May blossoms everywhere
pink and bruised.
a full, bulbous heart.
torn,
trampled pulp of
fleshy petals on the sidewalk
bleeding into
the thick veins
of summer’s gleaming cobalt.
watering the day
with the
timbre of another lie.
night buzz and
stagnant warmth, hung
a secret laden
with humid pain
and his laugh.
vacant sorrow that
laid a stone with
belief.
May’s tale is
May’s shame.
My eyes lay burning
Buried in the sockets leading to
synapses of a thousand other sisters
like me.
We smell of garlic, laundry and tears
of our children, parents and friends.
And yet you won’t shy away your chance from us.
It takes a long, deep breath,
(even more than that),
to summate how we still claw through the mud
with our small fingernails (thrice harder than you)
to reach our graves and yet find a shallower one.
My hands are wrinkled and scarred,
like a thousand other sisters of mine.
From the history of meals we have cooked and served to
tender caresses for the aching heart we have given.
We become your wives, and safeguard your souls
from lack, lax and lassitude
Metaphorically becoming the pole on which you
pitch your tent.
Home, hearth, warmth and light we bring,
Thunder, lightning and rainstorms too.
You call us a misery and
Still pine for this agony
in every sleepless night and dreaming day,
Oh yes, you do! (You know that)
My waist is no longer mine,
And a thousand other sisters would echo too.
Bearing your blood, giving birth to your time
A life to your dreams, the hope in your joy
Nurturing while we run on nothing, giving while we get emptied
And it is a testament of happiness to us.
Lines and scars and loose skin but a souvenir of
A promise we once made for you.
Until you move to a new land with fresh perspectives
and similar but parched promises.
My voice is no longer mine,
And a thousand other sisters will agree too.
Because you sound loud and wish to keep it that way
And we know even though you talk
We will be walking your plans (or over them)
To oil the cogwheels
For the world to run and have a peaceful
night of sleep,
Just like how we tuck you and your children to bed
Safe and sound with a night full of relieved snores,
While we close our eyes the last
And open them the first, letting them burn
To light another day of our lives.
I just have these three words to aid me- Grief like Sunset. Let me see where it leads me.
Like this path I stumbled up on and chose to explore throwing caution to the wind.
Like every other story of mine.
Avoiding the synchronicity that comes with the monotone of life.
Holding my head up high to salute the sun in his eye
When really, I am as short as the stump of a bush people piss on,
Cut down a while back.
I jump across the puddles and with slight vexation avoid the ‘Danger-Flood!’ signs
Because it is oceans I have to swim in my life and valleys I have to leap over
And my tiny misshapen legs ought to have the might that they show.
If I have to live to have another bleak chance at a most beautiful day
That may elude and escape through all the misery and mockery present otherwise,
In this little harangue called my life.
Where rejections and declines may rule the pages of my book
But the pen to end my griefs as beautiful as the sunset
Is still being wielded by my proud little hands.
The End.
The silver of dawn’s sword
has slit through the
thick, black shroud of
the armourless knight’s
fog and facade.
The orange flames of
a new sunrise has
set aflame to the
past love of all
of yesterday’s and
the nights before them.
Birds soaring up high
sing melodies of a
new day and a promised
better tomorrow,
while the world is
being held up high
against the backdrop of
mourning silhouettes of
trees and their barren fangs
in the dead of
January.
In this interlace
Between the branches
Of a hundred deserted trees
Where the light chose
To shine into
Their deep marsh
Underbelly of unknown.
Here life has arrived again
Into another year,
Into her,
As she learnt to
Melt into time
And smile from
Within her heart-
The warmth for her winter.
At this oddity called
Time.
Love lies in..
every gossamered
corner of
objects
and memories,
once owned.
Shadows
of yesterday
you thought
you overlooked.
Veins touched
by the soft glow
of an evening
longing for
impossibilities.
Wine half drunk
brooding into
the dissection
of maybes’.
Eyes that never
met to spill
volumes of
if onlys’.
Sighs dissipated
as cold smoke
into the wind
and fire
of tomorrow.
I share a poem with you, about me and my son. As always accompanied by a landscape picture which is lodged in my heart as a moment forever.
Oh sweet heart
who’s love
carries the curse of
wilted roses.
Too beautiful to be thrown.
Too spent, to be kept.
Too joyous to ignore.
Too heartbroken to be owned.
There is a reason why everything happens.
A reason why you are born.
A reason for why you were born on the day you were born.
A reason for the home or street that brings you up.
A reason for your existence.
One for the way you are.
And the unavoidable one for how your life turns out to be.
Every emotion, every thought, every act, every word- spoken or not, is accounted for with a reason not always known to the limited consciousness of our human minds.
Like all these rivulets, we are pooled into nothing but the sea of humanity.
And then all these reasons, at an uncalled vertex of moment, will flood into your awareness of making any sense at all with vague words for explanation.
Why they were always there in the beginning.
And why they will always be there till the end.
Nothing is a coincidence, and yet everything is.
Recently, an image uploaded by NASA Hubble’s Instagram page (picture included), inspired me a lot to write a few verses about Supernova, and the delectable idea of comparing these violently exploding stars to illuminaries who burn and fizzle out due to the incredibility of their astounding ingenuity only to borderline into collapsible madness, spurred my imagination to write a few humble verses on this analogy.
Hope you like it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Love and more,
V
wantonink.com 