THE ONSET OF THE MONSOON

With the nervous excitement
of a bride on her wedding day,
the parched Earth prepares herself
for the shower of blessings coming her way.

Woven with the fierce fabric of the monsoon,
her dress she will begin to drape,
as these arid lands will be enlivened soon,
for from the coming storm there is no escape.

With a thunderous beat, it comes, lightning quick,
the sweet ocean winds are its wings,
it brings cheer to the summer-sick,
while the joyful farmer sings.

Drenched, in delight the willows weep,
and children cry with laughter and mirth,
as shepherds try to gather their sheep,
even birdsong, once dry, is now alive like the Earth.

MORKANT, THE MAGNIFICENT

A little ant was climbing a wall
That was built behind a waterfall;
Said a friendly fly, buzzing nearby,
“Abandon your journey or you will die!

For the waters are deep
And the wall is steep,
And over its rocky surface
The most terrible creatures creep.

Stronger and faster than you is man,
With his superior intellect, even he can
At best, climb it in a day;
So you will never, I say.”

But the ant was determined, you see,
And so, kept his mind completely free;
Of those words of anxiety, fear and dread,
Which touched him like hair on a bald man’s head!

A strong breeze, and the fly was gone;
And soon went many a night and dawn.
The ant soldiered on, an honest trier,
Slowly climbing higher and higher.

Neither rocks nor rain could halt his gain,
His steady ascent not hindered by pain.

At first, he hid in crevices from beast and bird,
And he moved too quietly to ever be heard;
But as he went on, no hostile creature came his way,
A miracle which repeated itself night and day.

And the day came, when, at last, the wall was scaled,
And by one and all the ant was hailed;
For Morkant, The Magnificent, had been reached,
A kingdom of ants by beauty besieged.

All the little ant could do was stand and stare,
For here was a sight with which none could compare;

There were anthills, so beautiful, carved like palaces in the sand,
Made by talented ant-architects from many a distant land.
There were colossal statues of the ant-kings of old,
Proud sentinels of the past, embellished with silver and gold;
More splendid than the stars by night they seemed,
With vivacious warmth in sunlight they gleamed.

Daisies and daffodils danced in the sweet-smelling air,
As impish winds pranced through gardens fair;
They tickled him, till he could do naught but smile,
Lessening his weariness with every passing mile.

And there was food and ant-wine and song,
Though songs in antish are far too long!
Of what stories they speak I cannot tell,
For I’m afraid I don’t speak antish very well.

But one day, I’m sure, the little ant’s tale will be sung,
By older and younger antlings of every rung;
And maybe, someday, even by men, knowledgeable and erudite;
For there is much to be learnt even from those of seemingly little might.

-Written in 2005