Category: Poems

Again, hallucinations rage.
Again, we hear him howl, berate.
Again, the doctors don’t know much.
Again, prescription’s “Pray and Wait.”

The uncut cake reminds us all
That some things never change.
A word of tenderness, a call,
Is still so foreign, strange.

The days that should be festivals
Are festering inside.
We wonder if it’s worth the work
To wipe the tears we cried.

I’ve gone and done it yet again.
I’ve lost my focus, lost my star.
In chasing blinking tail-lights, lost
The reason why I’m looking far.

I started with a simple truth:
I want my space and time to write.
And somehow I have bartered both
For less than what I’ve lost inside.

At least, I still have inky nails.
At least, the coffee cup to cope.
For all the shouting, fighting, lies,
At least, I’m dangling from a hope.

It never is just wrong and right.
Or left and right. Or left and lost.
The cost of human hubris ranks
A little higher than the banks
That flood to trade the arbitrage,
Invade our privacy at large,
And claim return on capital,
While burning down the plausible
On altars to the alternates,
To profit from conflicting states.

The Leonardo on his wall
Is not a print he bought online.
He made it, stroke by matching stroke,
On painful summer weekends, lying
Prone upon tatami mats
He’d brought with him from Tokyo,
Exchanging all the Hokusai
He’d painted in his patio,
Upright, on easels he had sculpted
à la Rodin, through the night.
They asked him when he’d make his own.
He told them off. He never might.

A year has passed. Retired year.
And still no quiet in her days.
The garden that she plans to plant
Is daily plucked by monkey strays.

He doesn’t like her spending time
In garlanding her jasmine flowers.
She doesn’t like him spying her
From windows of his ivory tower.

He never sees her eye-to-eye.
He talks in grunts of irony.
She does whatever needs be done,
Pretending there is harmony.

Today, he turned seventy two.
Today, she made his favorite treats.
Today, she cried again alone.
He made her garlands. Jasmine sweet.

The monkeys tore her comforter.
Her favourite cuddle, ripped to bits.
She’s giggling still. She’s wriggling still.
But seeing us distraught, it hits.

At seven months, she’s learning that
Attachment is a learned remorse.

He traces life in fading dates
Inscribed with careful pencil strokes
In corners of the title page
Of paperbacks in rows and rows
Of shelves that make his treasury.

He got this from a cornershop,
And this one from a leaving friend,
And that one was a birthday gift,
And all of these he bought through post,
Before the times of online stores.

We find a book or two or three
For every week for fifty years.
He turns to me – a smile – and asks,
“You’ll make me into one of these?”
I dab the smudging date and nod.

If you are winning, simplify.
If you are losing, complicate.
If you prefer to play for draw,
Just equalize in any way.

This works for sure in games of chess,
But not so much in games of love.
You blunder every other move.
No wonder this endgame is tough:

If you are winning, equalize.
Don’t draw it out, don’t complicate.
If you are losing, simplify.
Acknowledge. Don’t prevaricate.

It’s not a competitive game.
The only win’s togetherness.
If that is lost, then all is lost.
Except your hanging loneliness.

He’s looking at your laptop screen.
He’s disappointed yet again.
He had so many dreams for you.
But you are going full insane.

He isn’t. He is fast asleep.
He isn’t feeling well today.
He isn’t disappointed. No.
He’s in denial anyway.

It’s you who’s in denial, bro.
You’re talking to a shadowed voice.
You think you can maintain a front?
You think you still have any choice?

I’ll make it work. I always have.
I’ll cancel out your every scream.
I’ve tried to make it work with you,
But will not let you kill my dream.

You think I have to move a hand
Against a hack of many trades?
In trying to do everything,
You’re juggling smoking hand grenades.

He’s getting up. I’ll make some tea.
You’re free to talk. I’ll just ignore.
I’ll busy myself so much now,
I’ll overcome you chore by chore.