A Christmas Advertisement

And so they went

from one store to the next

          to the next and next

all bedecked with Christmas colour

melodied with Christmas cheer

the fake mistletoe the red-nosed reindeer

and Santa too,

the glitter and shine

the bells and lights,

all screaming ‘Purchase!’

all carrying the soft small-print tag

‘In the name of Jesus!’

(of was it the other way about?),

all laid out for them folks

armed with crisp currency notes

and easy plastic.

And they came,

they saw

they were glad too,

for they went away

duly garmented,

while the raiment of the Savior

so visible all over

remained unvisited.

The eyes of the faithful

Were fervent in prayer,

Elsewhere.

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The most beautiful eyes

I can see me in your eyes,

can you see you in mine?

She asked.

In your eyes, little girl,

I see roads and skies

patterns that capture thought-train

randomness that turns heartbeat into petal

and road into river.

In your eyes,

my petalled-heartbeat,

I see thorn and laughter,

tear and resolve,

breaking, breaking and breaking

renewal, renewing and reward,

a child, mother and sister,

impossible loves

quietly slipping

into possible togethernesses,

fingers reaching out

to touch your cheek

and your arms opening wide

to receive world

and your fingers trembling

at the touch of a baby’s breath.

In your eyes, my darling,

I don’t want to see me

or places I’ve come from

or things I want to do.

There’s so much to see

so little time

but that’s alright.

Just look around,

that’s enough.

[written for my daughter 'Mitsi' (Mithsandi)]


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ANCIENTING

Take old woman

and unravel:

whisk away whisker and worry line

Smooth out skin-bend

wrought of smiling.

Take old woman and un-wrinkle

obtain little girl.

Easy.

Sad!

Reverse gear process:

Take child and craft woman

craft further

find old woman.

find death.

Impossible!

Thankfully.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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AT THE MAUSOLEUM OF LOVE

At the mausoleum of love

on any given night

or day

the loved and the loving

bend low

touch ground

and memory rebirths

the beloved;

while the unloved

they pillage

in the manner of a nidan hora

assassinate again and again

desecrate again

heart and time.

Love eludes some,

and I wonder why they wonder why.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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COLOUR-TOUCH PHOBIA

There’s a blank sheet of paper

screaming for colour

and I dare not touch it,

not even with fingertip

or gaze

for I know nothing

of tragedies and triumphs

poised for a dive

that cannot be reversed. 

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days'] 

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ON COLOUR, TENDER

Pastel shades

are made of pain

persistence,

tumouring

          heart-shredding with love-blade

they offer immortalizing kiss

and drain life with smile

and so unlike hard-colour,

that peculiar wash of friendship

disavowal and fear of ambiguity

the sliced and secured arrogance

that definitive afternoon cup of tea

drawn from knowing.

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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