Friday, February 24, 2012

Sun in the doorway

It got cold for a while
when winter came to stay.
We couldn't wait for it to end
so spring would come our way.

Every year with the turn of the sun
our house would smell so very different.
The rooms would brighten up even at night
and for once mother wouldn't have to worry bout the rent.

At the end of February
we all kept watch on our mother's room.
The sunshine that never glanced that way in the cold
started creeping slowly through the doorway.

The first sign of gold
would set off a shriek from little Mona.
She would run down the stairs in delight
to clutch at mother's skirt.
And she didn't need to say a word,
mother knew what she was excited about.
A tear would roll down her cheek
as she hurriedly offered a prayer.

Within a day or five
we knew we'd change
the way we laughed and cried.
We would lead a different life
through thunderstorms
and the humid nights.


For it was the season
when father came home
after a tiring winter night.
For it was the season
we'd sing of hope
and father not returning to fight.

Little Mona would be the first
father scooped up in his arms,
as she hurtled out of the door
when his car pulled up by the ferns.
Mother would cry silently
humming a little hymn of gratitude.
A hug and a smile was all they shared
after six months of solitude.

And sooner than enough
mother would be smiling again,
the bubble of fright in her heart
would deflate to almost nothing.

But with the nearing of the cold
the bubble would come alive again
silently tearing through her soul
making her wonder who was to blame.
But she was brave and her smile she faked
as screams and canons beat on her eardrums.
We said nothing but Mona cried her eyes red
knowing no reason behind the hymns her mother hummed.

Saturday, February 04, 2012

Red

The days have been shaping up through the window.
The shadows of the bars twist everyday on the wall.
The pane turns frosty as soon as its midnight,
not caring if its winter, summer or the fall.

And she sits still and quiet by the curtain
The rose withered in her hand,
trying in vain to keep ahead of its time.
Her feet twitch when the sunlight hits her toes,
glinting a dark stained red that she had never painted on her nails.
She watches the birds hopping on the building far off
who come to visit her sometimes in the afternoon.
She never makes an effort to reach out to them
however shrill their calls start to get.
All she knows is a pain unknown to us.
A pain we never imagined her to know.
But who knew she was chosen to walk that path?We've called out to her a hundred many times
but she's never turned her head to us.
All we see is a drop of water or two,
sometimes around her feet or on her red stained palms.
The wall she's leaned on through the years
has turned red in patches beneath her hair.
The flowers have stirred their heads to face her
asking a thousand many times to forgive
and join their sisterhood.
A tiny nod I had noticed from her one day and all at once
it seemed the flowers drooped their heads and leaves.

She'd alone faced her lover
never knowing of the wrath he hid.
She'd screamed in vain all day and all night long
Praying that someone would hear her bleed.
We had taught her forgiveness when she was young,
but there was no way now
that we would even ask her to listen to us
or remember what we had taught her.
We were far apart I understood
but a fluttering breeze seemed unfamiliar always,
sometimes parting the fringes she kept covered her face with.
But she had promised never to show her face again,
and kept her head bowed on her knee
as she crouched up tighter, cold and closer
yet more distant with the passing trees.

Wednesday, February 01, 2012

Two Days

Marching down into the dawn of red,
Spies running ahead to uncover the nests.

The colors of the nation hanging by the rope

Would eight hundred suffice to resist the test?


Soon enough the vulture's eye

would be stabbed with a sword and ripped from within.

But whose vulture will be throttled first?

The common man or the relentless king?

An uprising not too late in time

rising from an exploited mime,

Where the shovel is silent and the daggers scream,

The time had come to recover the dreams.


The dogs start howling at the very sight

frantic in anticipation of the impending fight.
The children all crouch hiding in the dark,

Sheltering their lives to be torn apart.


The last gaze of the moon falters and hides.
The stars whimper away with the night.


As the ground shakes with sheer strength of force,

As the men keep shouting themselves hoarse.

As the sun blinks its weary eye,

As the jackals shriek and cower in fright.

As the fires burn in raging silence,

As the swords glint with a hint of violence.
As the hope clashes with the fearsome past,

As the fist rises in a struggling mass.


The next two days will determine their fate

Stories untold will lay to waste.

History will only unfold the face

of the sunshine that might arrive just too late.

Arrival

I am sitting at the International Arrivals section of Dulles airport right now and watching people. Reunions are always special.Different ...