Rambled Darkness

 Tossing and turning

I stare at my husband envious

whose eyelids cling like new lovers

the moment his form turns horizontal.

His snores, my sole armour 

to face every nocturnal demon 

visiting  each towering night

till my exhausted thoughts droop.

 

BUCKET LIST

 It set me thinking, do I even have a bucket list not sure 

never heard the word before when I was young

Why is it called  a bucket list? 

Do we really need to have lists to fulfil

Is contentment a bygone word

or erased from dictionaries

I knew only one list and that's the grocery list

the very word sounds closed

an what are the rules of a bucket list?

do we need to keep filling it,

once it is  ticked?

I wonder, the word bucket conjures a n image of the 

deserts in Africa, where women walk long to carry buckets of water

do they know what's a bucket list

yeah, maybe carrying buckets of water.

CONFESSION

A petty bruise meant seeking attention

struggle a word, I sulked when it came near me

setbacks made me irritable and moody

impatient was my disliked decades old prefix. 

Pain now seems pleasure, struggle is liberating,

hinderances happen, patience is to sit still

every failure is a mirror one must gaze hard

 blessed  to have stumbled on these new definitions.

Dripping late in my life these truths seem priceless 

growing up definitely was smiles and laughter

yet never realised while I was growing 

that bliss is acknowledging and learning 

and talking to self first than with others.

Still a long road ahead, yet each day seems so joyful

potholes and road blocks do surface often

I possess no magic wand yet feel calm

Spend more time with yourself 

to figure out who you are

and embrace whatever comes your way

acquiring tools to equip each day.

INCOMPLETE BREATH

The last two years seem like eternity

each day a prelude closer to face of death

some escaped, some were caught unawares.

It sprang upon us in myriads of ways

sneaking around the corner waiting with bated breath

deluding humans of the untaught art of breathing.

Patients lie helpless on bed, tubes and pipes strapped

Every time the visual props on television

My heart breaks into million pieces.

My scattered pieces can still be gathered and joined

What about  of those 

who lost their loved ones struggling to breathe.

Fragmented units of families who lost their solitary bread earner

moist flakes of old parents whose only child is buried

tattered shreds of the abandoned spouse who has to relearn to live.

They all scrape each corner of their heart 

for any memories of their left breath

their only solace to survive on this lonely planet.

 

THE GATE

I shut that door years back and padlocked with lock and key

When did the rusted key find its way back to the weathered lock

Ambition engulfed my persona and squeezed every ounce of me

every minute at the work environs years back

Lo and behold, baffled was I to have not been considered for a rise

Resigned, I sought refuge in home tutoring and other obliterated interests 

A single call last evening opened a floodgate of tucked emotions

A familiar voice from workplace requesting to join after five years of lull

I am needed now, should I be happy or sad, I interrogated myself 

Surprisingly my inner voice rested the churning mind

My thoughts and emotions now adorn new costumes each time I write

Blank pages look more radiant with swaying words than ramp walks

Calmness does prefer my companionship more often

Owe it to meditation too, my five year old friend 

I politely declined the offer feeling no regret, life is strange

I said no to what I craved most few years ago.

Happiness is such a beautiful feeling

when we say no to life's litter.

I locked the gate firmly and threw the key away now

in an unknown sea where no one can find.

 

 

SONG OF AUTUMN

The sheer beauty of the colour of emptiness

be it in the silence of the mind  or in the silence of the heart.

How I yearn to be as hushed as the autumn leaves which fall

having  quietly  lived their tenure with

no expectations of appraisals and performance bonuses.

In the stillness of the dawn, another leaf takes birth 

the tree quietly bearing motherly pains and ignorant of delivery rooms

unaware of protein shakes or diet plans

surviving on what food the period has to offer.

The stoic nature of trees to let go of the leaves it nursed

standing on its own, waiting to rebloom with no pressured deadlines.

Such a beautiful fragrance it offers, the lull of the barren autumn

neither gloating nor belching in what it had, 

dispensing every hue and aroma

and yet confronting  a unique sense of fulfilment.

BODIES

 Bodies on buses flagging arms and limp legs

in tired colours of creased green, blue or red

sloppily loaded every morning and evening

to destinations with no charm or shade.

I see them everywhere on weekdays and weekends

the colour of thankless jobs changing with car speed

cutting grass, building stadiums, laying roads

herds of them clustered sharing meals 

under biting heat and pricking chills

every dime earned in this foreign land

weighs heavier in their country

dreams of tiny faces somewhere 

wrinkled or bangled aspirations 

elsewhere tied to it.

no smile awaits to welcome each evening 

no soothing hands to wipe sweat

 or  tears of frustration.

home cooked warm food, a luxury once 

every two years 

their lives squished by  colossal loans 

and dubious agents 

fatigue and loneliness

their constant companions

toil is the only language their bodies utter

their colour of skin same as my brown

 other's privileged eyes pose before

 museums and beaches 

their glued eyes struggle to open

after  each day's drudgery.