December 29, 2012

Inaudible Whispers

They set aside a day each month - a day for confessions.
They seek neither redemption nor the punishment of ten Hail Marys.
They confess the little ways they'd hurt or disappointed each other, and themselves.
Unlike conventional wisdom, it acts as their catharsis.

None of us are perfect - 
and when we hold others to higher moral standards,
than we subject ourselves -
we are just begging to be lied to.

December 25, 2012

Lady Writer

She retrieves a notebook and a pencil from her shoulder bag.
She likes to think of herself as a writer for whom the world,
in all its mundane or spectacular manifestations, offers up raw materials,
sometimes in huge chunks, sometimes in fragments so unremarkable
they are easily overlooked. She reaches for these offerings and
sets about arranging and rearranging the imperfect,
incomplete bits and pieces of life. She will add snippets
of her modest knowledge, apply her imagination,
hoping that facts and details can be transformed into fiction.

After all there is a writer in everyone of us !

A feast of longing

December 16, 2012

Time it was, and what a time it was (2)

It was typical of her.
She was the type of person who preserved -
pickled, jelled, marinated and bottled -
                The restaurant and the delivery receipts all had few words scribbled on the back,
                recorded in her small,precise, slightly feminine handwriting,
                marking the occasion as indelible.
All the recipes in their cookbooks were dated,
indicating the first time they had cooked and eaten the dish together.
January 23, shrimp carbonara with pancetta
March 7, ricotta gnocchi with fresh kale.

There are these and others.
They're all that's left of her.

December 11, 2012

It must have been the roses

Tonight she did not browse at the pavement stalls where colours,
sharp and pungent, stung the dark.
No stop at the florists, nor at the glass stall to look
for one perfect crystal rose to delight the eye.
Past the bookstall now,
and the rows and rows of shoes,
heeled, flapped, strapped, gleaming or lush with soft suede or velvet,
begging scurrying feet to stop and step in.

She saw the street for all that,
a long precious rug unrolling itself,
revealing pattern after pattern of recognition.

December 2, 2012

Heaven knows I am miserable now

After dinner she goes for a drive. This calls for comment,
but there is a chore luckily remembered. With some difficulty, 
she dodges kind offers of company.

The chore done, she swings into the highway. The blackness
is a comfort. The beads of headlamps swing and scatter. Her foot 
down on the accelerator, she zooms past cars, buses and bikes,
wondering how much longer the ancient car will hold out.
The only way is to plough into oncoming traffic at the lights.

But this she cannot bring herself to do.