Look at this big, beautiful body

Look at this big, beautiful body.

Arms big enough to hold all love,

Soft, curvy body built for endurance.

Strong legs for life's long journey.

This body is so much more than a shape.

Look again - what do you see?

The Anatomy of Loss

How do you grieve, my dear?
I tried to freeze the nerves,
to shutter every window
until the ache ran dry.

How do you grieve, my dear?
I turned the blade inward,
then outward -
wounding the very hands
that reached out to hold mine.

How do you grieve, my dear?
I let the memory of warmth go cold.
I unlearned the language of light
until I forgot that love
was ever a place I lived.

How do you grieve, my dear?
I am a riot of ghosts;
I dance, I howl, I laugh
until the sound turns into a scream
and the scream turns into a prayer.

How do you grieve, my dear?
I poisoned the garden to kill the weeds.
I tried to logic pain
only to find that grief
is the only thing left alive.

Rain, here and there

 
The city rain blurs my window,
as I sit caged at work -

Back home, the rain fell different:
still wet, still damp, but alive -
the downpour's song, my mother's voice,
steam curling from our tea -
a warmth that sustains memory.

Same rain, same ache,
but only one place taught the sky
how to feel like home.

Showpiece

the yellow china sets
in my mother's shelf
locked behind glass
not used. not dusted.
just there - to say:
we have this.

I too - the lone foreign face
in a strange town
paraded, trophied,
a token of kindness,
just a showpiece.

years press cracks
into porcelain skin
dust settles, smiles fade
still here, displayed,
never touched, never belonged.

#poem #minority

Rest Is Resistance

They auction your exhaustion,
call it hustle -
but your pulse is a protest song
they cannot copyright.

Let your spine unspool like a ribbon.
Let your thoughts dissolve like sugar
in the tea you sip, unhurried,
while the world screams more.

"Rest is the new productivity" -
lie of the century.
Rest is the end of productivity.
That’s the point.

The most radical thing you’ll ever do?
Nap with the fury of a stopped clock.

#poem

A prayer for a friend

In a quiet corner of the old church,

where shadows flicker on timeworn stones,
I cast a weave of whispered prayers for you,
A tapestry of pleas and wishes; weaving
a guardian angel to watch over you.

Each delicate silky thread of prayers,
Woven with countless hopes and wishes,
Forms an armor of protective shield,
May they protect and rejuvenate you,
Like a miracle conspired by the universe.

With each whispered prayer, our wishes take flight,
For health renewed and strength returned.
Our prayers, a heavenly manifestation,
Brighter days await you tomorrow.
Get well soon, my dear friend.

Rebellion in Pajamas

Dawn tiptoes and peeks through the curtains,
And my alarm blares "Rise and shine, for
Life awaits beyond the comfort of your bed!"
Yet my leaden body bed me down like an anchor,
As I wonder, should I rise or should I starve?
And why must I merely survive, when I can live?

Uncomfortably, I linger in slumber's embrace,
While reality waits, tapping its impatient foot.
My body, oh, it's no clockwork machine!
It carved rest, pajamas, blankets and pillows,
To oil the gears and cogs of my tired soul,
For sometimes 'living' wears pajamas.

And when I finally rise, reluctant yet renewed,
I know this truth: Rest is rebellion,
A quiet revolution against the grind,
A reminder that living transcends survival.

The Summer Breeze

The deathly stares of the summer sun
Piercing through the dense green leaves
Unearthing the bones hidden beneath
In the stillness of the scorching air
Burning the body to torment my soul
Yet the chaotic struggle is my peace
For I have accepted the toll.

     The sun may cause my skin to burn
     But within my spirit takes its turn
     To rise above the pain and strife
     And find a calm within this life
     Standing strong and true
     To find peace in all I do.

The Winter Calls Me Home

Sure as the season changes and winter sets

Like basic instinct kicks the birds to migrate, 

My instinct calls me to the mountains

To the cozy nest that my parents built

Linger I never, to heed that call

Sure as the winter calls, 

I'll surely be heading home

For within that little nest lays

All the love in the world for me

All the hopes and dreams -dead and alive

All the memories that weighted and lifted me

For I'm made whole by those yins and yangs

And sure as the season changes, 

I'll always have a place in that nest! 

Hope - Seed

Hidden beyond in the shadow

In the damp earth that lights neglect

Where the grimes of dead lives collect

Spring life from the dead dried seed

An Eulogy for a Torn Jean

Your time has come

Dear old friend denim,

May we part in the light

That you're my absolute favourite!

Thank you for the snug fitting,

For you have been my second skin.

Like a yawn widely stretching,

Embracing a weight ever-changing.

Irony is that I tear you,

When I'd rather cling on to you

For I have so loved you!

Lamentation - An old friend

What do you do when you heard of the death of a childhood sweetheart that odds and time and space parted?

Do you blame yourself for not mending your friendship with a simple 'hello' or a quick phone call in the decade it takes to gradually die?

Do you wonder if they also occasionally snoop on your social media to check-up on you but never having the courage to reconnect?

Do you wonder if you still matter to them the same way they matter to you even though you haven't let them know?

Do you wonder if they know that you still love and care about them even though the kind of love may have changed?

Do you wonder if they know that despite everything, that you'll grief and mourn for them?

Because I do...against my wishes, I do!

Home

Dancing around potholes in the cobbled street
Sneezing with every swiveling clouds of dust
Home they said is all in the heart,
Luckily, the heart doesn't have eyes. 
But does home sound like the heart?
Or like the whistle of the winds on the tin roof,
Or the constant humming of the crystal creek? 
Like the heavy footsteps of the tired labourers
Or like the sound of the tired hoe attacking the barren soil? 

Home is like my old and tired mother 
A hidden world of safety and comfort
Struggling yet strong
Dying yet thriving
Hopes abound
Content! 

Traces of You

Wherever I am, 

Wherever I go, 

I find traces of you

In the lines of a song

In the rays of a sunset

In the sounds of the rain

In random laughter 

On Sundays

And prayers

And many daily things

To my walls

Dear walls, you have seen and heard everything, 

and I know you have seen me at my worst 

but have you ever seen me at my best, 

for I can't remember. 

You have seen me break-down into silent sops of forsaken nightmares 

but how often have you heard my laughter? 
-Remind me now, for I need to know that all were not black. 

Dear walls, you've seen me love and hate with the same fire, 

tell me what do I wear better? 

Tell me if I look better with tears soaked angry smiles 

or with the lifeless smile of a rotting spirit? 
-Remind me now, for I need to know that all were not as bad. 

Dear walls, you've seen me slip into the wide open arms of self hate 

and crawl through the filth of existence to a semblance of life, 

tell me why do you stay still? 

Tell me, dear wall, that there is a reason still of why you and I are here still. 
- Remind me now, for I need a reason to live another day. 

The Old Oak Tree

 Upon that old oak tree where the songbirds sing

Wherein my childhood laid I upon it's flatten branch 

To gaze upon the blurring horizon beyond my reach

Dreamt I a world sweeter than the songbirds' songs

Upon that old oak tree where the songbird nest

Wherein I dreamt away the grim childhood of my reality

For a moment of peace undiluted by the cares of the world

Dreamt I while tearing the fresh saplings off the old oak tree

Upon that old oak tree where the songbird hatch

Lay I as the hatchling fed as I have never been

Pass I all the cares of this world as life leave me to hatch

Dreamt I of life as my rotting flesh feed the old oak tree

My Head

I screamed to the void in my head
Asking existential questions to
The tangled mess of the past, and
To the blurry promises of the future

But in all fairness, my dear soul
Why do I fear an answer, 
Why do even an echo seems scary
Yet the eerie silence provokes me

Perhaps I do not look for answer
In the chaotic present that I resent. 
As the vicious agonist is my head
Yet a spot of paradise is my head!

After the funeral

(with Mom, waiting for Dad)

When all is said and done, and when all the tears are wept,
in the aftermath of the funeral; alone here we are, you and I
choking upon our tears and words; watching the teapot burn
waiting, as if the crowing rooster will bring better news,
upon the hearth, we await, the morning dawn, silently.

Unlike us -the sun, the moon; they didn't change their ways -
the day is as bright, and the night is as dark, as always,
Here again, alone, upon the hearth we sit - you and I -
wary of the bellows, of the lost calves, unconscientiously
as if they were to herald a news, that dad is back,
eyeing the closed door - continuously, suspiciously.

Time passed, or so they say; and back to our routine, we try
and in the midst, we thought of the abnormality of our day -
as if the sky broke, the bitter undigested tears, it rains -
a thousand knives, stabbing our heart, sobbing a riot,
-it's real, it's true, that Dad will never be back again...

What happens to a destiny unfulfilled?

What happens to 
a dream abandoned?

What happens to 

a destiny unfulfilled?
Does it dry up
like a caked bed of a lake?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run a bloody pus?
Does it stink like rotten body?
Or, maybe it just sags
like a heavy load
Of unfulfilled dreams 
that I'm carrying.

A Rose for My Warrior Mother

That august sun was sitting on the horizon

Showing off the auburn sky that it had painted

Illuminating the horror of that last august day

The popping guns and the cries of their preys,

Wailing, crying, screaming – terrors reign the air

Amidst them lay still my body in the tar black road

Silhouette by bloods that slowly turn auburn.

I lay there still in the auburn road

Waiting for the setting sun to touch the horizon

And burn the hills and light the night sky

For my mother, to come find me

And end the night, that bloody Monday -

Of crimson night, and shattered lives.

And there she is –my brave mother,

Untold loss and grief, scarred her sunken face,

Feeble and frail with no more strength to grieve

Yet she stands there mighty against the guns –

A helpless woman –illiterate, scared and lost

She stood her ground to marches on!

Day-in and day-out, she marches on

No time to waste –she can’t stop now

For she fight not for glory, fame or money,

But for the hearts, and the wombs –

The womb of the land that nurtures her;

And her children, the joys of her womb!

She marches on with thousand mothers

Into the abysses where all hope ceases

The battle cries of the warriors, filling the air -

My land, my sons; my home, my blood -

For my children –they scream and march

While their hearts bleed for their fallen sons!

And there I die, in mother’s arm,

We’ll be fine, she promises, we’ll be fine!

But I pray thee, kind kinsmen and strangers,

When you come to visit me in my grave,

Please also wept the tears off of my mother's eyes,

And give her a rose, for she deserve one!

Photo: www.zogam.com