Her Life

She hides behind her drink in a gathering,
Casting shy glances at laughing faces,
She may have known in her youth,
The era when sleeveless blouse,
Hung on slim arms,
Waist squeezed tight in flares, bell-botts,
Hair piled high or gathered to the side,
Pictures clicked in black & white,
There was a man by her side.

He eyed her from across the room,
Always watching what she was up to,
Her laugh rang out loud,
A woman much loved and cherished,
Now, she sits in a corner,
Graceful,
Hesitant,
Exchanging hello’s, funny stories from before,
When he was alive.

She reminisces them all,
A little envious to watch his friends and their wives,
Savouring their retired lives,
For her every day is a struggle,
No one asks,
If she has taken her medicine,
If her swollen feet are better now,
The body is fine but the heart aches.

Thirty-two years of togetherness,
Now seem a waste,
He should have been here,
He isn’t...
So much has come to pass,
Age hasn’t made her any less vulnerable,
The life of a widow is all about time,
Plenty of it, mostly lonely,
Till she fades away...soon, she often hopes.

As I Am

I am beginning to unravel my flaws,
To despise them a little less than yesterday,
To know in the scheme of things,
The flaws are intrinsic, nature’s way,
The water won’t cleanse them,
The hands will remain soiled,
And that is how I will know,
I have arrived, with a pair of dirty hands,
Kneeling by His side,
Singing in His name,
Thank you God,
I am utterly, truly yours…flawed as I am

I Live Here

If your heart dies on me,
What use would this beautiful scenery be?
I reminisce,
I scheme, plot and plan,
Yet,the hurt that pulsates in you,
Is my undoing too,
Forgive me,
For this house you find yourself in,
Isn’t how I had thought it would be,
For a long time I have been scared for me,
You, are a recent worry,
A nagging one,
I chew my nails and bite the inside of my cheek,
Wondering, how callously I sold you this dream,
Well, hollow is our new address,
I live here,
You do, too.

Cunning

Cunning of the human mind,
Shrinks from a night of grief,
Smells fear and laments for relief.

The old, the new and the fake reality,
One by one are toyed with,
Resilience trembles in its boots,
‘To sell or be sold cheap’,
Surely, an old pick-up line of the lone wolf,
His gut sniffs out exits in the jungle,
And safely steers home,
Back in the rut, comfortable and sound,
Sleep remains a million miles.

A bargain is struck,
A toothy grin exchanged between,
The scared and the exposed,
Lies flow, camouflaged, of course,
Yet, can cunning win always,
Isn’t affection a high price to pay,
For a luxury you can afford?

As You Are

Am I worthy of you?
I hope not,
For without a dip in the river of failings,
How will I know that I am at your door?
Is that why no one answers, when I knock?

You hide,
Well, hide all you like,
The fire burns,
It longs to go back to its source,
Reconcile,
Lost, striving to be found.

Each day I am worth a little more than yesterday,
I am you,
In parts,a whole,
Godly as you are.

Hunger

The house stands abandoned,
Amidst the tall grass burnt copper by the Sun,
The tin roof deflects light,
On to the weary travellers path,
The tap runs dry,
The road, long and dusty,
For miles no cattle grazing the land,
No trees offering the comfort of strong arms,
Fear of the unknown fills the air damp,
Ravenous eyes roam the wilderness,
The stomach growls loud,
Raw meat burns the intestine,
Hunger remains unsated,
The wanderer has come far...

A Good Looking Woman Is to Blame

She said to me,
“I have never seen anyone so scared to dance.”
“Pardon me, but it isn’t the dance,
It’s the men on the stage who frighten me.”

She is viewed as an object,
Labelled and tagged as eye candy,
Independent, married or single,
Women never have it easy.

The smart, educated man is everywhere,
On the streets, in a crowded place, at work, at parties,
Young, old, middle-aged,
They all have their stories straight,
In the twenties, he is brash,
God’s greatest gift to gals,
In his thirties, there is plenty of charm,
A woman he flaunts as his wife,
And a fling alongside,
In his forties, life’s a tad dull,
He gets by, though,
Eyeing the oh, so lovely woman at the bar,
In the fifties, he fuels the rumour mill,
‘Oh, young ladies like that are the biggest whores’,
I hear the old man has two daughters of his own...

Hey, but you can’t really blame him,
Its his psyche,
Corrupted, degenerate,
We give him birth, our flesh, our blood,
Yet, we fail to instil,
A little respect,
To let him know, “Cast your eyes low,
And should you raise them to our face,
Let there be only appreciation and praise,
And no trace of the ugly testosterone raising its horn.

He needs to be educated,
But ‘We’ need to educate,
He is inferior to that degree,
Because only we have the gift to create,
To nurture a sapling into a tree.

The Wedding

I first saw him at a wedding,
Nothing to suggest, he had even noticed me,
But I did,
The way he waved his hands around,
To the way he moved his lips,
The pride with which he spoke of her,
Oh, nearly made me jealous,
I wish I could change places.

It’s been a while; I have seen love in a man’s eyes,
I can’t get enough of him,
The broad forehead,
The cutely droopy mouche,
The big glass that covers half his face,
I noticed he has grey in his hair,
Well, he has a wife and two daughters,
But what do I care,
I am happy watching from a distance,
Watching,
How much he resembles my dad,
The seriousness with which he attends to his guests,
The humility with which he folds his hands,
He seems to be running everywhere,
Purposeful,
But don’t I know
The tears will come,
Much later...

Wistfully, I look his way, wanting to talk,
Maybe, recreate what I had lost,
But he’s busy with the preparations,
There is much to do,
It’s his daughter’s wedding that I attend.

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow...

She was pretty once,
Deep set eyes, the chiselled nose,
Pointed chin, lovely as a rose,
But that’s not the first thing you noticed about her,
They fell at her hip,
Swaying when she swayed,
A curtain of darkness against her dusky skin,
Plaited in summer,
In winter they were free,
Ogled, envied,
Charmed, where ever they went,
Such was the grandeur of her silky hair.

Oh, care she took of the crowning glory
The hot oil massaged the scalp,
Grandma’s long brush strokes gave them life,
She ate well,
Knowing, nourishment flows to the root,
Every day like a prayer,
The water that cleansed her soul,
Also cleansed her hair.

On her journey from a girl to a woman,
Every season,
They were grazed, chopped, experimented upon,
Colours, chemicals, commuting and pollution,
Work, stress and not to forget men,
Finally took the sheen off...

Adulthood comes at a heavy cost.
The beautiful face still stares back,
The deep set eyes, the chiselled nose,
But that’s not the first thing you notice about her,
They were ‘hair’ yesterday.

In desperation, she tries them all,
The fake TV ads, the false promise of attractive bottles,
But none soothe the frayed strands,
Lies are sold at a high price,
And then,
And then she stumbled upon Dove,
Nursed to life,
They now frame her face,
That’s the first thing you notice about her,
In Dove, at last, she has found true love...

Weak-kneed

One must break down, completely
To put the pieces back,
Be cornered from all sides,
And surrender under attack,
Because those who are sane,
Maybe living an illusion,
Those who are honest,
Perhaps, a little lost themselves,
How deeply have they been hurt?
Is difficult to gauge...

Life is like that,
Our greatest lessons are learnt,
From the people we admire,
In times when they may not be at their best,
For humans are a bundle of emotions,
Not a series of right or wrong,
To be loved for what they are,
And not what we expect of them...

Peace is right under your nose,
And you can grab it with both your hands,
Provided you open your heart long enough,
To acommodate all those you can,
And not be to proud of your doings,
Or others lack of it,
But humility be your cloak,
When the weak-kneed falter and you give them your hand

Passing Thoughts

There’s a secret doorway,
Through which they float in every night,
Like the moths chasing the light,
Dying, falling to the ground,
Morbid,
Sepia,
They have no texture,
Though, a certain brooding quality,
Brings them to life...
Thoughts, millions of them,
Passing, entangled,
Real, only in the confines of the mind,
They overwhelm the dark,
Insane
These strange thoughts, night after night.