The bee-eater

A tiny bee-eater on a tiny yellow flower

Is the sole actor in that predawn theater.

Unused, yet to the morning's  sounds:

The noise of roads, the barks of hounds, 

He is the single toiling king; 

O! the prettiest thing 

That eye has seen

Awakened

Just.

The first

Chirp draws the eye seeking

To spot the cupid at his station

From where he shoots his arrow

Shattering the quiet of the morrow; 

Then the bough shakes

The' I' wakes

and makes

The hand write in sorrow

Of the briefest brevity of beauty-

The momentary glimpse of Divinity

Manifest in that tiny flower

And its tiny lover, the Bee-eater.

I am no Sisyphus

I am no Sisyphus but I,too, roll a stone;

 Laugh, and keep abreast of my time, 

Long for myself alone.

No quaint notion of punishment

To haunt: I am in because I want

to be in, period!

Daddy did not by force drag me

To my mentors, my million teachers;

I went hunting

For easy rabbits but found Lion-

a solitary, single, beautiful  lion

And I stayed.

***

My scabs are not counted.

New bleeding wounds,

 New gashes -

even scratches

Are the new password

To the old club 

With an over-painted 

facade.

***

Why does it feel odd

To enter this familiar house?

May be the walls 

Are painted anew,

A roof shade added, 

Perhaps a few flowers, new,

Influence my outlook

But I am the same.

Sure, I am the same.

Two prose-aches

Like you or him or her and her,

Through life's fare I saunter

Looking to make a purchase:

Now liking, now not, this colour,

That colour or that texture.

***

 It takes more

Than a couple of balls

To revolt.

But why? Why?

Revolt at all:

There! have some green salad.

And Oh! there is crème caramel

 ***