her heart a thousand doors of oneness Disappears into dust her last photograph Trying to read good news I look at the lines taking new turns on my palms Looking for riches in her left hand shortening days on the pavement They sculpture psyche in the city of dumb dreams: Pulling out white hairs she reminds increasing age: Still a child- embracing a breast sleeps her man Exchanging anger with roses: They all walk like shadows in night for themselves Lying on his table a few unanswered letters and unrealized dreams A little child chases the painted dreams on butterfly wings Two butterflies racing with each other perch on the wire Sudden rain drops wet the wings of a butterfly lying at the basil Lost my way again asking for direction: Locked between the cracks cockroaches in the alcove dropping their eggs Awaiting their turn to feast on a dead dog crows in a circle A crow hits the scare crow and cracks its earthen head A crow picking at the ripe papaya and another waiting A yellow spider on the blooming marigold weaves tiny webs Two lizards fight to mate on the wall — balancing act After the quake a dog sniffing his master's presence in the rubble Searching Christ's sandals in the pile of shoes at the church's entrance Traffic snails through the water-logged road I feel a manhole cover Dust mites devouring the secrets preserved in my diary Seeing my shadow three fish in the pond look for a safe corner Sitting with its tail coiled round sweets in the box a lizard A hooker hides behind the green letter box: Too heavy these man-made machines choking weight Students murmuring over the class test result: In the moving train sleeping on his feet the newspaperman Flowers inviting seeds of love scattered in the perfumed garden Looking for a prey a snake slides through the fence warmth of the sun Safe from sun under nascent leaf a gold fish With sunrise gone to sleep the morning moon Two dreamy eyes await the rising sun through the fogged window A sweating sun after the midnight chill- changing hues of spring The sun conceals aeons of darkness planets mirror in the sky Closing its eyes in the setting sun — the Ganges in autumn He sees art in her wanton dress- crawling curls A butterfly rests on the butterfly tattooed on her sunning back Setting sun leaves behind sparkle on the waves Suddenly rise the sleeping waves from far off- 'quake in the sea Swollen sea boiling over the head- roars increase The sun rolls on the waving Ganges- whitens love-hope On the wave's crest travels a fallen leaf- rot on the bank Couldn't erase the wind's soliloquy from the waves breaking on the shore Travelling back from the waves of bliss a foam-leap On the waves rise shells in accents lie with love — beauty on the shore Bathing in thousands they float lamps on her breast the river sparkles Knee-deep in the pond standing obeisantly nude worshippers Ends with ritual one more morning — sun-worshippers in the pond Awaits the sunrise in the chilly Ganges a nude worshipper Sees visions eating food of gods- mushroom Fills the void with illusions and self- names them god December almost over what new wish to add to Christmas wish list On Christmas eve santa claus takes leave — mist on chairs in pairs Standing between flowers Jesus on the cross Making holes in the wooden cross white ants Colours of envy stick on their colleagues' faces: Krishna offering parijata to Radha: Narada looks on The temple's dome in the flooded Ganga- empty kalash Fermenting spring in the arms of lovers: The cherry pink in the spring — a framed nude Embrace suffocates in bed — chill seeps through slit Wintry chill — enters the cold bed: Winter rain bends the roses low- lumbar pain The long night passes sleeplessly I deep -breathe the December chill Alone and sleepless count hours by asthmatic bouts- the long winter nights A part of the night hidden in the morning moon: The first night spots on the sheet: Long wintry night — opening the mail box for a date Vulnerable darkness of the opening: Seek my haven where the sky arches the sea— a white gull leads Stars mock his drinking alone on the cement bench: Spend our short time together after a long watching the moon Along the road in shanties they shack up — dreams in smoke Seeking smell in cactus flowers: Clouds don't rain coldly come and go- icy bed All night rain the gaping roof her shelter Sudden rain on the way home — a peacock After the night's rain the sky's still overcast: Through thick clouds sees an arc of moon — her belly Brightness straining through the trees: Lonely nights and days of non-stop rains — depression mounts Travelling on the wings of winter ill news Celebrating return of the light and warmth: Feels the shadow with wet fingers in the fog Slowly clears the morning fog — end of the year Swollen fogs ready to make way for the sun Her make-up spoilt in the evening mist: After dust storm rain alloys with cool colours: Waxing crescent searches the setting sun worshipped in water Sees beard shining in the mirror: In a flash trapping eternity- the camera Post-lunch solitude filled with thoughts that couldn't become even a haiku A sly lover ejaculates poison- sting operation With glittering diamond on the navel swinging an item bomb With a telescope view the lunar eclipse- midnight shadows Out of wood and stone he carves his vision of peace: Suffer animals with a peculiar smell: Crossing the shadows in the Indo-Pak match- thelast ball Drunken with force spreading the century's sore: Freedom to kill with faith in divine regime: Watches the snow rain with finger on the trigger: Reaching nowhere — ideas flying from the minds of top echelons Himself doesn't listen but teaches communication Her anger shifts from manure to cellphone: Winking at her in the dark — power cut Two peacocks on a dancing spree: Dancing a few muddied crocs: Nibbling a leaf between her fingers a dragon-fly A small frog leaping on my hand from the pothole Birds crouch in nests along the snowclad path — wheezing silence Away from home — smell of frying fish in the air Swimming afresh in the glass box two gold fish Peace in silence of the heart and body's cells: Weaving its nest grass blade by grass blade R.

Sad and dull his backyard poultry- fears of bird flu Mooching about a rose petal in the sun- a butterfly An orgasmic view from behind the car's window the Taj Mahal Perches nervously on the fence a squirrel nibbling its luck Wintry evening — my grandson toddling round room to room Sudden screech of tyres: Selling tea a mustachioed Mizo in shanty Awaits the train in November night — insects all around Truce between two lizards inside the light fixture Ten fish in the tank rising in twos threes or fours to the bait atop Hiding in the shade of toilet brush in the bath a frightened mouse Awaits a rickshaw under the gulmohar tree a girl with lilac Jumped over the head a sticky frog on the ground- stoning to death Alone the cellphone on her bed rings In the changing hues of rainbow in the east: Flashing a rainbow at the dining table her diamond nose-pin Sunlight behind the temple cloud's edge Glued to the rock feeling the river's cold flame my hands and feet Sun rising late slow arrival of winter feverish warmth Fallen tea drops reminding me of the guests last evening Empty shells about the quadrangle: English teacher Children return home splashing through the pool on road school bags on their heads Moving between the fingers of a toddler the first winter rain 8.

Emitting a mouldy smell her blouse Before parting she slips to the floor- raindrops fall From the edge jumps into the pond a green frog Inhales sun through the foggy morning a leaping frog A mass of cloud floating below the plane: Flying over the rose tattooed on her back a butterfly Abandoned her mother on the wall fading streaks Awaiting welcome midst the same old worries the new Samvat Stench of burning leaves mounts with smoke in the evening: East faced yoga in the fog — breathlessness Naval cadets master the waves in Peacock Bay pelicans bathe Two barking dogs break the night's monotony competition Pigeons fly for shelter through smoke blazing windows Looking for shade under the shapeless cloud a rag picker Scrounging for scrap in a pile of garbage empty Christmas Slowly dissolves the mud-brick house of worship: Prayerful thoughts she invites with smile: Her wrinkled fingers on the rudraksh rosary: Leaves fall to touch his shrine — mukti Awaiting the wind's blow at door autumn leaves Parrots stop chirping on the guava tree — autumn dusk Hangs a fading flower between the twigs Yellow lemons still hanging after the storm sunny backyard At the kitchen door await a handful of wheat two pigeons On way home a crow shits on my head: Academics in convocation gowns- circus clowns Each morning the same prayers — God's silence On the wall witness of the past moth eaten Morning's foul smell the birds too change their tunes: Dusts settle on the rising creepers flowers grey Shelling the peas the toddler swallows some grins with delight Streetlights die with the onrush of rain — walking to silence Greets no known faces at the street corner kiosk: Full moon waves through the branches at window- wintry night This morning sun misses the warmth — chilly wind Naphthalene smell oozes from the sweater — fourth November In the crowded mall a santa claus asking for my autograph Picnickers boat on the edge of Maithon lake dropping litter In the shade behind a plastic sheeting hut a sick woman Her lonely grief melts in the candle wax evening's dark floor Swallows the pills and chants mantra to sleep: Sits on a mound overlooking the camp awaits signal Flying to the tube light one after the other two owls picking moths Ants crowd under the hibiscus — snake's broken shell Noisy parrots returning to the tree: Hides behind a naked tree the full moon The wet pages of yesterday's newspaper: A pregnant clown on the squalid mattress- crying inside Boarding the train he looks for his luggage- cries of theft Evokes spirit to ease knots of pain cyst on the neck He fears seeking intercession from a Wiccan: Not a day without begging gods to solve problems- faith in helplessness Reciting my nightly woes no one hears Stretches his arms and wiggles the toes in bed: Making lemon tea and warm buttery toast — birds singing outside Treading with spring feet my grandson now nine months They squat to ease along the railway track — transistors sing Waiting in the lounge the only passenger: Fit of sneezes no winter allergy: Breathing afresh up from the abyss — meditation A blue mist swirls around his head- floating hand It's not yet over sex is eternal delight I wait till next night She goes out into sultry heat — feeding time Her fingers push the roots into the earth- touch-me-not Her voice distant yet I can hear her breasts