The Girl Who Cried


It was a monument to her sadness
Something to remember her tears and gasps by
For when’s she’s gone
There’s naught left

Who can keep in mind her vivacious laughs?
Or her quiet courage?
Her delicate kindness and generosity?

But all you remember are her tears
And that’s all you want to remember
Not her complete self
Not even half
But a small inch

She may have cried loud tears
Tears that shook a nation
Unsettled a continent
Moved a king
Raised a thousand ships in protest
But they were just tears
In a moment of great sorrow
And shame even
And I doubt she wants to be remembered thus.

Not as the girl who tried, failed, tried, failed
Yet tried again and then finally succeeded in her own
Quiet way
But as the Girl Who Cried.

He killed himself

She is running
She doesn’t give a damn about the hot sun
Or the sweat on her forehead
So what if the temperature is stuck at a summer high?
That isn’t what she wants to be
But she hears the door slam behind her
They’re coming for her
She wants to scream
But she can’t
Her mouth is burning
And the smoke she drinks with relish
Is now choking her
How could those little cigarettes betray her like this?
She loved them
Oh how she loved them
And here they are
She’s been here forever
Since the days long ago
When her mama caned her
And her papas beat her
When the wind was alive
And the water ran
When the skies were full of dark anger
And the ground so rebellious
That’s why she’s running

It’s all lost
The life she’s led
Where’s it all gone now?
A suicide in the family
And all hell breaks loose
You can’t down a few poppers in peace anymore
To drown out the noise
And the boredom

She can’t keep running much longer now
Oh she has space
The Plains go on forever
But she’s old and not
What she was twenty years ago
Her shoes,
so carefully preserved for so long ,
Are cutting her viciously
At the ankles

And she falls to the ground
Lost, in a daze and the music stops.


her face was just a crack
a study in sorrow
once full of joy and heart
now sunken and depressed into itself

She wasn’t old
a creature of youth and great beauty was She
but such depth in Her eyes
and oceans of feeling in Her smiles

Her long fingers were graceful and elegant
and in their fragility hinted at Her core
about to shatter

but believe me when I say
She was strong
so many demons and evils did She face
and not one conquered Her
though each left a mark on Her

what do they say now? 
scars heal? 
no, wounds heal and scars remain
although for Her,
Her skin is still Her skin
Her face still Hers
not for Her a disfigured atrocity

yet you see the scars
like the permanent scorch of an intense fire
or the insidious slice of a sly knife
they’re there
under layer and layer of…
She does not hide
She does not seclude herself

She is strong.
She is brave
She is weak
She is frightened

She is beautiful
yet so full of scars is She

The Apology: Part Six

She felt him.

She now felt periodic kicks and tugs inside. And they calmed her. Reassured her. It told her that the baby was still healthy.
What others would have bemoaned as pain and hurt from a tiresome little worrier, she welcomed. 

But there were still days when the cold fear gripped her hard. 

The day she lost control of her right hand frightened her so much that for weeks after it returned to normal she kept waking up in the middle of the night, checking and rechecking that it was unharmed.

The day her hair fell, she cried and cried and cried. She’d loved her hair. It was vain of her to do so. To attach so much to such a simplistic part of herself when many around her were dying in droves.

For the The Plague still continued its deadly rampage. Those who hadn’t succumbed to it had died of poverty and starvation. Shops closed, streets fell into disrepair all on their own for absolutely no visible reason.

It was quite perplexing to be honest. As if The Plague was sucking up the very lifeblood of the Earth. Not just affecting the people but nature too. 

But today Elena was happy. Chris had finally gotten a new job. After months of doggedly searching and chasing, he’d landed a small position as a clerk at the District Council Building. The pay was poor and the hours long but it was better than nothing. And Philippa’s penny-a-week helped. Barely.

She sometimes hated herself. Elena. To be so helpless when everyone was working so hard. She was so unused to all this laying around and not doing anything. Hers weren’t the idle ways. 
But she could not do much. Lifting an empty pail off the ground made her spine crackle like that of a wizened old now and by now, she’d realized. 

Staying still and bored, she was in much less pain and of much less pain to others. 

Of promises, reminisces and bus seats



A seat on the bus is my solace
The road is a moving carpet
Moving me away from home
And I wish I could get off this ride

But this journey doesn’t end anytime soon
Just when you get accustomed 
To the slow pull and push of the wheels
And the creaking seats
It jerks to a stop
Or turns down an unseen alley
And you wonder where you’ll end up

The signs pass me by
Each one a reminder of how much further
My home is getting to be

Yet the wind on my face smells of promises
And whispers of wishes
Where the skyscrapers trap you in a vortex
Of power and cold hard cash
And the people bustle in a mechanical staccato

The power strides, the cigarette ash and the taxi doors
Opening and shutting
Ever so exciting and frightening
It begs the question:
Would the city swallow me up and spit me right out?
Or accept me as indifferently 
As a machine does a cog?

Yes the winds of change hits me in the face
Quite too literally
And the past tugs me hard
So that I know not which way to turn anymore.

Wrong side of the bed


Her feet slowly fall on the slabs
Cold, hard and unrelenting in their grey

She treads lightly
Afraid of making an impression
Or making anyone remember this moment
As the moment
She ran away

She should have faced the music
So abrasive and discordant
But music nonetheless
There was a rhythm to it
A hard vindictive beating

But her best just wasn’t good enough
The stories of courage she heard on the TV
were just stories
fairy tales of hope
But in the end all empty
And unrealistic
False promises

So her footsteps fall slowly on the slabs
The light of the lamps betray her
Yearning for the dark she tiptoes
But the old wrought iron watchtowers
on the street corners
All point accusing beams of light at her
But what cause do they have
To accuse her of any misdeed
When she so clearly was the one
Stuck on the wrong end of the bed?



Your eyes, they’re…
My god it’s bright
But softly
A gentle burnishing
Run over your skin with a feather brush
You’re floating
And your touch is light
It threatens to pull me up too
Feet leave the ground
And all I can do is
Look at your face
And your eyes, they’re…

I don’t think I’ve ever seen
Or heard
Such simplicity
I don’t call it beauty
You’re not pretentious or fake
A light patter of snow or small
Is enough for you to smile
Who cares for glitter or glamour?
Let them have their star-studded mirrors
And their hollow diamonds
What we have is precious
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Or Heard
Such simplicity