a hallway. offices. tinted sunlight.
people who have forgotten my name.
but i am here.
and then a room. and a meeting.
and i am unprepared.
“you’re up” says the leader.
and my lungs fill with heaviness as they all turn towards me.
my mind screams.
my throat locks.
and then a word fights through the scream.
and i breathe. and find a voice.
and then another word.
and a thought.
i am moving.
and eyes do not wander.
but the scream fights on:
they will find out.
i was connected at one time.
so the scream would fade.
but not now.
these many years later.
“we could use you again,”
he had said.
and i had relented.
but why? boredom? faith?
the scream of fear vs. the scream of isolation?
or a familiar voice dragging me back from madness.
“what have you been up to?”
he had asked.
and i had lied.
and now my mind all scrambled between work and stupor.
“what on EARTH are you talking about?!”
demands the one who should have taken over for me.
and the throat locks again.
and the scream rises up.
and he knows it.
but sympathy has no place here.
so i struggle with the scream.
and find the words to hide the Fraud
as he shakes his head in disgust.
and i remember why i left.
so i wade in the scream until i am done and take my seat.
and the scream that never dies whispers, “what else is there?”
Help me smother this irritation ~ with lines and punctuations ~
Feed me pronouns ~ to drown incompetent sounds ~
Nouns to block inevitable frowns ~ verbs to calm nerves ~
Synonyms to perpetuate and penetrate minds ~ antonyms to reiterate in rhyme~
Give me a vocabulary of words to express my perturb ~ why must people be so absurd
Another fresh year is here,
I would love to banish from my life, worry doubt & fear.
I would like to be joyous, true and live life each moment with zest,
and give the people around me nothing but the best.
I would love to talk, communicate and break mental barriers that are creations,
and work hard towards mending broken relations.
I would love to tell my wife to give me all her tears and fear,
and take from me all my love the loving words she likes from me to hear.
I would love to make an effort to be a good friend,
to my elder daughter and put all petty misunderstandings to an end.
I would love to stop to the people in contact ,the shoving,
and spend more time in loving.
I would love to stop being disadvantageous and outrageous,
and speak only the truth and for that be courageous.
I would love to fight my emotions all unfriendly,
and cover them all with feelings that are friendly.
I would love to learn to be sensitive,
and towards others be open and receptive.
I would love to practice not to crib about all the things life has not given me,
and be greatful for the great things around me I have an opportunity to feel and see.
I would love to learn to be content about all I have received,
and focus now on giving and helping those, whom life has deceived.
I would love to pray for world peace and plant more trees,
and work to help out for carbon emission decrease.
I would love to learn to be unforgiving,
and be more tolerant and caring.
I would love to right some of my wrongs,
and be true to myself and hum joyous songs.
Finally, I would love to learn to be humble and full of gratitude,
and to do so spend some precious moments of my day reflecting in solitude.
My resentment flairs
My will ebbs
Still looking elsewhere
I won’t just leave
I care too much
My heart is here
Have more to give
Want answers to my whys
Know I’ll never truly know
Doors of opportunity may open
But I still hold hope
Knowing this is my calling
I will not be late to work today
I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of
Strewn against a wooden
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase
I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert
Ready to begin my lesson
I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Where there is no abandonment
What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles
I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
I will not write poetry
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving
I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic
It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything
This poem is over
the work day begins
the delicacy of friendship
I found you in the flowers
Standing tall we become one
Looking down from gangly towers
Squash, you burn, you pillage, son.
Follow me you say in tongues
Thy shallow mind reveal me tell
Whisper lies clean load the guns
I feel the burn I rot in hell
Friend folly menacing the liar
I loathe this coffin how it leaks
Dear foe you raped me set on fire
The onion peal itself and weeps
dear monkey boy
Older eyes eat themselves,
glance and kill the other
Unified in the dance,
they steer the musty rudder.
Pained and sweeter deeper wells,
poised buckets drunk with water.
Singled out the one that dried,
handed weights to pull him under.
Wiser times capture the mind,
death justifies dishonor.
Knife slice neat through the devil's back,
who stares blank and milks the udder.
Inside this box
Goodbye tempestuous fall
My puppet of steel coiled thread
Smashed buttons and twisted dread,
Alarm these doors, and
Escape this delusive bunker bed
Stamp the spiders
Thief, vulture of the deflection
The mocking patron of the sinners
Erase this affliction
Relating inward at the reflection
Rise you fool
i love you
close the grip
cinched hematic grip
seeking the sheave
becoming the counterweight
i absorb, now
extracting the heat
rise like a phoenix
away to be gone to be free
fix me! i have fixed me
i am alive and i love you
Abolish her state of disrepair
Scattered, spattered drippy thoughts
All around this box of soused leaves
Soak, ferment in the faith of our love
I can't fix this, you know
I loathe this misunderstanding
Of what I am speaking, projecting
To me, Aye Damager, to you
This devil in me
turned and twisted
A wrecked elevator in rejection
Years locked painfully aware
gray fabric offices,
cubicles divide us—
turn us into
with mock privacy,
as overheard conversations
drip from lips
it seems insanity
with no one there.
to coarse fabrics—
arms stretched out
from wall to wall,
as mouths open
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
in grade school
he heard about it
in high school
he prepared for it
in his first year
he explored it
in his second year
he focused on it
in his third year
he felt part of it
in his fourth year
he graduated from it
Now, he has a job
because of it.
P aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace
You’ll never guess whom the cat drug in; have a day where you just couldn’t win?
He came strutting in, smacking his gum loud, dressed to the nines Goth Punk style.
Tats trailed down his left arm, with my notice, he said, saving up for the other arm.
When ask about drugs, his answer to me was: “Yes, I’ll share” most invitingly…
Metal adornments on ears, nose, and lips, didn’t want to know, the all of it, at this.
As I noticed, he smiled most cattily, asking: ‘Want to see where else they might be?’
Hair a Mohawk with a trail down his back, colors of the rainbow, left nothing to lack.
Steel studs on a black leather butt, said, ‘Bite Me!’ with each and every staged strut.
What are you kidding?… Do my eyes me deceive, or did he just make a pass, at ME?
No Way! I’d rather drop kick him from my office fast, didn't he have any real class?
The application, a Sales Manager Job. Who would try to send me over the deep end?
Bet it had been a practical joke, beginning to end, so I simply held on, my friend.
He must've read my face, forhe smirked, I continued to ask for his list of experience.
His experience was none, but he said he managed his I-tune collection, very well.
Of course, he was the Leader of his ‘Chat Room’. I wondered, ‘Who could tell?’ GEE!
Also an impressive set up on his Facebook page, for his innumerable video games.
I ask how he was qualified for ANY job? Said, Dad ‘THE CEO’ wanted him employed.
I verified this with a call, was told not to be too Harsh, he had Potential, after all...
Ask what job he wanted to give his son? ‘Let him chose himself’, came the real clue!
Ask him, what job he really wanted to do, ‘VP in charge of Recreation’ was imbued.
Said he'd check out all the great places, in his Dad’s fancy Porche. Honestly True!
I kid you not! And he wanted his girlfriend, made into his secretary, Yah! No Doubt!
Believe it or not, he got all he thought he was due. All approved by the CEO’s! True!
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better… I began to really reconsider…
Really, who had been clueless… It hadn’t been him!… Which left me in a dither…
Knowing I just couldn’t win! I’d be glad when this day was finally, truly, done…
The kid had probably thought this a great joke on me from beginning to the end!
My perfect job, had just come undone! Apparently, being in HR isn’t always fun!
My college degree, that took so much sacrifice, no longer sparkled, so much to me.
Boy did I now WISH, I was a CEO’s SON! As I simply got all the paper work done.
Later, I saw the family portrait on the CEO’s desk. Lucky me! One down!…
Only eight more to go!
Carol Eastman and Hubby
The Noose is tightening.
The 5’s and 10’s yanked from our hands and aching backs
Are spent on band-aids:
A last stand effort to plug the holes in our hearts
When the price of drowning is only getting higher
So we turn to tiny acts of thievery
Taxes prettied up, cashiers uncorrected,
Stealing at the edges because we’re backed into corners,
Glittering with promises corners
Dripping with possibility,
With Island resort wallpaper
Sold in bulk at Wal-Mart for
Profit: A trail of crumbs called America-
Which has curdled our souls and we love it!
And hate it and gossip about it and think obsessively about it and then
We find the most expensive friends our looks can afford,
Shopping for substance (50% off)
Staring through the eye of a screen
Light speed in pursuit of heaven on earth (Ignore the plastic)-
We die of ADHD.
Never having had the chance to smell the genetically modified roses.
Never having had the chance to see through this kingdom of ideas
As we served out our sentence to life in cubicle.
Las mujeres que cruzan el rio cada dia
forman una linea larga para la migra.
Muestran sus permisos -- tarjetas locales --
y vacian los contenidos de sus bolsas.
Cuando las preguntan sus destinos,
contestan con las frases que han ensayado:
quiero comprar pollo en especial,
o desea mi hijo zapatos tenis de Wal-Mart --
mientras sus patronas del dia acechan,
a prudente distancia, en sus camionetas guayin,
con los motores en marcha.
Estan fumando impacientemente.
(For translation, see "About This Poem")
You wish to possess me
I am the embodiment of your dreams
Yet I remain elusive
I tease you
I allow you to hold me but not for long
The smell of me intoxicates you
You work night and day and still I am not yours
I am promised to another
Others are living their dreams
Why are you left in poverty?
You are told I can not bring health or happiness.
It feels like a lie.
Wait for me
I will fill your pockets one day
Honest work does pay
If you have patience
I will not run away
Do not sacrifice to much in the pursuit of me
You need less of me than you imagine
I am but one gift that you will receive.
First attempt at personification, hopefully I got it right.
I do not know?
I Don't Care...
I don't care,
if you're battered black and blue,
I don't care,
just as long as I can drink and screw.
I don't care,
if you've lost your damn job,
I don't care,
you're just a kernel off the cob.
I don't care,
when I see you begging in the street,
I don't care,
I get to suckle on capitalism's raw teat.
I don't care,
about the elderly, the poor, or the weak,
I don't care,
if the earth will be inherited by the meek.
I don't care,
if the climate is warming, I'm so much cooler,
I don't care,
in my penthouse I'm the boss, the only ruler.
I don't care,
for those rolling for scraps in the muck,
I don't care,
I really don't care, cos' I don't give a f**k
inspired by Bob Geldof's "The Great Song of Indifference"
How often do you visit the Library? And what do you see?
I see oceans and seas of books plus a homeless man doing zzz’s..
He’d apparently been reading before, he fell deep asleep.
He can stay there, they say, as long as he doesn’t lie down to sleep.
Sitting up is OK and of course, as long as he doesn’t create a scene.
He’s kind and gracious and a little strange but can debate any role
When he walked over, we had a talk about the devil verses mind control.
Without asking, what he really wanted was someone to buy him lunch.
There’s a McDonalds two doors down from where we were bunched.
I don’t know what I expected when he woke up and looked around.
But when I asked if he was homeless he wasn’t fazed at all.
Yes, I have been for a while, he said, but my boat will soon come in.
And I realized the library is a warm, safe place to relax and to be.
And the librarians seem content to just let him be.
In the end, I was sorry I couldn’t buy him that lunch.
But recently, my abilities to do so had become a little stretched.
I used to buy the books I read… now the library is more my taste.
I just hope if it comes to that… he’ll graciously share this place.
The library even has computers from where you could write.
And the people there are varied and really rather kind.
I’m on the edge but whole family’s once prosperous are already there.
Cheap hotel rooms in even cheaper hotels, once skirted are full.
The jobs don’t pay for anything more. They are: Bitter, Disgruntled, Lost.
Needed are better and more jobs to re-establish the American Dream.
To give them some hope so they can go back there again…
And don’t just act toward them… like they’re your library man…
Give them back their American Dream as best you can.
Voice of Reason Contest
"Are you Quill?," She asked abeam.
"Yes, of course! - mostly - when the Muselle`
visits oft'n'r upon, as my wont!
"Well, here!, this will surely help at the Magic...
And IT, Voila!, was in hand, a thrust-unmistakable!
Blunt, bulbous & sleek, a slick Recife,
this Turquoise and Silver stick.
Is IT "Blue?" Is IT "Black?"
Pray, "Blue-Black!?" Wow! -
A Sole instrument for Playing in the Indigene,
Soul Colors of the Earth! - I nearly crack to Self.
Swirled-embedded, b'neath the haute Baekelight-Crystal
like a LavaLamp-Entemp. IT's messages of ambidexsrait-
Threads, Mola thru splayed fingers. O' Charitable Mage
You have brought to Life!... I Write Handcrafted!
Into the groove of unthinking action,
file after file of manikins pack in --
beings above see the circular groove
peopled with puppets, all on the move.
Deeper yet they wear the groove down;
manikins' footfalls forever resound.
Of "outside", they now all think no more,
their eyes forever fixed on the floor.
Mechanical movement is all they can know;
movement defines all the life that they show.
The speeds of the dummies vary a bit
as they wear down the floor of the pit.
Was for a benefit,
You paved in,
To nail down the,
You turned into waterworks,
When the cut down
Was on process.
Jubilant than ever
when germination flourished.
You looked after,
To see none but their growth,
The nourishment you fought for,
Regardless of the circumstances.
Down to your end,
Still showed your solicitude
that the woes came directly from your heart.
Weeps, for our well being,
wails, to ensure we received raindrops.
Confidently you battled,
To ensure no dry day approached.
Your deeds reached accross generation,
A total mother of nature,
A legend never to be forgotten.
We will live to remember
Your wonderful work.ag
A day in the country
I went to the country
To see my Bro's Land
I saw he had worked hard
His land looked so grand
For a second this envy
It tapped on my soul
But then I looked deeper
Saw things as a whole!
I looked at his features
All the lines on his face
Not character lines
Those lines that add grace
Just sad saggy lines
From worry and stress
There was naught in his manner
That read happiness.
I’m a loser to his type
I have no ambition
I live for today
He lives for his mission
But I have a smile
And a generous heart
While he, how I see him
Is a grumpy old fart.
10 August 2013 @ 1700hrs
(Gail's note: This is the sequel to the Email to Subby Conscience poem.)
From: Subby Conscience
Re: Communication between You and Me
Date: February 14, 2012
While I sneak and scheme in your chaotic REM
I am doing nothing more than being a friend.
Those dream-swirls and ‘mare-tugs purge your mind’s eye
so that your psyche can grow and won’t suddenly die.
While you’re gripping tightly to antique feelings that won’t budge
I’m prying them out; giving them a strong nudge.
And as you grudgingly work through a feeling or two
I am working my hardest to make you feel what is true.
I even may help you work out a solution or two
Because during the day you are too busy to.
Who else provides perks that allow you to be
both young and old in the very same dream?
So tell me dear, and answer me this.
What would you do if many nights I missed
And was sneaking around in another soul’s REM
What would your sanity be like then?
Without my help to work out thoughts
That keep you quite sane…
Would you then turn around
And try to cast blame?
Saying Subby’s absence caused you to act like a drip?
Saying Subby’s absence caused your tongue to Freudian slip?
Instead your mind can skyrocket and cozily soar
After I recede in the A.M. and work behind your mind’s door.
I hear everything all too well
my weary body has no place to dwell
so much is told about me I often wonder what is left
is it not enough to mock me in the town square
do we need to gossip with family I never truly had
another tear I shed, but no one truly cares
I am the almighty beautiful Red in thought
and none of the world I live knows me or my past
what doesn't work for them they invent or add
she will forgive us all they reassure
Oh Dear God make me a bird, I wish to fly away
but the hens all laid for the day,
the hay needs to be tossed,
and who will milk the cow,
so the woman, Red that lives out sin
stays to work this farm again
Often she becomes overwhelmed by it all
but not me it is my destiny
in my land of fantasy and made up things
how I wish I could be like she
I am the scandalous one
I protect all those I love, at any cost
but I will never be good enough
I met a man once but he has traveled on
he talks of things I seem to do, but it is not my truth
he pays me back in silent death
I gave up everything to let him live
yet it was not quite enough you see
he needed my family, friends, and destiny
yeah, I met a man who claimed he knew me
in my land of lies and make believe
but Red she is strong and always says please
she is the beautiful one ever-so loving
and doesn't need things such as love
she has too much to do
her skin is not soft yet rough
and she is tougher than I will ever be
I just want to fly away each day
to some land I created
I live in beautiful dreams
in fields of wheat I long to be
where I saw my children last
but to Red they are forever gone
passed on to seed
yeah that makes my world of fantasy
with made up monsters so much better
ask Red she will know
I am weak yet she is so strong
youtube com /watch?v=N3sUpbmBYyM
Gossip in the Grain inspiration
Will edit later
Just being silly
I do not know?
Slipping through the sieve of history,
the nameless rest.
Not for the nameless are roads renamed, nor monuments built.
Not for the nameless are songs sung, nor ink spilled.
The nameless rest.
Their silent sacrifice,
amongst their remains.
The nameless rest.
Not for the nameless are doctorates conferred, nor eulogies recited.
Not for the nameless are honours bestowed, nor homages directed.
The nameless rest.
They rest within us,
they walk with us,
in every step that we tread.
They rest within us,
they walk with us,
for their spirit is not dead.
“Your name is unknown, your deed is immortal”
- inscription at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier WWII in Moscow
Special thanks to my dearest elder sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla, whose conversations with me about life as a non-white person growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa prompted me to write this dedication to the countless, nameless South Africans of every colour, whose sacrifices and dedication in the struggle against Apartheid tyranny must never be forgotten.
My sister’s middle name ‘Nobandla’ which is an isiXhosa name and means “she who is of the people” was given by her godfather, Nelson Mandela, my father’s ‘best-man who could not be, as Nelson Mandela was unable to-make it to my parent’s wedding as he was in jail at the time in the old Johannesburg Fort. This was the 31st December 1961.
A day’s of hard work,
and serious issues to handle,
though some hiccups may arise,
in order to erase these hiccups,
we need to have some fun,
and laughter is only the best medicine,
to cure on these hiccups hands on,
we may not travel afar,
just take a look at Indian politics,
quite laughable as it is,
wherein a number of issues,
had come to the forefront,
mostly related to the cap on cylinders,
and the FDI in retail,
wherein a number of politicians,
cast a number of political ambitions,
of becoming the National leader of our Motherland,
but have no concern for the citizens,
living in here,
wherein the bridge between the poor and the rich,
gets wider and wider,
it is not the pursuit of political ambitions,
which the citizens want in here,
it is the solutions to various problems,
which they want,
and as such there is no politician,
as fit enough for this purpose,
are they really fit enough,
is the question and as laughable as it is,
it is time for the younger generations,
to take the plunge into politics,
wherein they need to cast over their fear,
and political apprehensions,
and save their dear Motherland India,
from all troubles,
and to make their Motherland into a Paradise!!
It wasn't so long ago, that my new wife and I
had to find a place to live which we could call "Home".
We found an ideal place on the northwest side of our city,
easy transportation, good neighbors, and plenty of room.
When we decided to take the place, we knew it would be
the bright, airy, comfortable, and loving home we wanted
to make for ourselves. Of course, there was work to be done
before we could move in. Painting, carpets, and choice of
furniture would occupy us for many weeks.
I don't know if every newlywed couple is as happy as we
were. Our love was enhanced by the work on that apartment,
turning its rooms from bare walls and floors into livable
spaces where we could be alone with each other. We would even
have friends or relatives over - it made no difference in our
relationship...it was home.
Every relationship has its share of woes, and that apartment
became a solitary point in our lives. My idea of a career did not
jive with my wife's, as she so often pointed out. I don't believe
it was the career, but the fact that I was trying to be someone I
wasn't, work with a company that I did not really know, and do
something that was inherently destructive to our marriage.
I wanted to prove to her that she could be proud of me by providing
for her the riches I felt she deserved. My quest for the golden ring
only tarnished the ones we wore on our hands. I was just too naive to
think that I was wrong. I should have taken a step back and trusted
the partner to whom I had pledged my love. By the time I came to my
senses, it was too late. I had driven her away by my callousness.
Now, as I stand in this empty apartment, only the memories remain.
The laughter of that first dinner alone...her face in the candlelight, yet
I see it only in the darkened corner of the room.
There were the nights of love and affection in the bedroom...now only
shadows of the sweet passions left in the wake of her despair at
my leaving her alone to face the mornings.
Our living area was our pride and joy with the furniture we had so
carefully chosen, the carpet of jade green, and the love seat where
we watched our favorite programs...now, just a window to the soul
mate I should have been.
The apartment stands empty again, waiting for another young couple
to make it their own. It was ours for a while, but now belongs only to
that place in my mind where I hide my personal treasures. I loved her
then...I love her still. Home no longer, but in my memory.
Do You find your-self
With-out a ladder
And just don't know
What to do?
Try the "Law Of Reciprocity"
Fore only good thing's come
Back to You!
Plant your-self a Seed
And then You shall
Have a Tree...
Just give it a little time
And soon you will have three...
Then You shall be able
For the very first time...
I do not know?
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Clocks in the house were all but removed
I chose utter quietude over malicious ticks and tocks.
Adhering to schedules was reliant on the angles of the sun,
and the sandy family hourglass artifact sitting by the side
of me at my station, every hour on the hour reminding, and
I myself being ready to flip. This was how not to live
as a farmer and still be a slave to the working of grains.
The sanctity of my spinning room was also my prison for
forty hours every week, and a third of my adult life.
Pressing down on the pedal below to see the top half rotate
and as my world turns I sometimes get approached.
With significant fibers, their casual orders are mine for marching,
working that spindle to the satisfaction of the customer,
as was every occasion but my last one, the best one, the only one
that I'll remember as special, delivering my soul from boredom.
My only daughter, sweet thing, no siblings to rival with
unless a naked, well tattered doll counts. She took it on adventures
to the moon while I couldn't see my child, my savior expanding horizons.
It was silly not to see her blowing about carefree as the wind that day
without concerns over food and shelter all she desired was the deepest
one of all. She was sleeping on desires with every chance to dream for her
best friend a modest cape for him to fly. Deep inside I knew her spirits
and that doll would ride the same breeze but I had to say no for the silk
was not mine. The customer was always right until the next day
when I stepped out to the corner store for the bite of a sour apple,
returning to an open door the hourglass was broken and my spindle bare.
The world had stopped spinning, time had stopped existing… so long
comfortable rut. Mortified for a brevity, just when I thought worlds
couldn't change, mine had with the crashing of an antique. The glass
littered beach on the floor was proof of that. The spindle was stripped of
its importance and all of a sudden it hit me fast, so fast I smiled.
My daughter was no devil and yet she was the culprit stealing
my heart before and a cape now but it was okay,
just this once, to have a family legacy mocked
for the prosperity of a child's imagination.
Seeing them fly in the backyard I dripped gentle
waves from tear ducts upon that glass scattered beach
secretly grateful, values in my life were restored.
Tons more I wish to do,
Much more I want to do,
Before I am laid on the pyre facing the sky deep blue,
Much more I wish to do……….
I want to scale scary heights,
I want to bungee jump without any fright.
I want to travel rough terrains on bikes,
I want to make it through forests and go on long hikes.
I want to wander singing songs,
I want to sing about how I mended my wrongs.
I want to be creative again ,
I want to write about my joys thrills and pain.
I want to pour my heart and passion in my works,
I want to write verses & haikus without reactions knee jerks.
I want to take many a calculated risks,
I want to learn from the entire process without shortcuts or fancy tricks.
I want to contribute for a good cause,
I want to give without siphoning material or emotional dross.
I want to untangle messed up issues,
I want to wipe off tears with empathy laced tissues.
I want to work on taboo subjects,
I want to solve regression of y on x.
I want to listen to my music loud,
I want to pen my work in a place far from the madding crowd.
I want to sow seeds and many a plant,
I want to bask in sun rays that into my room slant.
I want to drench in the rains,
I want to make paper boats and sail them in the drains.
I want to pick up from the ground and smell fresh wet earth,
And then joyously have my speech filled with mirth.
I want to boldly write about myself only for me,
I want the world to know me & my mind as they will always see.
I want to meet often the persons, who mean a lot to me,
I want to be able to emote my passions and feelings of love and glee.
I want to be happy about just any small thing,
And all this I want to do before the last breath to my nostrils I bring.
Facing the blue skies on my funeral pyre,
I want to be on the best craft my soul can hire….
All this I want to do very soon,
Before sets into me dreaded gloom.
But the life I live is taking its toll,
I am yet to get out of this oblivious hole.
Time is just right to set aside,
And take a ride
Fulfill my wants and dreams that I nurtured in me to grow,
And I had put away sheathed in a cocoon of time many years ago.
Now I don’t want a moment long,
And I will do what I want and sing my own song,
And do what in me I let grow,
Many, many years ago.