To Your Lover, Whoever He May Be

Life is very often murky

With curves and lines

That confuse or divide;

There is quite often

War

Raging in some land,

Or in some homes,

Or at least in several hearts.

There is quite often

Despair

Drenching blue skies

And washing away 

A happy flush from a young face. 

Life is often unfair

Handing out problems to you

Like an unforgiving mistress.

So if you find a lover

Who gives you a kiss

To welcome a new morn,

Who rubs your shoulders

When the cold winds strike,

And who smiles the widest

When you win 

Hold him by the hand

And carry him to eternity

Because we don't know 

About afterlives,

But we do know of today. 

And love is the language

That happiness speaks. 

Thirty

Soon it shall be

My thirtieth winter;

The thought makes me look up

To the heavens,

Outstretched hands 

Like an albatross of the seas,

Eyes round like garnets

On a Persian crown

With a reluctant crinkle

That protests against the sun-

I look up at God-

Or at least the version of Him

That I know and live with-

And he tells me

To turn over to the next page

And fill it with a riot

Of brilliant ideas,

And raging madness,

And flowing ink,

And thirty more reasons 

To announce to the world

Why I am his favourite child.

This is about gratitude

As much as it is 

About age.

Bed

The last thoughts from the day
Leave my head;
The lights are off,
The curtains are drawn-
We don't need dawn
Disturbing any dreams.

Blanket over my body,
Eyes blind without my glasses;
I'm ready
For a night of heavy dreaming
And then
Waking up
To the sound of your soft kiss
Leaving your lips
And settling on my neck.

Triumphant

A head-shake here,
And a dismissive wave of the hand,
And there's that look of disdain
That paints me wet
With discouragement and doubt.
Perhaps my ideas
Aren't golden enough to please,
Not bourgeois enough
To raise eyebrows
Or draw envy from the first row snobs.
You keep saying it with your silence.
Not good enough.

But art isn't meant to appease;
It confounds,
Discombobulates,
Questions,
And eventually triumphs
Even when you don't understand
That the big red dot
Was never just a dot.
The black canvas
Was the universe as the audience
And the big red dot was me-
Victorious in my battles,
Blushing brightly
In the face of universal applause.

Sunrise, Everyday

Another pretty sunrise-
A flirtation of pinks
With the darkness
That's in denial of its departure;
An early bird is the spectator
To this little exchange
Of colours in the sky-
As am I.
Sunrise after sunrise,
I watch and I learn-
For the darkness to leave
The light must remain persistent,
Positive,
Unyielding.
My battles are my own,
But so are my victories;
And for now, this sunrise
Is victory enough.
Yesterday is over.

Jaipur

Ripples make their way
To each unforgiving stretchmark
On my thighs, my belly,
And I splash my arms about
In protective denial.
A peacock swoons
Over another golden sunset,
That blesses the Thar.
The peahen stands
In the shadows-
Evading admiration or awe-
Quiet spectator to the sun's exit.
The ginger ale grows heavy
On my tongue as I stare-
You are so oblivious
To the charm you exude
When your skin is wet
And eyes unfocused.
I know you aren't thinking
Much,
I know thoughts pass like clouds,
But you do wonder
If we shall stay the same
As the years go by,
As the children grow older,
As the memories gain weight-
Shall we still be
Two drops of rosewater
United as one
To rest on a happy petal?
Shall we still be such
That when you dream,
I sprout wings and soar?
Yes we shall, I think.

My darling, we shall.

Compass

It has been a dry year
For the creative hemisphere
Of this mama's head-
Filled usually (and newly)
With thoughts of my child
When previously
There wasn't much else
Than ideas to unleash on paper
Or a blank shot
To fire through
An undivided head
Focused on nothing else
But travel, feasting, love,
And free-spirited lazing
On balmy afternoons,
And uneventful evenings.

And now I fight the hourglass
For a quiet moment
To hear the thoughts in my head,
See the bottom of my coffee mug,
Eat the last pizza crust;
But I don't miss that life;
I don't miss that directionless wandering
Into a comfortable haze-
My son is my compass.
He's led me home.