Poetry

sequoia, forest, redwood

EVERGREEN

Tall and strong my soul
Is firmly planted in the soil
On which you stand.
Green and lush my leaves
Dance to Mother Nature’s lullaby
As I feed the meagre creature that
Scurries on the surface of the earth,
While you produce pulp and paper for
Your fiction.
Speak to me! I live!
As I give you the very breath of life
You breathe.
Lavender and lilies and olives and willows
Placed here by Him who reigns
Higher than my majestic reach.
And even when the winds blow and the
Seas are rampant
I know that my soul in the soil
Is evergreen.
Evergreen.
Evergreen.

baby feet, heart, love

OH BABY!

Little one,
From the womb whence you came,
Only to be discarded on the side of the road.
Oh, baby!
Wrapped in plastic,
Near the stench of a filthy rubbish bin.
Accompanied not by warm hands and inviting smiles,
Instead, you’re surrounded by
Rotten food and hungry wolves.


Oh, baby!
Your cries drown out the screams
As she forces you out,
Two months premature.
She doesn’t want to remember
the day that you were created
in a night of heated passion.
Your sweet face and soft skin
Make her skin crawl.


Oh, baby!
She blames you for the loss of his love
And punishes you,
Gets rid of you,
Like yesterday’s trash.
A one night stand,
Mistaken for a love of a lifetime,
Resulting in 9 months of responsibility.
A lifetime responsibility.


Oh, baby!
Your little body; hands and feet,
Blue in the cold night,
Unaware of the love that awaits you
From a barren mother who craves you
Who wishes for you,
Prays for you.
Your sweet scent,
Your ten fingers and
Ten toes.
Oh, sweetheart
Covered in blood,
The only tie to your previous life,
Is the cord that binds itself around your tiny
Neck.


Oh, baby!
Please hold on!
Someone is coming.
Oh, baby!
You are wanted
and needed.
You are a source of joy and laughter.
Your precious life is a gift from the heavens.
Oh, baby!
Please hold on!
That yellowed grass patch might be your beginning
But
It is certainly not your end.



flower, rose, love

DEAR MOTHER

I often think of the days that I use to perch on your lap
And grab you around your neck
And kiss your aging cheeks.


I often wonder if I will ever be able to do that again.
The chasm between us seems to have become so relentless
That I often wonder if we’ll ever be able to cross it.


Mother, ma as I know you,
I sometimes think back to when we use to be
Best friends, I was the envy of my siblings
As you always had my back.
Now I look back and see the strays of memories
We have left behind.


I see you, you’re getting older.
You have a limp
And the 60 years that our Father has granted you
Is starting to show.


I remember watching you sit
At the window in our small flat
Writing down random numbers;
Maybe it was the dates of the births of all your children,
Even the ones you never saw growing up.
Or maybe how many times your heart was broken.
Or was it the number of times you cried?


Now you don’t count anymore,
You just stare ahead, waiting for the
End of each day.
Maybe the dates and numbers and opportunities
That you never had have all lost their meaning.


You turned into a sad and helpless creature
Right before my eyes
It made me feel sad and helpless for
Not knowing how to reach out.


Dear mother,
My arrogance and pride has prevented me
From coming to you and telling you
That I miss your bear-like embrace.
It has put a wall up in the
Middle of our home
As we pass one another
During the day
Like strangers at night.


We hardly say a word to another
And when we do, its
Laced with irritations and criticism.


Mother, I am sorry
For being too big for my shoes and
Forgetting that you too
Are leaving shoes that no one
Will ever be able to fill.

eye, creative, galaxy

FOR THE CREATIVES

This is for the creatives.

The musicians.

The writers and poets.

The painters and artists.

For the ideas that grow in your mind. the struggle between real and imaginary.

For the passion that feeds your soul and the constant hive of activity in your head and the familiar itch of your hand for a pen.

For being misunderstood and for being seen as strange, odd or weird..

This is for you, sitting in a dark room painting pictures with your words.

This for you, playing your acoustic to a melody only you can hear.

This is for you, creating images no one can understand.

This is for you.

The creators of visual chemistry.

The designers of untold stories.

The architects of new worlds.

This is for you.

For seeing beauty in disaster and finding treasures in rubble.

For losing sleep while others are dreaming about your words and humming your tunes in their slumber.

Creatives,

We are the source of life behind someone’s smile.

We are the trigger of a memory behind someone’s tears.

We are the bond between separated lovers.

And the force that binds a mother to her child.

We are everywhere.

Creatives,

This is for you.

For the daydreams and nightmares that are the seed of your art.

For the pain you turn into beauty.

For thriving on the misery of rejection and making it your conquered mountain.

For the bravery you possess to share your truth.

This is for you.

candle, light, candlelight, death, loss,

DEATH. AN UNINVITED GUEST.

Death doesn’t rest. It’s relentless in its pursuits. It has an insatiable hunger that is never satisfied. It is quick, you don’t see it coming even when you are expecting it and even when you’ve experienced it before, it still hits you like a ton of bricks every single time it crosses your path.

We say life is short; knowing that death doesn’t time its arrival. It’s an uninvited guest. The one you ignore when it’s knocking at your door.

The one whose calls you avoid and pretend doesn’t exist.

But it’s there.

It’s always there.

It feeds on your tears and leaves no time for grief before the next loss.

It’s like rolling thunder and unceasing rain.

Death doesn’t rest or becomes tired. It doesn’t need to take a break.

Death needs no invitation and it doesn’t need a seat at the table.

It simply shows up,

and commands an audience.