Awaiting Narcissus

When I Think

When I think of perfection,
I think about your smile;
When I think of a destination,
I think about your arms;
When I think of peace,
I think about your words;
When I think of you,
I think about heaven.

Medical History

Observing him for the first time since he brought her home, she noticed his bright eyes changed from green to grey and then, a mystifyingly maddening blue. She smiled as he handed her the swirling ochre drink. His room, illuminated by flickering candles positioned carefully around it, was furnished sparingly. 

“Lonely,” she mused; smiling into the alluring spectrum of his eyes as he shyly gazed at her.

“Sometimes,” he sighed nervously, his burnt orange eyes reflecting the wavering flame between them.

The paraphiliac, intensely aroused, floated over to him and seated herself in his lap. “Tell me,” she cooed.

I Am a Failure

To you
My writing has no import,
My reading no class.

You make all my words
Seem like carcasses of thoughts,
My thoughts
Irrational whims.

Nothing I do or say
Is enough to win your respect,
You would have me love you,
You tell me 
you love me too.

Your apathy to my desires
Sometimes makes me wonder,
Do you love me,
Or the way 
I love you?

Dreams and Realities

Your silhouette,
strong against the darkness
of my soul,
Fills my heart
with a yearning
so overwhelming that
I swoon.

Your breath
plays with rhythms
in a symphony of
whispers in my ear
reviving,
reinventing,
rejuvenating,
my innermost secrets.

Oh, the ecstasy
of first love!
Oh, the fervour
of that first touch!

Those moments,
hushed in their decline,
are no more.

Memories,
agonisingly persistent,
remain.

Published

Two of my poems at Alors, Et Toi?

Another one

really old one

All things girl

All things girl again

Scream

Scream: collected poems
Edited by Jewels Johnson 

The general consensus in the world of publishing is that people don't want to read poetry any more. Publishers have canonized dead poets and then laid them to rest. Gravestones adorn the shelves of every mainstream bookshop. Meanwhile, the new poets, the new voices have been stifled, reduced to a muffled cry from beyond the catacombs. They are screaming to be heard.

These poets scream in this anthology

Buy here: $14.95 + P&P

The Poets  U.V. RAY, Trace Sheridan, Toni Lopes, Tom Gant, Steven Hand, Sophia Argyris, Shea Garrity, Shannon Dunmyer, Scott Harris, Sara Pascoe,Samantha Mcquillen, Robert James Egan, Robert Capps, Rabab Khan, Peter Budvietas, Paul Coman, Omotayo Olaoye, Nicole Hester-Francis, Nick Linde, Niccole Segura, Mike Snowdon, Mercedes Dawson, Meleina Backhaus, Mea Lee Thomas, Lolly G, Leo Chasseur, Lana Burke, Lahana Mysteria, Judy Kaber, Joni Ramos, John Arthur, Jewels Johnson, Jenni Meredith, James Gormley, Jack Thomas, Isobel Edment, Hayden C. Clear,George Wood, Gabrielle Faust, Freda Veluz, Eric Schwartz, Dee Toth-Jones,David Dannov, Dan Beck, Corey Evans, Colin Williamson, Colin Dardis,Cheryl Marren, Billie the Kid, Antonio Beadall, Annmarie O'Connor, Amanda Walczesky

Longing

Decisions

Darling, you may drown me
If you wish
Watch the bubbles
Emerge to the rippling surface
From obscure sapphire depths
Silent evermore
I shall smile
As you vaguely stare.

Darling, you may bury me
If you wish.
Let the last glitters
Of earth in your fingers,
Flow down to rest.
Beneath the liberating mounds
I shall breathe in
The fragrance of your touch.

Dear...

I have something to tell you. 

You would think it's a rat, roaming around inside the walls. It makes a strange, scratching sound like someone trying to get out. I, of course, will never let it escape. Why should I? It never would come back if I did. I feel better with it trapped inside the substantial walls of my house, always moaning and screeching to be let free again.  

Some nights, I lie awake listening to it beseeching me and I snort at its desperation. Oh, what consolation I feel hearing it hammering away at my walls. My walls are too thick to be broken, too strong to be penetrated and too tight to let it breathe easily. The joy! I can sometimes feel it carousing through my whole being like cool silver, energising my very soul. I rub my hands in triumph for what I have achieved is something no mortal could ever do. It is the thought of this victory that keeps me going through life.

In the supermarket, I sympathise with all the people hounded by theirs, for mine is locked up. I see them hustle from corner to corner, from shelf to shelf with their kids and their problems all in one, big parcel. Outside, everyone is in a scurry to get somewhere. Me? I just saunter along nonchalantly, smiling at the drivers honking in the traffic jam. I am in no hurry.

Tonight, it wants to talk to me. It reminds me about everything I'm missing.
"You have to let me move on! This is not the way it was meant to be," it argues.
"I don't think so!" I reply with a smirk. "You must learn what it's like to wait. You must wait...for me!"
It persists. "You don't understand! Think about all the changes that have happened...."
I interrupt it, "What changes? I'm the same and nothing has changed." I blissfully tell it about my life and the serenity that I now feel.
It is frustrated soon and starts its banging and screeching again.
I am happy.

One fall evening, when the ground was thick with leaves as yellow as a dead man, I had decided to get rid of it. Nothing could touch me after I had bolted that door. Since then, I have been bold, for I had thrown in all my fears of tomorrow with it. I no longer have them to keep me stirring at night. I now sleep tranquilly when I want to. I have no appointments to keep. I have no one to wait for.

It is talking again. With a festering tongue and a voice hollowed with my barrenness, it begs me. My ears take in the whining and my senses are fed.

Somewhere, inside me, a voice still calls occasionally. A voice from happier days, a voice from before that fall evening. It asks me to move on. It has become easier to drown it now.

You can't hurt me anymore with your almond eyes, your enthralling smile and all that you took away with you into the grave that fall evening. Unseen leaves float noiselessly to the ground and it is always autumn for me.

Self Deception

Why do you tell me
Not to love you so?
It seems
My love is a burden that weighs
Down on your shoulders,
But I believe
What seems,
Is not what is.

Father Part 4

' He is really well-dressed and graceful,' she thought as he knocked at
the door. She was so engrossed in watching him that she didn't realise
it had been five minutes since he had been standing there.

'Mother, Uncle Sikander still hasn't opened the door,' she shouted.

Maybe a bit too loud because the young man turned around and looked
straight at her. She whipped away from the window and blushed when she
realised that he most probably thought she had been ogling him. She
was startled by the ring of the doorbell. She peeped out of the window
and the young man had vanished. Incredulously, she opened the door and
saw the young man with a worried look on his face.

' Um, I was wondering if you could help me?' he hesitated.

'Who is it?' asked her mother from the kitchen.

Shamim looked at the young man and he said ' My name is Taimoor and I am
the grandson of Mr. Sikander. Can you tell me if he is at home?'

'Well, he was when Shamim went there a few minutes ago,' said her mother
appearing behind her. 'Wait, I have the spare keys to his house. We
should check if he is O.K.' she said walking to the key hook next to
the door.

Shamim looked at the ground and sensed Taimoor's eyes scrutinising her
face.

'Here they are,' said her mother holding up the keys. 'Now lets see what
he's up to.'

All three walked to Sid's house and Shamim's mother unlocked the door.
There was a gasp from Taimoor and a scream from Shamim as they entered
the small room and saw the small old man lying huddled on the floor.
The always practical lady, Shamim's mother, hurried towards him and
pronounced ' He's dead!'

Shamim stifled her scream and stared wide-eyed at the kind old man who
always volunteered to help her with her homework.

' How is it possible? I just left him a few minutes ago and he was fine
moving about arranging things and all. He was so excited about his
grandson coming to meet him,' whispered Shamim.

Taimoor moved towards the old man he vaguely remembered as his
grandfather. He stroked the wrinkles on the old, loved face and closed
his eyes.

'He was too happy! Too happy! Just couldn't handle all the happiness!'
he whispered as he held up an old photograph that had been clutched in
Sid's hand. Shamim saw it was the photograph of a young boy sitting on
Sid's shoulders. Below the picture she saw a scrawled word: Aly!

Mortal Coil

Oh, to lie beneath the stars!
Permit the echoes,
Silence blows my way,
Soothe and calm
My inner world.
Unlike the hum,
From treasured dreams,
Of splinters embedded
In my soul.

Oh, to lie upon the clouds!
Let the softness,
Of non existence,
Heal and mend
My worn spirit.
Unlike the abrasive
Slash and cut
Of taboos chafing
Against my heart.


Oh, to lie today!
And be allowed to lie
For ever more.

The Innocents

She believed in angels,
in starry nights and
rainbow coloured dreams.

She believed in smiles,
in flying bears and
bright pink fairies.

She believed in love,
in joyful giving and
warm glowing togetherness.

This little dove,
In a dress stained crimson
and cheeks lacking skin,
What does she believe now,
as she lies strewn over the battle field?

Father Part 3

As soon as Aly got a job, his attitude towards his parents changed. He
thought they were old fashioned and slow. After leaving for a position abroad,
he didn't even return when his mother died. Sid sighed as he
thought of that day when he had returned home to find his beloved wife
lying on the ground, dead. After the burial, he tried calling Aly but
the only answer he received was from his wife who told him that Aly was
away for a tour with his friends. Aly came back to Pakistan when his
company offered him a lucrative position. That was when Taimoor was
born. Sid cherished the time he had spent with his grandson until he
was four years old. Aly was returning abroad and had decided that Sid
didn't need the large house in Islamabad as he was living alone. So,
Sid had been moved to this one-room place in Rawalpindi where he
received his monthly stipend from his son.

Sid was called back to reality by a knock on the door. He ambled to the
door and opened it to see a smiling Shamim holding a box in her hands.

' My cake!' hooted Sid clapping his hands together.

' Yes, Uncle Sikander, it is your delicious chocolate cake' said Shamim
moving it towards him. ' It also has extra chocolate shavings as a gift
from me,' she told a grinning Sid.

'You are an angel, my dear!' exclaimed Sid taking the cake from her and
moving towards the table.

'I thought I should bring it to save you the trouble of walking to my
house' she said as she walked in behind him. She took the cake from
Sid's shaking hands and arranged it neatly in the centre of the scanty
table.

'Aly's stipend barely covers his daily food cost, mother,' fumed an
enraged Shamim to her mother after she got back home.

'I know, dear. There is nothing poor Sikander can do about it. He worked
for a private company which sacked him when he reached 50. With no
savings and a bad health, he has no other choice,' sighed her mother as
she cut the vegetables.

Shamim looked out of the window and saw a car stop in front of Sid's
house.

'I think the grandson is here,' she said watching closely as a good
looking young man rolled down the window and looked at the number on
Sid's door.

' Well, I hope the son is better than his father ever was!' said
Shamim's mother getting up and smoothing the wrinkles in her shirt.

' Uncle Sikander is still not ready to hear anything negative about his
son! Can you believe that?' inquired Shamim turning around to help her
mother clean up.

Her mother smiled sadly and lovingly patted her daughter's head.

'You will understand it, my child, when you have children of your own.'

Shamim went back to the window and smiled as she saw the young man
walking towards Sid's door.

Father Part 2

Sid sat up with a jolt as he realized he was picturing the homecoming of
his son not his grandson!

'What is wrong with me?' he thought shaking his head vigorously as he
got out of bed.

'It isn't as easy as it used to be,' he screamed out as his joints
cracked with every move. ' But today is a special day' he said and,
pulling himself together, he waddled off to the kitchen.

At first he was surprised to see that it was clean and tidy but then he
remembered that he had done that before going to bed last night. 'nine
thirty five' said the clock in the kitchen, not much time before
Taimoor gets here. It was a good thing that he had requested Shamim,
his next-door neighbour's daughter, to bake a cake for him. He would
have to mow her lawn in return for the favour but that didn't matter as
chocolate cake was Taimoor's favourite. He set about arranging things,
in his only room, for breakfast.

The warmth of yesterday's phone call was still fresh in his heart as he
placed the plates on the table. Taimoor had called him at Shamim's
phone number, he couldn't afford a phone himself, and said that he
wanted to meet him. He still couldn't believe that his grandson wanted
to see him when his father had decided it was impossible to keep him in
the house. The house that he had built with his sweat and blood, the
house that his loving wife had decorated with her savings. They had
been so happy in that house and the arrival of their longed for only
son had made it an even happier place.

Aly's first day at school had been difficult-not for Aly but for his
parents. They couldn't trust the people in that place called school
with their darling.

'Would they understand his feelings? Would they see the potential behind
his quiet nature? Would they let him have his way as they did?' These
were only a few of the worries that plagued the parents of the
resolute young boy who walked into school. His teachers, however, did-
as teachers often do- see the darkness that lurked behind the small,
dark eyes. When Aly was in eighth grade, his teachers summoned the
parents to school to talk about his selfish and disdainful nature. They
told Sid and his wife that Aly showed a total disregard for other's
feelings and his own responsibilities. Sid, who flared up at the
notion, screamed at the teachers and abused them for maligning the
character of his perfect son. So, Aly changed schools. He
changed it again when he was in his final year of high school due to a
similar situation. Being a brilliant young man, Aly was admitted into one
of the best universities of the country where he scored outstanding
grades. He was employed by the most successful multi nationals of the
world and that was when the trouble began.

Father

The small room felt so much larger today to the man
propped on the bed in front of the lone window. He sensed a change in 
the wind coming through the flimsy curtains that hung down in tatters 
behind him. The room had acquired a brightness notwithstanding the 
peeling paint on the walls and Sid, as people called him, felt on top 
of the world. His 19 year old grandson was coming to visit. It had been 
15 years since he had seen Aly, 15 long years he had spent in this 
small one room house with no one to smile and tell him he was loved. He 
chuckled to himself as he thought of the time when his grandson had been 
born a tiny premature baby. 

He had been waiting outside the labor room when the nurse came out
smiling and holding a tiny bundle in her arms. He had suddenly been 
transported back 28 years to a similar place with a different nurse and 
a different baby-his son. It seemed like yesterday when he had held his 
first and only son in his arms and gazed down into his puffy face. Now 
he was smiling down at what he had helped to create-his grandson. A 
beautiful baby with his high nose that had run in the family for years. 
Sid smiled now as he thought of the day they had brought him home and 
his wife had laid him down in the pretty little room specially 
decorated for him. Flowers bloomed in every corner of the room and 
stuffed toys smiled down at the newest member of the family. 





To be continued...

Crocodile Tears

He died the night I thought I was dying. 

“I can’t breathe,” I whispered, when I heard his languid voice on the other end.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Gasping, I described the excruciating pain in my lungs.

“How bad is it, darling?” He asked, affecting anxiousness. I groaned in reply.

I heard a sigh, laboriously drawn and I smiled in spite of the pain.

“Why don’t you call a doctor?” he suggested. “Or should I call one? 

“I’ll do it,” I croaked.

A long silence.

I felt tears trickle down my cheeks as I crawled to the bedside table. It was in the bottom drawer. Clutching the remote, I crumpled to the floor. I heard sobs through the crackling of my handsfree.

“Darling?” I whimpered.

A sniff and then, “Yes, I’m here, love.”

“Please, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I pressed the green button, turning on the camouflaged monitor in the large framed picture on the wall. He never liked that picture.

“Oh, I’m so far away when my darling needs me,” he sobbed piteously.

The monitor stopped flickering and I could see him curled up beside the naked brunette asleep beside him. Behind them, I could see the immaculate carvings of the bed in our holiday home.

“It’s been five days,” I said, pressing the harmless looking pink button and hoping he had his briefcase with him, the one I had fixed up with a false bottom.

And the screen went blank.