My old man is pretty,
And he loves his flowers.
Flowers adorn our house like a -
Crown, heads an empire.

Sunflowers with their chirpy,
Bright heads.
Roses giving their sweet smiling
Faces.
Gooldaudis standing tall and elegant
Like Maharanis of Old Jaipur.
Bougainvilleans blossoming in the
Balcony, dancing and initiating
Conversations, with the passing wind.
Marigolds giving off a sweet whiff,
Making the south-west monsoon
Weather better and oriental.

The ol' man is content.
He finally put together his flowers,
Assorting them carefully in a -
Bouquet.
He stands there,
Viewing the vase from all angels,
Making sure everything is perfect.
"Ha! I finally put my flowers in a vase.
It was nagging me - to see the those
Beauties lying there, their heads low
As if, they're mourning.
I'm glad the nagging is over.
Being sick is no fun!". He says,
Now venturing in his room to read
The articles.

I walk into his room &
See that he's at his usual :
Reading newspapers, with a cigarette
In hand.
As I walk in, he peers up to see what I
Want.
"Papa look here", I say.
"What do you want?! I'm tired, I don't
Have energy to talk.
I feel feverish, will take medicine
Tomorrow - no medicine on alcohol". He says or rather rambles.

I study him like a
Painter studying his subject,
Before painting.
Those beautiful - hooded eyes are
Downcast, staring onto the paper.
His hair is oiled,
His cheek unshaved.
"What do you want?" he asks.
"Nothing just came to study you -
The poem, you know".
"You're mad", he says ; with a
Dramatic expression - his hand on
His forehead, reminding me of
Indian maidens in paintings.
I smile and leave the room,
Now In my palace of study ,
As I'd like to call it.

The old man is never still.
Always doing something,
Flocking from one place to another
Like a bird,
Making sure everything is perfect.

The old man today, while doing his
Flowers, said to me :
" You know, I was so mad, I couldn't
Do my flowers due to sickness.
I was so very mad!" he says, like a
Small child.
"Now they're perfect. Just look at
Them!". He's pleased with his work.
I remind him of what he said,
Something that striked me at that
Moment and stayed with me.
"But papa, you said nothing is perfect"
So, isn't this is ironical?
"My dear child, when I said that -
I wasn't talking about people -
But work.
Human qualities cannot be perfect,
But your work can be".

My old man with his deep-sea voice
Sings like a captivating siren.
His double - hooded eyes, never miss
A thing.
They're critical & always hit the bull's
Eye.
His dark chestnut eyes, remind me of
A tranquil, foggy forest -
Full of life and shelter.
His voice drips of honey,
His tone changes from honey to
Sea to ocean - reef.

He's a warm - sunlit room,
Full of life and comfort.
Those eyes have seen so much more
Than they say,
The unspoken words, keep on floating
In and around the orbs.

He's funny.
He's so lively - in truth, he can bring
Dead flowers back to life.

My ol' man loves his flowers, his
Pan-Supari, his newspapers, his mom
& a good meal.

He loves watching Bougainvilleans
Grow.
Gets upset like a toddler, when his
Flowers aren't blossoming.
My ol' grumpy, fauji man is sweater
Than Rasgullas!
His voice is deeper than sea -
Will put moon to sleep.
His captivating, chestnut orbs will
Keep you safe.
His face will make you smile,
He'll light your life up like the Sun.

My old man is a Banyan Tree,
Providing shelter to everyone.
My ol' man is the reincarnation of
Sun, he keeps this plant going.

He makes my life blossom like
Gulmohar Trees.

My old man and his flowers are
Divergent.

Long and unedited.

Update : this poem got 2nd place in the celestialbloodlitmag #5 poetry contest. So so happy!! This is a big achievement. Thank you for selecting my poem.

Name series pt 4

- Ridhima Joshi.