Black and White

This photo of us is all faded and smelly

It smells like old books do

and it’s discolored the way they are, too.

This room is now dull

and the furniture is damp

In the darkness you can see a sheet of dust

that is lending to this scene

a characteristic sadness about which one would read

in renowned literary works, perhaps.

All that black and white and sheen.

I walk about in solitary desolation;

I have lost yet another friend

There is no room for acclimation

to fate and its repetitive trend

I walk, I look around me in puzzled wonder

What thus happened to bring us asunder?

I wonder…

Questions outnumber answers as I travel

through time and events to unravel

a plausible reason, but to no avail

I have always failed.

Yet, this room looks distinguished

like that old photo of my grandparents-

Thatha on chair and Patti standing by his side-

there is something special about that photo

All that black and white.

Maybe I won’t do away with this photo of us, yet

that is now all smelly and faded

maybe I’ll hold on for a little bit more

I’m not entirely jaded.

Trumpet Man

There was a trumpet man.

He played his trumpet all the time.

He had a horn which he touted;

he loved to blow that horn.

He played his trumpets so loud that

he could hear no one else but

himself

he marched on by himself

with his trumpet blowing loudly on

on and on

and people watched and they talked

but he could hear not a word

as he blew his trumpet in their ears.