Friday, April 29, 2016

Yes

I am not Penelope
willingly
saying yes
to waiting in the wings
weaving my life
in tapestries
of soft-coloured threads
collected from
faded memories

I am not Molly
wondering
about saying yes
willing him to ask
--as well him as another--
so I could will myself
to say
yes I will Yes

I am my own Ulysses
wandering
veering
weathering
weary-ing
by will.
Yes.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

XY / XX

Here,
the difference between
XY and XX
is a chasm
unfathomable
un-bridged
between
wanting and having
desire and resignation
celebration and commiseration

Here,
in the depths of this chasm
a million
tiny fetus eyes
stare pebble-like
upwards
witness to
the difference between
God's grace and God's will

Here,
in small hamlets
on sheep-dotted hills
rolling away from the chasm
young men
live through hard winters
alone
wanting wives
where there are none to be had.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Woman-Sea













Tonight
this full-bosomed
Woman-sea
struts for the moon
as he teases her
shining brightly
white-ly
sending shivers of silver
on her body.

Tonight,
this full-lipped
Woman-sea
blows foam wisps
rising lightly
excited-ly
from waves reaching
higher and higher to kiss
her moon's cleft chin

Why?

"Why?"
"Because I said so!"
It would be years before she realized that wasn't a valid reason.
And now she was the one saying it.

She had become her mom.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Victim

This post is my way of saying that I will not forget the victims of man-created tragedies that have affected and will affect generations of human beings who did not ask to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Hiroshima, Chernobyl, Bhopal are all part of the same string and this song is for those who remain silent wayside victims of man's accidental atrocities against man.

I was a child
and every night
mother soothed my cries
with fairy tales
of princes and angels
and the good people in the heavens
and for my sleepless mind
she sang a lullabye
about my uncle, the moon.

I labored too, one day
and found in my arms
a lump of leftover flesh
from bodies charred
by history.

On sleepless nights
Sometimes
I rock my empty arms
and tell dark air
fairy tales
of princes and angels
and the good people in the heavens
and I sing the night
a lullabye
about its uncle, the moon.

Monday, April 25, 2016

UN-MOTHER

Squeezed into the shape of pain
emptiness is a weight
that fills my womb
And I
cramp and clench
every month
to see you
Unborn

Saturday, April 23, 2016

THE TERRORIST


I smell
sun-singed smoke
centuries stale
embalmed in psyches
cold and still
like dust
on marble statues.

Naked, trembling,
I roll into a ball
hide in night clouds
of petrified charcoal
and grow
a secret moon
to smile white fire
at the spire.

image from: poietes.wordpress.com

Friday, April 22, 2016

Sunset


I see the sky
tip the sun on its side
and pour leftover sunset
onto rippling waves

a thin layer of pink silk
glows lightly on
little wave heads
with molten gold crests

and when I touch the water
my fingertips
tingle with twilight

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Religion

You see that structure
in the horizon?
That’s where
everyday
a sun is killed
impaled by the spire.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Quicksilver: 55 Fiction



That windy fall night, he met me at my door.
He led me inside, took stock and decided to stay.
I enjoyed him all winter.
One spring evening, I let myself in and he let himself out.
I never saw him again.