CHARCOAL CHECKERBOARD

Four compartments, each divided further

Perfect squares of dual colour

reflecting need, held within sight

of everything Black and White

The board and its boundaries, definite

holding combinations unwrit

sometimes slanted, sometimes linear

doors that spin between joy and fear

giving Life both muddy and clear

in equal measure, unveiling hidden treasure

when least expected

This checkerboard of charcoal

carbon dated, bubbling, struggling to evade

The grey lines of demarcation, separation

Of the Black from the White

Symmetry, Order,  The day following night

Boring routine of antagonistic pieces

Sans thrill but providing stability, to the firmament

This checkerboard lies within a castle

guarded by watchtowers, 
expansive twins holding life's breath, 
Around the charcoal expanding

feeding a fire while contracting.

Bellows sustaining a flutter, a spike,

a beat, sent out to meet an uncertain future

The charcoal checkerboard

is drawn on many times by many hands

leaving behind scars after each erasure

some withered, some defiant, some steadfast

unmindful of the sweeping stroke of the artists brush

Lines trampled by bits of floating memory

Ghosts gathering to reminisce a reverie

Drowned by a deluge of closeted tears

That carry them over uneven cobblestones

to a stormwater drain set in the corner

which collects hailstones during stormy weather

My Charcoal Checkerboard

Nailed down to four corners

Displaying the beginning and the end

Players cast their tokens, taking a gamble

A chance, plunging into my vortex center

Swirling, Struggling to gain control

Bouncing like rag dolls trapped in a spin cycle

Players stand by the edge, throwing stones

in hope that a ripple will advance into an avalanche

Shadows trapped in the folds of history

pop from their patient penitence at midnight

to colour the present with their crayons

Four compartments filled and emptied

By years of ebbs and swells and tidal changes

Subduing covert tendrils with protective indifference

unfurling hesitating, revealing little

disguising the dark side of the moss grown pavement

Hiding steadfast its scarred permanence

patiently accepting the unknown

with the fallen grace of an unbeliever

Smitten, Forgotten, Smote, Rewrote

Its pillars straining with cloistered burden

Singing quietly, Faded, Jaded

Melodies from Memories

- from the exercise two words in verse, A game of tigers and sheep - Arun Kolatkar