The Poetry Marathon

hope for the best
that’s what everyone said
but how to hope in hope
when one is confused
and sans hope
when all i see is
the caterpillar me
and what i want
it s butterfly to be

i want to believe, lord
please help me sort my unbelief

Acknowledgement: ‘How to use your Healing Power’ by Dr Joseph Murphy

speaking of wounds
did you know
that you can
heal yourself

that you can heal
of wounds past
and present

that you can heal
from emotional
and physical hurts

through a simple
process as described
by the humble
yet great Dr Murphy

the body is designed
so beautifully
by the Creator
that it knows
to heal

in fact, that’s
the only thing
it knows best

we spend a lifetime
running after
healing for ourselves
for our loved ones

when all we have
to do is learn
how to use our innate
healing power

breathe and be one
with the Creator

i watch you,
hawk-eyed
though it is you
who’re preying
on my misery
i watch you
when i turn
this way or that
somehow
you’re always
in my field of vision
throwing
your head back
and laughing
at some silly
joke SHE’s told you
and i see
the vein
in your neck throb
my skin’s gone cold
mouth’s dry
you’ve forgotten
so easily?
which side of you
do i believe?
the one that
calls me
in secret
affirming
our bond?
or the hand that’s
clutching HERS
now?
it’s over, the spring
leaves, proud
in their green
tenderness,
say smugly to me
and something shardy
hurts so deep
i bleed
and my skin
erupts
the doctor’s verdict:
lichens planus
likely cause: extreme
emotional stress

to immerse
oneself
in nature
is to embrace
all insects
and accept that
making your
bed amongst them
is the surest way
to invite them
into your bed

to reach my island home
once you’ve alighted
from the ferry:
lift your nose
inhale deeply the crisp and tangy air
tilt your head
inhale again
does that stir memories?

walk to the minibus
parked beside
the squat red cement shed
that serves
as a shelter
against the elements
but not against mosquitoes
and myriad other insects
that descend at dusk

board the bus
choose a seat of your liking
they’re all hard
and not at all comfortable
but that doesn’t matter

the ride begins
and the green hits you
at eye level
interpersed
with dips of silvery blue
slivers on land
while large swathes
of white pock marked blue
colour the open spaces

don’t mind the rattle of the windows
or the clatter of your teeth and bones
the driver has a good track record
but better to hold
the handle of the seat ahead
in case of exigencies

the velocity of the bus
barely allows you to appreciate
the variety of bird life
at innocuous play
around the mangroves
surrounding the place

as the bus climbs small hills
speeds around bends
squeezes past other vehicles
on the narrow, winding road
you’re forced to admire
its agility

the bus heaves
past the last hill
overtaking the fat
woman with pendulous steps
it trundles across
a railway overbridge
the road narrows
like a school master’s
piercing gaze
as a vehicle approaches

you wonder
how the impasse
will resolve
and you’re witness to
the magical expansion
of the road that
lasts a few moments

you exhale
realising you had held
your breath all this while

you stand when
you sight the white
domed structure
towering above the trees
Candelaria chapel

clutching every possible aid
you yell to the driver
to stop
and stumble out
at your destination
thankful of the use
again of your legs

pistils curled upward
the flower awaits
the bee’s busy elsewhere

Batter-fry

Take one woman, docile
Add liberal doses of harsh treatment,
preferably, in the first few
months/years of marriage.
Harsh, how harsh?
Hmm, comments like,
late from work again,
flirting with your colleague,
didn’t your mother teach you anything,
housework first,
children first,
husband first,
the curry tastes awful,
iron my shirt,
come into the bedroom,
you get the point.
When raw and bleeding,
sprinkle generous comments
about a woman’s place,
her priorities in life,
her taste in clothes,
and her general sloppiness.
Now take a cauldron
and deposit the oil
of negative emotion into it.
Unjustified anger’s highly recommended.
Bring to boil.
Drop battered woman in.
Use slotted spoon of reason
to turn, remove when well-done.
No need to drain.

delicate veins
that throb no more
still calm in their
fragility
perfect poise
even in death
and dying

the exhausted mother
shut her eyes
her back was hurting
she didn’t have it in her
to tell her children
the regular bedtime story

just imagine, she said to them,
a beautiful garden
in front of your eyes
with flowers in bright
colours

and anima-
she sensed
a movement
in front of her

blinking
open her eyes
she saw her five-year old’s
head hover above her own
an anxious expression
on her child face
what’s the matter sweetheart,
she asked, concerned

mama, i’m looking
for the garden in your eyes
because there’s no garden
before my eyes

heart attack, the words
whispered from ear to ear
sounded horrible, cruel
condescending
all i wanted was to rush
into the room
where my father
lay hooked up
and hold him
close, tell him
he was safe
they were allowing
no one in
not even ma
why? did they know
about the fight
about the cruel words
did they know that
children’s hearts
flutter in fear
at such times
my heart is fluttering now
am I getting attacked too
by my own heart
I stand to call ma
but words don’t
leave my throat
I drop to the floor
many hands help me
moments later
or have hours
gone by
my eyes blink open
to see
both my parents
hover over me
what? i gasp
dada, how did you
what happened to me?
did i have a heart attack too?

dada smiles at me
ma does the same
their expression is
of genuine care
my surprise must have registered
it’s alright, dada says
we’re good, i’m good
you’re good
i didn’t have a heart attack
it was stress
and you didn’t have one either
you’d gone hungry too long
i sat up smelling something good
a tray with delicious soup
lay nearby
dada signaled to the nurse
and soon i was tucking in
relief trickles down my back
in gentle waves
all’s well that ends well