Tuesday, 18 November 2014


even the most hard boiled man
fried in the heat of a no-frills space 
filled with memories and promises of babies 
who need to be coddled 
is scrambled like a well-made breakfast. 
his wife is cooking for them a delicious worrisome omelette 
that's been basted in an impersonal i- can't- be- bothered 
industrial steel kitchen
full of poached dreams and aspirations 
and devilled by an addled brain. 
unwilling children are smoked out by the tantalizing promise
of life always being a sunny side up experience. 
baked into all this is expectations
of familial duty and requirements for lineage. 
the man is merely soft boiled 
his role not as essential as the woman's. 
he is a supplier at best 
but if not him
any tom bansi or benedict would do. 
as long as the supply hits the bulls eye 
how does it matter who's doing the giving ?
shirred into submission 
pickled into passivity 
scalloped by sacred texts 
bodies now obey not each other's rhythms
but that of society's.
scotch helps 
sex obviously has not.

eggs, anyone?

All about the good news

forced friendships fade with fierce foetal heartbeats.
the air is pregnant with families in waiting
and dreams in flight
dynasties want to be alive to fight
an unwinnable battle against the indifferent times
this is where dreams come to die.
work. love. liberation. life.
this is where dreams come alive.
family. birthday baking. festivals. being a mother and wife.
the man walks busily. a son on his mind.
the woman is pain-filled and ponderous
she's with her kind.
a young couple waits in zebra stripes and shorts
a woman with an evil eye charm
is bejewelled and much sought
after by a doting husband who holds
her file
i see him worried even when she smiles.
self conscious men wait in chairs. 
papers magazines and patience.
their wives are inside getting tests
to determine their future vocation.
there is suppressed desperation in the air the chairs and everywhere
but time is of the essence the children can't wait
make haste. 
don't let the eggs go


Wednesday, 15 October 2014

My kind of math

two hands but not mine
ten fingers but not yours
two tongues   you understand
legs entangled  how else can it be
twenty four hundred strands of hair drape across your chest
fingers tries to forget themselves in me
breaths toomany toofast to count
dreams are disparate and differential
emotions are tangential   even a null equation
the unknowns play algebra in the heart

sometimes math can be magical.

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

The Soldier's Wife

Today i mourn an unborn child
he’d have my words
and your many-layered smile
he’d carry an entire village in his head
and wear a slew of medals across his strong chest.
my child would walk mountains with particular ease
and words and music will make his special feast
and he’d like to argue but also to stay calm
and when he’d hug you, why, you’d always stay warm.
yes, my child he’d have stars in his eyes
and a spirit that never says die
and a moodiness that’s yours as much as it’s mine
and a constant craving for the simple life.
maybe he’d write
no, he absolutely will
seeing what brought us together
words will enthral him
keep him still
ah that child of mine
would change you
in so many ways
and so today
i mourn my unborn child
and also, perhaps, my unborn life.

Monday, 31 March 2014

Mountain Pass

everywhere i went you haunted me
and now among the many shades of green
finally i am free
of your ghost and your need.
this is how it comes to pass
in bright autumnal colours
and with the majesty of a many tongued waterfall
it disappears in the oppressive crush of people
who follow nothing except their own hearts.
their hearts cause traffic jams and irate passengers and create a mood that does not bode well for a mending heart.
so amidst the generous display of what the world had to offer in green and greed,
in people and plants,
in water and wanderers,
i let go of you.
wander my restless heart.
breathe deep of the raw fragrance that punctuates the air like an exuberant exclamation point.
search for your own self and soul.
and when you know, just let go.

Long Distance

we work best in small measures and measured time
in rare appearances and hesitant smiles
we work best in the afternoon light
and as the voices of the night.
we work best without the chains
of demands and complaints
without the guise of normalcy
we get to be you and me.
we work best in ambiguity
in this deep desire that should bind but sets us free
we work because of the miles that separate your life your bed and mine.
yes we work in fractured splintered days
and interminable hours
in words of passion and opinion
and in the same stars
we work in intent and promise
even if they aren't to be
we work in the only way we can
we work as you and me.

Thursday, 20 February 2014


i lurk these cyber spaces
there are so many worlds to go
but everywhere i reach to
nothing feels like home.
how sad that though you're
right by my side
search for you this way
but even for
me, dogged pursuer
this journey has been
in vain.
so i move on
as i am wont to do
finding someone better to replace you
and you can go back to your indentured life
but pretend you're your own man
struggling against lies and strife.