Train Journey II

Woman with backpack arrives at the station.
The indicators flash names of towns far off,
which call out to her.

Buys a ritual coffee on the platform.
She watches hawkers sell books, tissues, bhel, fruits,
and yes, chocolate.

The smell of chlorine mingled with that of food
Together form essence of railway station-
the smell of travel.

The announcements go on, try to catch the words
The train whistle is condensed wanderlust.
Are the trains on time?

Finally the platform vibrates; her soul thrums.
Happiness is the race to board one’s carriage,
She’s going away.

Companionship

I sit outside writing by moonlight and smile,
delighting in the moon’s embrace
She caresses my body with silver
How lucky to find such a friend tonight!

I look up, grateful for her attention
She kisses my eyes, lips part in welcome.
Moves downwards to caress my neck, arms, breasts
My toes curling in anticipation.

But now, the moon is a gentle lover
Stays close, is a silent companion.
Was happiness born in this moment?
Or is this a warmth I remember?

Someone stirs. I must end this, or try to
All that’s left is a question in my mind.
Dear moon, while you were here with me,
Somewhere, were you making love to him, too?

on writing

Emotions trapped inside
Clamour to get out

Knock on the walls
Spill out in a red tide

Only to fade and die
Suppressed by a lack

Of the tools to create
Or the will to try

Finally wait no longer
In fury, seize the

Shell they inhabit
Drag hand across paper

sorry

It has been a long time since I left
Since then, I have thought of you as my past.
You, however, continue to reach out
Undeterred by the walls I have put up.
Do I like, or resent your trying?
This faith that there is, and can be a us?
An instance of your innocence
That conforms to the image in my mind.
A boy saying his prayers before bed
Eyes shut tight, face tense with concentration.
Is this the same man I am grateful to?
You smiled at me curled up against your chest,
Looked at me with desire in your gaze.
Taught all my life that nothing is my due,
What I feel the most is gratitude.
Thank you, thank you for making love to me.
I woke that night, and all because of you
I am indebted to you, but oh,
I am not in love. I do not love you.

three loves

3. Your kisses rain down
My mouth is still parched
Outside, normality waits.

2. A cold wet road
You and I going home
This car is so wide.

1. This world of the living
Others know you
Why not I?

Predator

The scavenger waits her turn,
Lets all others leave the feast.
Stays outside peering at the kill
Bloody meat, eaten with pleasure
Not for her, not for her.

She shuffles towards the remnants,
A scrap of sinew, cracked bone.
Eaten in fear and guilt
Full maw, sated hunger
Not for her, not for her.

The thrill of the chase,
The panic of the flight.
The terror of the prey
The joy of the hunter
Not for her, not for her.

One day she takes to flight,
Spies a runt, swoops down.
Bypasses bigger game
Strong prey’s a fighter
Not for her, not for her.

Finally the prey’s down,
Red blood, warm flesh.
But in her mind’s eye,
Terrified glance, torn fur.
Not for her! Not for her!

Days pass, hunger returns.
The wretchedness of a scavenger,
The ruthlessness of a predator.
Not for her. Not for her.
More an outcast than ever.

Random poems.

'Dream Deferred'
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

-- Langston Hughes