Away from the mind

Forgetfulness is a virtue of the strong
man made muscles witness the war to
leaving the old and starting fresh as a bud
forgetfulness is a virtue of the strongest seeds
especially when the wind carries them to foreign soils.

Just because you are taller

Listen to what poets say
especially when they hold your hand
on a far away building, near sunset to tell you simply
secrets brewing. You are special, they say those in metaphor
code their I love yous in similies
but I am dropping roses into your lap
swilling with my emotional babble around you
there it goes
I love you- wait--just because you are taller
it doesn't mean it hasn't yet reached your head
it hasn't yet tickled your being down to your Greek lined toes

or has it? does it really matter what oversensitive poets actually say anyway?

Black Friday

Friday of shame, 

true one makes money to spend money

to make it again, like recycling it is an endless, 

shameless part of being one midst the many, money generating machines

nine to five, life starts after meetings and reporting

and coffee chats with Clive who hates the job but likes the money

and Dan who hates the wife but loves the boss' red heels

hate, love and money are relative things- this said from tongues that taste

rice stewed in holy waters, forgetting that the farmer cannot taste his produce

this Friday I have seen shame packaged in colorful paper-bags

and presented under trees or stored away for further use

Shame, walks the street with bags full 

but doesn't spare a penny or a look 

for the ones who sleep in rags.

Tenderness

excerpt from a longer poem under construction:

When you saw me on the street, a few days after I left you to your musing

you gave me one kiss, on my right cheek

tenderly it landed, like birds scraping morning dew from the branches

but I could smell dust on your shoulders

and I felt the gunpowder stamping itself over my dimples.

Saved from disasters

If I could tell you, I'll start with what saved me disasters
the time of knee scratches and boyish hair,
it was time for football games till dinner
the first marker of my salvation
innocence

it might have been possible that I was spared because
I was born a girl without any expectations
there were no demands of intelligence,
nor aspirations. Sets of pans, stamina and a quick heart
were necessary, stitching and knitting were preferable- if possible
holding my ear out  to the wind adds to my repertoire
for my second savior was weakness

you can argue that what saved me was charm,
an old talisman place by my grandmother underneath my pillow
to ward off the ills of other people,
eyes, ears and insignificant body parts that meant to cause harm
fists and brains and growing pains-
perhaps my grandmother knew what I needed to avoid
for she handed me down, luck

but eventually I might have saved myself, unnecessarily
with soberness I fought off nightly visitors: dreaded dreams and ghost tours
with long sleeves I kept away from the sunshine
with womanhood I warded the evil eyes
and with all this time I preserved my way out of harm
my savoir was myself

one thing still hold me by the collar-
I might have escaped danger, yet nothing saves me
death by waiting.

breaking the cocoon

I will listen to your words I vowed, once I finish my third chocolate
I unwrap and the sound of tearing flushes the noise of the jabber you send my way.
this is how I deal with unpleasant conversations
add sweeteners, it diffuses ignorance and displeasure
flip it over the head- that anger and spank it  toes.

this is quick success, a first tear to the sac around me,
coffee, cigarettes and alcohol seem tempting
but they age by the sip. A thousand lives and visions
reproduce with the sharing of coffee, burning
of cigarettes and cleanse of alcohol
yet by morning light, you can only see
folds of skin crumpling at the corner of a smile or its opposite
another slit to the protective body I have weaved around me
since birth

I do admit I am tired, though ripe as a kiwi
I unfold the dark pips and shake them towards
any willing visitor, any seeder, for the needing
need supersedes growth, ask anyone
when you deeply desire bread, you do not think of your ragged shoes.

but before I turn into another version of the same wreckage,
 taller this time, less tolerant- I allow myself enough room for simplicity:
I stretch longer in bed, covered or uncovered,
then make of art a possibility, paint, draw, write
sing in the shower it is all the same
before I beg for my own salted bread- I move
movement sounds easier when you are light on your feet

I will break away from what I've learnt, I will punch the hidden sacks around my ribcage
 I tell you
despite your inattentive ears
I may sound like a foreigner
but I will shower and rid myself from my accent tomorrow,
when it manages to finally arrive.

Writing home

This is an excerpt of a full published poem:

What can I tell you? You have always been bigger

wilder, stretching beyond my ink and papers.

Every time I try to write you

Photographs jump in my head

Little devils masked under ‘ideas’

It is then I pause in fear

I fear not you: but my eyes scanning you

I fear not you: but my  grammar failing you

Because every time

I hold the pen

You get to the core of my head,

Every time I press on the pen, it bleeds.

you can read the rest of the poem here.