I Remember (1)

I remember her eyes. There was something eerie about them. I can almost see her now like I did four years ago. She was dark and thin, but there was strength in those eyes, in their depth. The way she blinks and widens them. I still get goose bumps whenever I remember them. She was feeble but her upper arms were strong, thin but steady like her icy eyes.
I was about to jump into the waiting cab when the back door flung opened and our eyes met. Mine held, even when hers dropped to straighten her floral skirt. I hardly stare or take much notice of strangers but for some reasons I was glued to that spot. I was frozen. Now, when I think of it, I still have no idea why I paused.
When she looked up, I looked away, embarrassed like a child caught peeping through a key hole. Then I saw a young man, maybe her brother judging from the same set of full upper lips and oversized nose, he looked worn out in a dirty jeans and faded t-shirt holding her wheel chair. I stepped back to give him room, just realising then that I was blocking the cab. I couldn’t stop myself from watching their well mastered performance of moving her from the car to the chair. How she folded and shrank her body into a ball, her hands hugging her chest to make it easier for him to lift her into the wheelchair. I was enthralled. Then our eyes met again. I turned and hurried on to get another cab even as the driver was calling me to come back. As I was about to to step onto the cab, I glanced back and our eyes met, again. Hers hardened and then widened, with contempt? I have no idea. I wondered why at first, then I realised she must find it irritating. I wished then that I could show her my thoughts. Or maybe she was offended that I didn’t take the cab? I sighed and closed the door.
I tried not to look to my right as I rode to lecture. But I couldn’t stop my head from wandering to her. I pictured her bathing, dressing, growing from girlhood to womanhood. I wondered if she had a boyfriend. Will she have children, know the joy of motherhood? Then I saw another boy hopping on one leg and a wooden crutch. I wondered what happened to him too, was he born that way, or an accident? How does he survive every day knowing tomorrow would be the same? What does he do when in danger? Who looks out for him? Who takes care of them all? I didn’t have to wait too long to find out. As I didn’t return to my home or bed until four months later. I spent those months in a surgical ward in a front row view watching “Behind the Scene of an Amputee Life”.
Now, I know.

My Yesterday

Yesterday, I didn’t know I’d be here
My day was so peaceful and gay
I had no inkling of this moment
Oh, I long for my yesterday

Now, when I pause to think of it
How could you be so tricky?
If you’d warned me I’d be ready
For this moment in my today

Suddenly, I’m not where I used to be
Clearly, I’m not where I wanted to be
Where are you taking me today?
So punic you are my yesterday

The Woman in the Mirror (1)

I saw her today, this morning. I have seen her every day for as long as I can remember. But today, I really saw her, the woman in the mirror, when she told me her story.
When she was a young girl, she would only look in the mirror to check if her hair was well brushed. To see if her appearance was modest enough for the church. She couldn’t stay too long because it was vain. When she became a lady, she would sit in front of the mirror to admire her beauty. She would stare just to revel in her freedom to do so for as long as she could. She would squint, then widen her eyes, pout and pucker her lips, roll her tongue and finally gently applied her make-up. She would take extra care on her big black eyes and sumptuous lips. And then she would stare some more to admire her handiwork.
Today, she looked nothing like the girl or the lady. She is a woman. A woman who stared long and hard in the mirror but saw nothing of her exquisite beauty. A woman who now looked into the face in the mirror, beyond the face, into the woman to see her soul, her heart, her journey. A woman who bears no resemblance to the girl or the lady.

MERRY-GO-ROUND

Like a merry-go-round
I’m travelling in circles
Trying to find my way to me

I used to think everybody
Is moving on without me
But we’re all the same person
Moving in circles

Like a merry-go-round
I’m travelling in circles
Trying to find my way to me

What if the ride
Is not the way to me?
What if I don’t have
To come back to me?
What if the road to me?
Is to lose myself
Inside myself

All I’ve been doing
Is traveling in circles
Like a merry-go-round
Trying to find my way to me

Ride me home
Merry-go-round
I’ll never let go
Till I know
If this road
Leads to me

Breaking Her Rules

No agony is greater than the yoke
Men fastened round my love
Her lines they bounded with metres
Her flow they have blocked with patterns and rhymes
Her end they constrain with rules
I crave the freedom to paint her as I deem fit
She’s born of my thoughts and feelings
Sorrow would be less so
If there were rules to grieving
I’m breaking her rules

No Words

Today, I have no words
Qualified enough to describe
The depth of my pain
I have no words
Huge enough to describe
The emptiness in my heart
I have no word
Worthy of the thickness
Of the darkness drowning my soul
I have no words
Colorful enough to express
My desires for each day
That hurries by without their fulfilment
Or for the wishes I have for tomorrow
No words deep enough to form my fears
Of what the future holds
I pray, dear father that you look deep into my heart
And find the words that my lips cannot form
Soothe my worries
And grant my supplications

Shades of Freedom (4)

Freedom is walking barefoot
In the morning drizzle
Taking a leak while at it
Purging your mind of all its cares

Freedom is taking a stroll
On a bright moon day
Imagining you’re the brightest star
On which men make their wishes

Ray of Hope

How sweet to lie beneath
The wondrous beauty of a new dawn
To bask in the freshness and soothing
Caress of the morning breeze
How sweet to leave the shadow
Of yesterdays behind
And embrace the new day
The tender glow of sunrise
Radiating hope