The Poetry Marathon

I did not see, I did not see the cloud you carried

upon your head covered by the vines

or the Periwinkle twinkling against your dark curls

as you followed the beat of the drummer

that asked to be fed.

I failed you, I failed you, my friend,

I could not keep you safe

from the needle that spread its poison

deep within your veins as you followed

that drummer in your head.

If I could, if I could turn back time

I would wait by the storefront

where we first met and smile into your eyes

and mute the drumbeats of the drummer

that has left you for dead.

You took away the bright colours
that day when you left,
along with rest and ease
slyly while I slept.
So my nights are black and blue
and grey, loads of grey
that even moonlight
wears a long black veil.
Black and blue
And black mixed in tired grey.

So today I got a box of paints
And waited…
When I thought I was ready

for the vibrant colours
to streak back into my life
I said the magic words
I dipped the brush
in startling vermillion hues.

I spattered paint on my canvas,
It came away blue.

If I look hard enough

I see you

striding along the path

your denim shorts and white shirt

striking among a sea

of walkers.

As your pace quickens,

I fall behind

till you come back around.

I toy with a stone

watch the crows

flapping about.

The early birds eats the worm,

isn’t that what you told me?

Coming back to where I was, or am now,

waiting for you to come around

and call out,

I wonder if your skies

are just as blue

or as colourless, or grey

or as smog-ridden

on a winter’s day?

Does the bougainvillea

sweep the pond,

do cold morning drafts

rustle your thoughts?

Early birds and all that jazz, you used to say.

I wonder who is eating the worm.

This is not a story about Ram
it never was,
though he played
a two bit role
which pandered
to his vanity
and you are forgiven
for thinking it is.

This is a story of a woman
born of the Earth
sold
to the strength
which she made
her home.
Abducted
taunted
jeered at
haunted
by her captors
by strangers
by the common man
she endured
the jeers
the lecherous
leers
and never complained….

only to crumple
at the accusation
of doubt
in the eyes
of the father of her children
the man she loved.

We cremated my uncle the other day

Actually we left the body and walked away

As the cadaver waited in queue.

There was a young girl my daughter’s age

Who died gasping for breath, her mother

Waiting soundlessly, was given the body instead.

The shoe-shine boy who made a living

Polishing our court shoes has disappeared.

The pandemic took him too.

You can hear the wails of the hopeless

The tide has come in and the water is poison

And shapeless things float to shore

They say masks are now mandatory

Keep sanitising your hands, get the vaccine

Stay safe and keep your distance

How do we distance ourselves from the deaths

The masks that our voices now have to wear

Is this now the normal, the common-place?

Is this the future of the human race?

If someone wrote a poem about me,

what would the lines say?

Here is a woman who happens along

every evening. Would they see

the children on my hands,

the dogs in the swing of my arms?

The limp I carry as I drag one foot

just a little bit? The men I have kissed

The lives I turned away from,

the battles I have fought

and sometimes lost?

The lines I’ve earned upon my soul?

The song that hums in my head?

Or would they like me,

just raise a hand in passing

smiling. Not thinking, about yet another

woman who puts one foot in front of the other

and carries on.

“Possibly with a blank sheet of paper enclosed, by way of explanation.” Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters by J.D.Salinger.

Past where the moon pins the sky

clamber aboard a running tram

let us go then, you and I

past the bleating of the lamb

clamber aboard a running tram

you keep the lighter in your pocket

past the bleating of the lamb

your cigarette glow for now is quiet

“I have no tears left”, I say

Your cigarette glow, for now is quiet

Your smile falters as you look away.

“I have no tears left,” I say

“Nothing left of myself to give.”

Nothing left of myself to give,

Nothing left of myself to give

This old heart spawns no relief.

How many worlds do you inhabit?

How many suns light your day?

Where do you go when your soul needs healing,

How many moons illuminate your way?

I thought I had a life once, one true

And strong, where work kept me afloat

But then came the children, the songs,

The sketches to rock the boat.

I live in many lives, parallel and fleeting

Filled with the laughter of my children

When my little family assembles

Nowhere is better than my then.

But sometimes I hide deep inside,

In places where light dares not roam

I cross into rows upon rows of seats

Inhabited by the dead I own

But I know I will always return

To my worlds and pick up the shells

And stop to wonder, are these lives mere dreams,

Or reflections reflecting upon themselves?