It was a dark room.
Your eyes turned to mine
for light.
I was learning
of your parting.
But there was little,
I could impart,
to your emerald gems
that would explain
the agony
in your belly.
It was a dark floor, cold and wooden.
You jumped into a chair.
I stood.
The vet's fingers delicately taking apart
the phases.
Her letters like blades
shredding my sanity and peace.
You gaze again
knowing
all my pain
and yours.
Mercy! As I grab you; all of you.
And all the green starts to speak...
Let me go.
Please.
Tuesday, December 09, 2014
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Dad...Again.
You come back these days
Your eyes, vivid.
A sideline question: “How are you?”
Fifteen years plus, I’ve covered your eyes,
With high-impact interruptions…
a war or two;
the loss of a partner or more.
I have chosen not to relive our moments…
The beauty is too painful.
Your eyes these days persist.
“How are you?”
And the answer pushes me off
the next heartbeat…
The image sweeping;
your eyes crying.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’ll be here next year. I promise…”
Since, I’ve not been able to touch
those glasses,
to wipe off the tears.
The brown in your eyes today glistens.
Fifteen years, I’ve dulled the pigments.
“How are you?”
“I miss you Dad. That’s how I am.”
Monday, October 13, 2014
His Infancy -for M.G.
Infancy came in flippant forms,
trembling,
reaching for letters like shooting stars,
then setting them ablaze,
fumbling,
for filtered feelings,
passing passion,
through tubes of emotion,
observing,
rainbows of stillborn ecstasy forming,
and lightly laughing...
Infancy,
in flying,
floating above
expected climaxes,
stumbling over expertise,
like it was some cumbersome accident.
Infancy,
in lowered-eyelid giggles,
muffled mots,
gasping for a remote sanity,
staring at sudden wisdom,
as though...
another self,
had just tapped his shoulder...
trembling,
reaching for letters like shooting stars,
then setting them ablaze,
fumbling,
for filtered feelings,
passing passion,
through tubes of emotion,
observing,
rainbows of stillborn ecstasy forming,
and lightly laughing...
Infancy,
in flying,
floating above
expected climaxes,
stumbling over expertise,
like it was some cumbersome accident.
Infancy,
in lowered-eyelid giggles,
muffled mots,
gasping for a remote sanity,
staring at sudden wisdom,
as though...
another self,
had just tapped his shoulder...
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Rage Can Rest
"Dad, we're getting ready to close the casket."
"Did you want to take a last look?"
"Dad, we're carving out forty-nine near and dear years of your life. Would a last look help you?"
Now, her rage is as distant as the day she was born.
Now, her face is as peaceful as her first night home.
No, that was not a few hours away.
No, she was never here to stay.
Baby cots do not have lids;
you already know,
dreams do have ends.
And yes, rage can rest...
eternally,
even if your heart never will...
Note: For Nandi whom I met once in her short lifetime, but impressed me for the rest of mine.
"Did you want to take a last look?"
"Dad, we're carving out forty-nine near and dear years of your life. Would a last look help you?"
Now, her rage is as distant as the day she was born.
Now, her face is as peaceful as her first night home.
No, that was not a few hours away.
No, she was never here to stay.
Baby cots do not have lids;
you already know,
dreams do have ends.
And yes, rage can rest...
eternally,
even if your heart never will...
Note: For Nandi whom I met once in her short lifetime, but impressed me for the rest of mine.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Zanzibar...Transitioning
There...
tucked under the sunlight
where manacles of slaves
sang melancholy melodies
There...
the sun
did not keep its distance
its eyes; window cracks
in rotting buildings
and eroding market squares
There...
the smell of the sea
spoke of speedy sustenance
for the starving...
The covered heads of women wandering
indicative
of a different vision
of how the Indian ocean rolled
The smiles of men
weak
with the confusion
that came
with conformity.
There...
the stories of bloodshed
assembled
for sale
like crimson rugs
for tourists' feets
to trample on...
How they all arrived...
What they made of the experience
& all that's left of it...
tucked under the sunlight
where manacles of slaves
sang melancholy melodies
There...
the sun
did not keep its distance
its eyes; window cracks
in rotting buildings
and eroding market squares
There...
the smell of the sea
spoke of speedy sustenance
for the starving...
The covered heads of women wandering
indicative
of a different vision
of how the Indian ocean rolled
The smiles of men
weak
with the confusion
that came
with conformity.
There...
the stories of bloodshed
assembled
for sale
like crimson rugs
for tourists' feets
to trample on...
How they all arrived...
What they made of the experience
& all that's left of it...
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
MIA (Ahmed & Pippen)
Awaiting a signal
for his return;
a Cardinal calls.
I walk to the window.
The corpse of my dead thoughts stirs...
All those mothers
awaiting long lost loved ones
every morning;
there were no Cardinals, Blue Jays or even Mourning Doves.
No calls.
All the waiting.
No end in sight.
Pippen didn't know where he was going (when he flew out).
Anymore did Ahmed (when he left the nest).
When they made him read his last rites on the blurred screen,
I felt
the cold white sheets of his bed where I'd once slept
envelope my chest
in a slow-forming noose
tugging out the last breath of hope in me...
I didn't have to wait;
his mother did.
And No, ...
There were no Cardinal calls;
only the DPMO,
finally claiming,
they had found some bones...
Note: Ahmed Altai was an Iraqi-American MIA (abducted by the Mehdi Army in Iraq) whose remains were finally found in 2012. His mother was my mother's childhood friend. When we (my mother, some friends & I) had all gone to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to attend a Marcel Khalife concert, he had offered me his bedroom to spend the night and went to spend the night at a friend's home.
Pippen was my cockatiel who in one month had memorized 12 bird songs (per the bird clock in 'his' room). I lost him in 2014.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-FMrk0VUjM
for his return;
a Cardinal calls.
I walk to the window.
The corpse of my dead thoughts stirs...
All those mothers
awaiting long lost loved ones
every morning;
there were no Cardinals, Blue Jays or even Mourning Doves.
No calls.
All the waiting.
No end in sight.
Pippen didn't know where he was going (when he flew out).
Anymore did Ahmed (when he left the nest).
When they made him read his last rites on the blurred screen,
I felt
the cold white sheets of his bed where I'd once slept
envelope my chest
in a slow-forming noose
tugging out the last breath of hope in me...
I didn't have to wait;
his mother did.
And No, ...
There were no Cardinal calls;
only the DPMO,
finally claiming,
they had found some bones...
Note: Ahmed Altai was an Iraqi-American MIA (abducted by the Mehdi Army in Iraq) whose remains were finally found in 2012. His mother was my mother's childhood friend. When we (my mother, some friends & I) had all gone to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to attend a Marcel Khalife concert, he had offered me his bedroom to spend the night and went to spend the night at a friend's home.
Pippen was my cockatiel who in one month had memorized 12 bird songs (per the bird clock in 'his' room). I lost him in 2014.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-FMrk0VUjM
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