Hiking
up
the
hill
on
a
sunny
afternoon,
the
salamander
saw
bodies
roll
by.
up
the
hill
on
a
sunny
afternoon,
the
salamander
saw
bodies
roll
by.
Friday, July 22, 2016
Prisoner Of The Mind
Rays march in through the window -
soldiers dancing in rehearsed patterns -
dust particles chime and giggle above,
the heat spreads through the room.
I close my eyes to an orange hue and disappear
into a frothing bubble of indulgence.
I force life into my razor-on-vein fantasy:
tall, dark, handsome, and intelligent - bonus!
The vein oozes fire, consuming the pieces
of memory stitched together to define his contours.
Your silhouette looms at the door,
familiarity dimmed by the greying light.
I squint hard at your darkness, reaching beyond
and run into his arms - my bonus.
Green Sonnet
When you listen to blue violin tunes,
When the bottle of wine is rim-lit gold,
When the bulbous glass glows red in the moon,
The book whispers a cold secret untold.
Basking in the warmth of a good story,
You head to the kitchen to fix a meal:
Some hot potato soup with celery,
Some spicy garlic bread to seal the deal.
When you light the candle, lay out the plate,
Ensconced in the Indian kitsch style chair,
Up leaps your cat on your lap for a taste
And swoosh goes the soup, flying in the air!
So much for soul-searching and time alone
When you could share friendship and grass homegrown!
When the bottle of wine is rim-lit gold,
When the bulbous glass glows red in the moon,
The book whispers a cold secret untold.
Basking in the warmth of a good story,
You head to the kitchen to fix a meal:
Some hot potato soup with celery,
Some spicy garlic bread to seal the deal.
When you light the candle, lay out the plate,
Ensconced in the Indian kitsch style chair,
Up leaps your cat on your lap for a taste
And swoosh goes the soup, flying in the air!
So much for soul-searching and time alone
When you could share friendship and grass homegrown!
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Colour Orange
I hold your tiny hand, free you of the guiding stick
and we walk along a bustling street of loud noises.
What is the colour orange? you ask.
It is the warmth that you and I feel when
the rising sun touches our pallid skin.
It is the sweet crunch of the carrots we
nibble on our afternoon walk from school.
It is the aroma that consumes the bakery
where we buy our Sunday morning cream-filled buns.
It is the purr of Batman when he settles in
our lap and silently watches the rain.
It is the tireless bond of the goodnight
kiss which keeps us strong for another day.
and we walk along a bustling street of loud noises.
What is the colour orange? you ask.
It is the warmth that you and I feel when
the rising sun touches our pallid skin.
It is the sweet crunch of the carrots we
nibble on our afternoon walk from school.
It is the aroma that consumes the bakery
where we buy our Sunday morning cream-filled buns.
It is the purr of Batman when he settles in
our lap and silently watches the rain.
It is the tireless bond of the goodnight
kiss which keeps us strong for another day.
Friday, July 01, 2016
Game rules
It started out as fun -
him and you giggling and nibbling ears, taking turns to pin each other down.
It got a little rough -
every time you showed a little strength; it was a game after all and you didn't mind.
It felt comforting to touch, to know intimately -
the lines of thought on his forehead,
the crow-feet around his eyes that rendered them grave,
the folds of skin that fell limp when he turned his neck,
the brown gums gaping through growing gaps in his tiny teeth and carrying gritty remnants of raw tobacco.
They were muddy, the waters -
you could see yourself and imagine your future, but it lacked depth.
You were probably just driftwood caught in the tempest.
You thought it romantic.
He couldn't tell his friends you both holed up together;
they wouldn't approve or understand, he said.
He couldn't tell his parents about you;
they were orthodox and wouldn't understand, he said.
He couldn't let his daughter see you when she visited;
she was too young and wouldn't understand, he said.
His ex-but not-yet-divorced-wife couldn't know you had sex and he couldn't get a divorce, and you didn't know that she didn't know. No, bizarrely, you just hold hands!
But let's start over, he said.
You understood, or thought you did. You believed him.
It was three years too late before you knew what it meant that he knew nothing about you -
not even the obvious marks of identification that you joyfully jotted down for your passport that carried his security signature,
not the strands that curled against the strands that waved and fell on his bare chest,
not the side of cheek that dipped, nor the side that didn't.
You had mistaken the obvious red flags for boyish forgetfulness, as obvious and as red as they were.
Once, outside the lofty bar, wrapping your arms around yourself against the Bangalore breeze,
you didn't want to be driftwood, you said.
He said it was PMS!
He put on his shining armour and dazzled you with a warm kiss on the forehead and a warm tummy rub.
It was a joke, he said. He made you laugh. He made everybody laugh, especially after a few Vodka-Bulls.
The joke was on you.
It had gotten rougher and it was now a sport, bordering on unfamiliar territory of psychological bend -
the tickling seemed unfriendly and the fondling of breasts, a purposeful patriarchal punishment.
You continued to laugh, until you couldn't -
for there was no shamed and battered male part to grope for a win.
him and you giggling and nibbling ears, taking turns to pin each other down.
It got a little rough -
every time you showed a little strength; it was a game after all and you didn't mind.
It felt comforting to touch, to know intimately -
the lines of thought on his forehead,
the crow-feet around his eyes that rendered them grave,
the folds of skin that fell limp when he turned his neck,
the brown gums gaping through growing gaps in his tiny teeth and carrying gritty remnants of raw tobacco.
They were muddy, the waters -
you could see yourself and imagine your future, but it lacked depth.
You were probably just driftwood caught in the tempest.
You thought it romantic.
He couldn't tell his friends you both holed up together;
they wouldn't approve or understand, he said.
He couldn't tell his parents about you;
they were orthodox and wouldn't understand, he said.
He couldn't let his daughter see you when she visited;
she was too young and wouldn't understand, he said.
His ex-but not-yet-divorced-wife couldn't know you had sex and he couldn't get a divorce, and you didn't know that she didn't know. No, bizarrely, you just hold hands!
But let's start over, he said.
You understood, or thought you did. You believed him.
It was three years too late before you knew what it meant that he knew nothing about you -
not even the obvious marks of identification that you joyfully jotted down for your passport that carried his security signature,
not the strands that curled against the strands that waved and fell on his bare chest,
not the side of cheek that dipped, nor the side that didn't.
You had mistaken the obvious red flags for boyish forgetfulness, as obvious and as red as they were.
Once, outside the lofty bar, wrapping your arms around yourself against the Bangalore breeze,
you didn't want to be driftwood, you said.
He said it was PMS!
He put on his shining armour and dazzled you with a warm kiss on the forehead and a warm tummy rub.
It was a joke, he said. He made you laugh. He made everybody laugh, especially after a few Vodka-Bulls.
The joke was on you.
It had gotten rougher and it was now a sport, bordering on unfamiliar territory of psychological bend -
the tickling seemed unfriendly and the fondling of breasts, a purposeful patriarchal punishment.
You continued to laugh, until you couldn't -
for there was no shamed and battered male part to grope for a win.
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