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 … … …
Archive for March 30, 2016
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
N O T
I N
M Y
N A M E …
Masks … …
Fingers,
clawing at my face,
slipping beneath the facade,
tugging, tearing, flailing,
stripping off the veneer,
exposing the fragmented decay,
cloaked,
under this mask I wear today.
Hands,
groping for another layer,
embroidered on my thin skin,
peeling, rotting, searing,
shaving away the truths,
entwined in a jagged kiss,
revealing,
the vacuum of an emotional abyss.
Fleeing,
from myself yet again,
bound for nothingness,
desolate, cold, empty,
lost on barren pathways,
bruising my heart as I tread,
shuddering,
at the horrors that lie ahead
'illusory art' by Maya
the swaying of the grass … … …
1.
a path leads,
to where wild grasses grow,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
2.
along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swooning,
tickling ankles,
swaying to lilting bird-song,
a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing remnants of pain away.
3.
melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.
4.
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
Scribbled Verse 