Down hill roll

Do I feel or do I get stoned?
Do I appreciate or do I mock?
Should the warmth be my creation?
Or should I just play plain?
My honesty is welcoming
My smile is endearing
But sometimes the rocks appear on my bed
They are heavy. But they are pretty too.
They are my source of strength. Huhh!
o~ the outward strength on z-axis.
Ask me about the Aurora Borealis,
I will fix you a bread and olive oil
Put me in a dancing machine
I will read my thighs, palms and bare feet
Play is all I know. The game of filth.
Around the lesser mortal and the lesser mortals.

It's I

It's I and you know I will be there.
You don't have to ask me
I understand your troubles
I'm moved not by your sorrow but by the strength you show
You surely need me. I can see it in your eyes.
I'm your mother
I'm your dearest friend
I'm love which smiles at your silliness
I'm peace which waits for you
I'm your comfort
I'll caress your hair
I'll hold you close to my breast
I'll hug you to sleep
I'll kiss you good night
And watch you dream peacefully
My child....
I'll be there no matter what!

Guest at my own home

As I stood at the main gate of my building watching the procession of Ganapati Bappa on 7th day of the festival of devotion, my smile did not, for even a second, feel shy of the large crowd of young boys dancing, playing dhol and taal, the elder ones managing the crowd and traffic, ladies praying for the last time to Bappa who was being taken to lake for visarjan in grandiose trucks adorned with flowers, leaves, balloons  and all the fancy glittering items. There. The kid in me sprang with enthusiasm with every handful of gulaal being thrown in the air toward the dark evening sky. My unwillingness to go back home, where my mom and sister were warmly playing hosts to the guests, was the evidence of my joyous emotions. I stood right there in the center of the widely opened main-gate watching the dance, listening to those loud percussion instruments being played, wondering how I used to do the same when I was a kid and staring at those orange flags, those symbols of a culture, fight and pride. I stood there firmly as if I were reassuring myself of my roots and identity. Although I resonate the most with that vibrant festival where nobody feels shy of shouting "Ganpati Bappa, Moryaa!" there still is a sense of disconnectedness. This yearly ritual is like a mini year in itself! I had missed it for 3 consecutive years. Even when I am not here, the festival continues to be celebrated with equal pomp and show. Every five years new faces will be added to the procession dance, the regular ones will be seen -- with fat necks, cheeks and tummies, -- managing the crowds, while only few of the older crowd will be seen standing and moving slowly along with the procession and I will be unaware of all of it.....From a sincere devotee to a mere spectator, I wonder if this relegation is experienced by others as well.