I keep my "i" small—
allowing it to sit on the rustic fence of life,
inhaling the dalliance of the zephyr, the daisies, and the daffodils,
knowing well, any time it can teeter and fall
by words and worry, anger and anxiety.
That our hearts—with their entangled crimson arteries—
have an even more entangled life—
mysterious and mischievous.
We can never be too sure, too certain of its beats.
One time black metal, and the other time lullabies.
I keep my "i" small—
the path on which I walk wasn't carved out only for me.
The medallion sun did not single me out for bees' bounties.
Millions have walked on the stony ballast,
winning and losing their valuable something along.
Millions will continue to traverse long after I have ended my song.
The small "i" in me makes room for mistakes.
I know I am capable of, and I am sure I did commit—
that while I can present, I can also paralyze;
while I can dream, I can also destroy;
while I can conceive, I can also contrive;
while I can provide, I can also deprive.
It is this small "i" that scoots a bit—
making room for apologies that stitch and salve,
believing I don't know it all and never will.
A blind spot will accompany while I cruise—
always someone more sage, more sapient, more sharp.
This whacky "i" suffers from poor eyesight,
I often blend the brown, the black, the beige—
convinced that they are merely colors and not the character,
convinced they are merely the paint and not the painter.
And respect and dignity are tax benefits I was born with—
no matter my income, my status, my wealth.
My "i" allows space to accept what doesn't look like me—
allowing space to slip into the shoes of those who don't live like me.
This small "i" is limited in my limitless possibilities—
an aperture that allows life to float and flow
between the sanctions, offering a sanctuary.
Speeding up is sometimes going slow.
I could be at peace only if I stop wanting more all the time—
only to later discard and destroy.
That a drop of sweet contentment is all it takes
to encash the cryptocurrency of joy.
In the masterful montage of what we call life,
are the two bad actors—perfection and completeness—
the promise and the peril of the impostors, the small "i" knows.
For neither anything ever is perfect nor is anything ever complete.
To flourish is to be in transit—
from one breath to another, one hug to another,
one sorry to another, one love to another,
until the movement stops...
and then everything begins again.
To read the poem in The Bloom- Lake County Poet Laureate's magazine, click on
If a parent is trying to protect, care for, and educate a girl child on her sexuality, it is equally essential to provide the same to the boy child. Doesn't it take 'TWO TO TANGO'? Giving attention to your boy child is equally important, if not more. If we made our boy children responsible adults, we ensure that the girls don’t need to move around with fear. Don't say then- I will not understand. I do because I have a son, and he is not a bull. Click on My son, his Spermarche, and his Sexuality to read the full article. Image courtesy-Pixabay
I wonder if Indians smooch? They do? Really? Have they always smooched or it is some new found sexual angle? Oh, forget it! How does it matter? With our population, nothing matters. I had an idea about smooching back in school- the year 1996. You know how Chinese whisper works. When it came to ‘smooching’ what came to me was something to do with the tongue and esophagus. The implementation happened 15 years later in the most unsophisticated, an ‘atrangi’ and unhygienic way. For a middle-class Indian who is raised with the mantra- ‘ jootha nahi khate ’, smooching = sin. Unsanitary sin. Forget it! I am not a fan of a smooch. But what if my kid is? The thing is that the biological clock and the academic clock are in direct conflict when you enter your teens or hit puberty. Just when the world is putting the right kind of pressure on you to go to Stanford, your mind is solving calculus equations, your body is doing its own weird calculation...size? Inches? Bang
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