24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The whirring of the mixer.
The splatter of the batter
and into the baking tin,
then put into the hot oven.
As it cooks, the chocolaty aroma
permeats the kitchen of my Momma!
Everything is tasty that she bakes
But the best is her signature chocolate cakes.
Always a pleasurable childhood memory,
is the divine chocolate cake
of my Mummy!
Little three-year-old
All bundled up in warm clothes
Toddling down the pavement (more…)
Sweet like a flower
Pointed like a vine
One more would be a garden
And tightness like an overgrown tomb
Bleeding like a hanging pig
still wandering these wastes
sometimes forgetting what I’m searching for
everyone says they’re out there
in this bombed-out building
or just beyond that dune
underneath a steaming sewer grate
and sometimes their evidence
can be found in star arrangements
discarded newspaper text lining up to spell locations
absent ringing in the ears, footsteps from behind
and yet I’m still searching
my shirt is crimson
my pants are clay
and my shoes are filling.
I have always loved my birthday, June 21, the summer solstice, the longest period of daylight of the year. I have since met people who dislike it, because it marks the beginning of the waning of the light. Sheesh. It’s not as if the amount of light changes dramatically the next day. I once asked my mother how she managed to give her children such cool birthdays. My brother’s birthday is the same as our father’s. She said, “You know how I hate to wait around for things?” No, I never knew that about her. “Well, I asked to be induced.” Huh. I don’t know about her being impatient, but this does give me a quick glimpse of her as an expectant mother, doing all that she can to insure happy lives for her children.
sudden giddiness
spiralling up
with the thrush’s song
Green like grass
Purple like a heart
Orange like a jacket
Yellow like a sun
Red like a cherry
Blue like a sky
White like a daisy
Black like night
Hour Nine – Look in your cupboards and find a food that brings up a childhood memory, and the memory is your prompt
Beetnoon
Rummaging in my kitchen shelf for some ground black pepper
to sprinkle over my omelette
I upset the carefully casual collection of jars skulking at the back.
Abandoning hunger along with the staid egg,
I decide to tidy the shelf instead…
… when this whiff attacked me.
And became a time capsule to float me back to
My entire childhood.
My Indian childhood.
Of beetnoon or kaalanamak (black salt).
I don’t have an English name for you,
Oh, beloved half-forgotten magic potion.
I sprinkled you on everything.
On the healthy vegetables and daals, I was forced to eat.
On boiled potatoes and fried potatoes,
or the exotic potato wafers which came in packets.
A luxury. A rare treat.
The spicy, hot ‘n sour tang
hits the back of my nose now
just as it did fifty years ago.
My mouth fills with juicy anticipation.
Hunger returns.
I sprinkle beetnoon on my omelette
and savour the heat of childhood adventures
in the now cool foreignness of Scotland.
The feeling as you step out on your last day of school
Is amplified because the last few weeks of exams have been cruel
You feel relief, excitement and exhaustion all simultaneously
You are finally free
The stress evaporates in thin air
And now for the holidays you can prepare
Prepare to do nothing yet everything you desire
From the world you must retire
Stay up late and wake up late
Just enjoy the time of your relaxed state
So have fun and let your hair down
Its time to get rid of your frown
I am an aurora.
I am a rainbow.
I am a black light, a white light.
I am a galaxy.
Just trying to be me no matter what.
the humble watermelon
red and juicy in its plumpness
bought in abundance by my father
because I was fond of it
brings alive his love and warmth,
recites my parents’ endearing touch
and their wishes of seeing me flourish
nurturing and nourishing
extravagance and luxury
we will cut it into slices early
Sunday morning looking at each other
smiling and laughing
with newspapers spread on the table
to catch the sweet red drops if they may fall
to not ruin the sofa
to not invite an army of ants
a tender moment
separate from the rush
of never ceasing, pausing, ebbing flow of life