Wasafiri

First time at the Port Authority
bus station I learned
a new sound
looking at a couple
who braved the untimely
chilly August wind
selling books, magazines
and city guides to
wasafiri

That's the word

I was one of the wasafiri
landing in this city
of million feet
and endless dreams

The man and the woman
their speech incoherent
syllables enmeshed
in long silences
they smiled between
the hair on the face
in high wind
his robe bellowed
her hijab threatened
to float off
still they stretched
their hands and -
no not begged -
offered words,
unpriced by lips

At the line of our
emotions converging
as warm hearths
of homes left behind
where the Manhattan
sun took a cold dip
I heard a prayer

For welcoming, sending
off and holding on
to our bosoms all that
a traveller holds dear

Faces of myriad colours
haloed hands of kindness
songs of easy serendipity

Wasafiri in a world
that lugged its bags
with us, counting words
as days notched on the wall

Two Gardens in Two Hemispheres

One place had a lotus pond, jasmines
That looked not as white as
The smile that brought solace
On my bihuwan's nights of shine.

This current one has bluebells
Or forget-me-nots that sway
In summer's generous way
Of rewarding their dovetails.

I used to name the taller trees
By their roots and fairy blooms
While picking flowers for my room
And quickly forgot about the breeze.

Now in this ornate little space
When frost alighted quick
Growing a chill brick by brick
I remembered season's pace.

Don't go nahor, kapou friends
Seven seas won't make you sigh
Although their waves will get by
Your nests near timid road bends.

All Souls Saved

The day splits open like a pumpkin
Orange and sunny

Seeds are birds
They peck on dark leftover clouds in the corners

Clouds or souls that pine to leave
With night, fog and disembodied leaves
Dropping one two three
From the great white oak on the lawn

That tree is still slender
Yet to grow in girth
Mimics the dreams and mysteries this day
May bring or night may savor -

Brief passion, eyes of amber, skin that sizzles
And masquerades to waltz with the wind
Singing: Maya, this is all Maya!

A crazy reveler who talks to the dead
In a tongue that lives, forever lives.

Another Evening

When they brought back their street
Carts of rainbow fare, they talked
In an even tone - one joked,
The other swore merrily. Both sprinkled
Water on the dusty street corner at busy SN Market
As they set up little plastic dolls, cheap
Household stuff, and a pile of scarves,
Also T-shirts that said: I love NY! Viva Che!
They told me they had stared this day
With prayers and flowers inside placid
Empty rooms or in front
Of tiny gods who smiled
While they both wept to think of
The day they didn't die.
Two years is a geological time
Span of dust and dirt mingling
Exactly after the horrible event
When cars burst and cycles tore
But because folks read about it
Long ago in newspapers
It was odd to see them both wipe
Their eyes with collars sooty black
Was it a blessing to be back?
To be in the place where memories rot?
One said he was having trouble
Without his wife, an empty home.
The other repeated with sighs how he
Never found on this spot his teenaged son.
It was the same street corner,
Where they had settled down again
With their day's job, enticing adamant
Kids and reluctant parents
To buy, from their friendly rainbow
Fare, even if folks didn't care much for
A plastic comb, balloons from their carts,
Pipe-horns, sunny hair clips, sundry things.
This is the only prayer now they sing
Without fail, remembering gratefully
That they didn't die from that terrible
Evening blast but returned like moss
Over grey stones after rains washed
Blood from wounds and sighs of loss.