James Ki Wadi

But for an occasional boozy debate-

silently the men drank in an old hut.

The thirsts of the guzzlers did not abate

with their dreamy eyes and the souls half shut.

Here a pond rippled amidst the tall trees,

and in the cool grass the dogs lazed away.

Here the toads croaked with bellies full of fleas,

and watched these puffy eyed men drool and sway.

This place terrified us when we were kids

though the scary looking men were not mean.

We scrambled away from their stares and hid,

unaware that they were not as they seemed.

Little did we know that with hours to spare-

we would do the same one far day somewhere.

Saturdays

Tele blazes the background,

ticktack go vegetables.

Ice in whiskey swirl around,

old legs sigh on a table.

Their smiles reflect the warm souls,

and gossips spice up the air.

On streets of our past we stroll-

photos, memoirs everywhere.

How old yet fresh are these lanes-

I wish to be here again.