Archive for March, 2016

nothing like the truth

who would trample on souls, again, all over, would anyone nourish hopes to slay mercilessly as a figment, when liestruths morphed, broken words, empty hollow devoid of life, are like mere tin cans kicked down the street, lame and wasted away like last minutes sleet … … …

about time … … …

sometimes it does not matter how time passes, but that it passes. when in the pit, the great chasm, the yawning crevasse of day to day life, time may seem like an aeon, yet we bemoan the squandering of time, we lament its passing each year like a doomsday clock, counting down, chipping away at our apparent insignificance, chewing at wounds inflicted, lost in murky shallows of yesteryear, seeking another year, another day, another chance … … …

as she lies bleeding,
the girl who skipped, hopped to school,
all of nine and a half years old,
with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her parent’s pride.

as she lies bleeding,
shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,
she stares at her skipping rope,
as her blood soaks it the colour of cherries her mummy buys.

as she lies bleeding,
she sees people all around thick black smoke,
blurred visions of scattering feet, shoes left behind,
hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.

as she lies bleeding,
she slips away and then she is dead,
a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her mother’s pride.

as she lies bleeding,
for even in death she bleeds some more,
shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,
stealing the light from her bright little eyes.

as she lies bleeding …

in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,
leningrad in ‘42,
freetown in ‘98,
soweto in ‘76,
jenin in ‘02,
hanoi in ‘68,
beirut in ‘85,

raqqa now,
basra still,
gaza too.

as she lies bleeding,
a little nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her parent’s pride,
we know she’ll bleed more,

tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,

with shrapnel in her stomach,
ripped open and torn.

as she lies bleeding.


pic from google

          I N 
                M Y
                       N A M E …

Masks … …

clawing at my face,
slipping beneath the facade,

tugging, tearing, flailing,

stripping off the veneer,
exposing the fragmented decay,
under this mask I wear today.

groping for another layer,
embroidered on my thin skin,

peeling, rotting, searing,

shaving away the truths,
entwined in a jagged kiss,
the vacuum of an emotional abyss.

from myself yet again,
bound for nothingness,

desolate, cold, empty,

lost on barren pathways,
bruising my heart as I tread,
at the horrors that lie ahead


'illusory art' by Maya

the swaying of the grass … … …




a path leads,
to where wild grasses grow,
sashaying in the summer breeze.




along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
tickling ankles,
swaying to lilting bird-song,
a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing remnants of pain away.




melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.




walking on,
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
casting off burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
dusk descends,
shadows lengthen,

nudging dimming light to take leave of the day … … …


'illusory art' by Maya

with apologies to bob dylan.

with apologies to bob dylan.

and as he walked on, ever on, he saw scorched souls crying out in silence, he saw wrestling emotions nakedly duelling, he saw those souls blown up on easter, he saw deaths faces, and he felt invisible. he saw himself and he was in pieces. blown to bits of smouldering flesh in belgium, baghdad, baluchistan, benin, he saw humanity crumble, greedy man, almost always man, he saw man scavenging on a savaged planet, he saw too much, he saw no more.

he wept. alone.
he wept for hilarious coincidences. he wept for hearts torn out, trampled upon, and set alight by forces of indifference. he wept for the lonely. he wept for those creatures like himself, tucked in their rooms high on solitude, feeling bereft, achingly longing for something more. someone more. he wept. he wept for dried and shrivelled daffodils. he wept for this charming man. he wept for the spongy lines. he wept for the dialogue, insufferably banal and boring as can be. he wept for them. he wept for the muddied, soaked, fractured, throbbing, rehearsed pulses of conversational sub-genres. he wept for himself. he wept for his narcissism, egomaniacal, puffed up and bloated on hubris. he wept for us all. he wept … … …


'Illusory art' by Maya

the cat recommends …


food for the feline soul


he …

he continues walking down the empty boulevards, the soft petals beneath his shambling feet, his head down, feeling the earth crunch and the flotsam scatter, as he reminisces of yesterdays bygone, and tomorrows yet to dawn. he speaks to no one, just the obligatory shake of the head in acknowledgement at another soul traipsing down the same cobblewebbed slippery slope, braving the sudden winds that lash his frigid hands as he turns up the collar of his coat, feeling feeling swell and peak, the music of the banal soothing him somewhat. he lets his mind wander too, mourning crushed flowers strewn like blood on the soft earth, and fears the onset of the years, slower and dimmer, yet racing past at breakneck speed, heading for a heavens knows where, but just content, content to be in motion, walking, walking down the rusty dusty alleyways of this life … …

dew perched, audaciously poised, atop a petal of the dawn rose, as night distilled itself in a drop of morning dew … …

he … … …

he walked down the road, weaving paths he never dreamed he would, growing up, just being was about it, no room for non-conformity, no space for celestial emotions, this he thought to himself as his well-worn shoes beat the gravel down splintering it into a thousand little consequences … … …

side stepping shards of thorny thoughts,
stretching across pools of congealed memories,

the wanderer wanders on,

wandering, wondering … …

strummed vignettes, dimming, willowy, of bygone yesterdays, cascade within me, my feelings awash in a frenzy of colour, soaked to the heart, while while the while, snuffing out the last scattered embers, of a love once loved … … …

lilting strings plucked, teased, evoking melancholic childhood rain-swept days, of fragrant nature, fat rain drops splashing parched, thirsting soil,
soil that has witnessed horrors, of desolation, of drudgery, of blood, sweat, and gruelling toil … … …

thanking you … … …

I was fractured, my mind in tatters, my thoughts asunder, raging with bellicose thunder, till you stilled my angst, my wayward selfwrath, you took me in, firm and with harsh love, you mended my soul, and I may not have thanked you, so belatedly, thank you for helping me back to being whole … …


'illusory art' by Maya

you 2.0

fragmented memories, coalesce,
splintered emotions, heal,

your smile an abiding gift,

traversing the minefields of my moments,

without you, empty, barren, closeted, bleak,

with you, alive, fragrant, complete … … …

on your skin, scribbling odes to love,

angry, lost, empty,
raucous, pristine, encompassing love.

on my heart, scribbled odes embossed, etched, engraved,

yearning, pining, aching,

for you … … …

March 21, 1960 – Sharpeville, South  Africa.

they shot you. in the back.

the oppressors lead tearing into muscled flesh. the flesh of africa.

they massacred you. in sharpeville, in soweto.

today we remember you. we salute you, our valiant compatriots.


do we honour you … … …

your skin, burnished by the african copper sun,

your eyes, deep as the lake where  secrets lie,

you, your whole being entire, dazzling my unseeing look, embers stoked by your indomitable fire … … …

discerning shapelessness, shadows pirouette, etching a kaleidoscope of colour … you see, I should have gazed more into your eyes, placid pools of clarity, yet now forever late, sewed eyes shut, blinded by regret, by tumultuous fate …

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