Egalité

Try to wrap your head around the fact

That 

A feminist only wants 

Equality. 

A penny for a penny,

Credit where it's due,

Opportunities to shine 

(Specially when you're a born shooting star).

I'm not snatching away

Your share of the feast, Men.

I am only claiming my seat

On this table.

I wonder why we are so hated

When what we essentially fight for

And dream of

Is acceptance and respect

And the abolishment of boundaries

That segregate girls and boys;

Telling the boy he is better

Simply because of a lacking chromosome,

Telling the girl she is inferior

Simply for having an opinion.

If you hate a feminist

Then perhaps now is the time

To wash off your hate

While you scrub away at your hands.

Emulate Lady Macbeth, for once.

Wash away the millenia 

Of jealous lies told by insecure men

That strong women are witches,

Girls with loud voices are harlots,

Feminists are evil dikes who burn bras.

No, we are not.

We are lovers, doctors, mothers,

And everything else in the rainbow

Just like our sons and our fathers.

We don't hate men, 

We birth them. 

Move quietly and respectfully 

As we take our rightful seats on the table

And nobody gets hurt.

Otherwise

Another entire generation

Grows up believing a lie

That serves no one, once again.

Try to stop saying 'feminist'

Like it's a virus that must be culled.

(It's like cringing as you utter an adjective

About manliness.

Nobody cringes when you're called macho).

It's a good word; say it proudly.

And as you are stuck at home

On another perfect day

Repeat after me-

I will promise to always let you have

Your share of the feast.

This world is to beautiful

And life is too short

For such manmade concoctions

Of hatred.

Airport Mystique

What is it about that damp caffeinated smell that all airports around the world seem to bear? It electrifies me, drives away my sleep no matter how close to dawn or midnight the hour hand might be. You could be ordering a beer or testing a new makeup pallette at 5am and that would still be ordinary; mundane, even. And there's something about this that emancipates me and makes me feel like I'm about to embark upon an exciting adventure. 

I miss seeing men and women in suits dragging their trolleys towards security check-points wearing an air of importance. I miss seeing kids going berserk as their harrowed parents try to reign them in, away from toy stores that entice them and duty-free chocolate stalls with the choicest offerings in the land. I miss holding my husband's hand as we stroll past all of this with a new stamp on our passports, itinerary for the next day ready in my trusted old planner, bags on our backs and no cellular reception. 

We've seen the world together, but like Holly Golightly rightly sang, there's such a lot of world to see. I want to see the pyramids as the sun sets against their golden peaks. I want to climb the Andes and pet llamas in Machu Picchu. I want to swim with my son in the Maldivian waters. I want to rent a little cottage in Scotland and wait till the Loch Ness monster shows up. I want to win money in the casinos in Las Vegas and fly a chopper over the Grand Canyon. I want to taste different types of cheese with my parents in an Alpine village. 

But somehow, most of all, I want to be at an airport at some distant corner of the world where nobody knows me but my partner. 

I imagine him looking at me from afar as I walk towards him; he's holding our bags and smiling a silly smile at me. I smile back at him because it's just too contagious to ignore his dimple. "Should we get some coffee?" he asks. "There's still an hour before our next flight". 

"Fine. I wonder what they'll serve for breakfast on the plane. I hope they have croissants!" I reply. And we walk on towards the nearest cafe in the food court, holding hands, butterflies in our tummies because we're happy and excited about the journey up ahead.

I can't wait to travel again. 

Insomnia

I'm closing in on you, Sleep.

Quiet as a leopardess,

Light as a fleeting thought,

With the stealth 

Of a seasoned mariner

Escaping merciless tides and whirlpools.

I'm closing in on you,

Sleep. 

Tonight shall be about 

Dreaming

And resting

And leaving behind 

A sick trail of insomnia

So that it may drip down

Into the cup of another

Less fortunate soul

Fated to lay with open eyes

As the moon waxes and wanes

And their lover pulls away

Their hands 

To cradle their own dreams.

Nope.

Maybe we shall meet again

On a sunnier morning,

When the marigolds are

In full bloom,

Like glorious little drops of sunshine,

When a jazzier song is playing

And I'm waltzing 

With the love of my life.

We look at the open door

And smile 

At this most charming visitor.

"It's been so long since we met,

Honey".

You smile back at us

And we hug, like mother and child.

And I shut that door down.

It will never open again,

And you will never have to leave. 

Son

What could I write

To perfectly describe you?

I don't know enough adjectives,

The moon pales in comparison,

And the constellations seem

Like unrelated sploshes of ink.

But then,

Perhaps I could compare you

To a sunflower

Blooming in yellow glory,

Always looking up-

A beacon of positivity.

Tall stemmed, golden petaled,

Joyous and uplifting

The brightness of my life,

And the life of the garden

Where you have been planted to bloom.

Social Distancing

Separated by a comma

And an ocean,

Like a hyphenated surname

That is meant to join

But shows definite distinction.

We sit in different countries

Waiting for the storm to pass

And reveal a brighter page

Of this horror story.

But for now, let's rely upon

Summer

To sweat our brains out

So that when we finally 

Get to dance together,

It isn't on a camera screen

But in real life-

Like a bouquet of flowers 

Swaying in unison 

To a beautiful breeze 

That is God's exhalation to announce-

The storm has passed. 

Ownership

So many great poets 

Whose works I feed upon

Take days and weeks and months

To churn out Pulitzer winning

Masterpieces. 

And I-

I sit on the edge of the bed

Hiding behind my own shadow

Thumbs on my phone

Furiously excreting honesty

With no rhyme scheme,

No guarantees of fruition,

And no before or after. 

My poetry takes ten minutes

But also a lifetime 

And once it leaves my head

Like liquid ink on paper,

It dries into a reality

That shall always remain to be

Mine.