nestled in a far-off grove, leaves caress leaves, offering solace – never alone, even in the midst of the gales, trees lean on trees …
Archive for February, 2017
embalming the conscience,
in a world catatonic with apathy.
apathy worn on sleeves,
with shimmering cuff-links of brazen indifference.
shopping, mall-hopping, acquiring, squinting at designer tags.
ah! but the party never ends,
as we giggle and flirt and drink and consume,
while corpses burn,
nailed to realities of need.
and while the 99% scavenge,
for scraps in the dirt.
trawling turquoise seas,
cast adrift,
your eyes caressing fitful slumber,
whispering paens,
soothing the ache,
of this weary traveller,
parched,
thirsty,
alone,
cresting waves,
treading water,
hither and thither,
a tattered heart,
a wounded soul,
bathing my being,
nestling,
in cocooned dreams of your sugarcane lips,
seeing,
feeling,
tasting,
your breath,
soaked in visions of you,
the mirage,
a crescendo fanning flames of desire,
of love, lust, tremulous fingers,
brushing your hair away,
sipping kisses,
consumed by the furnace,
your body, mine,
entwined,
hungering for your tongue,
fiery,
insistent,
true,
soaring above vagabond skies of blue,
unshackled at last,
craving only you
Greater Kailash, New Delhi, Early 1070s
for my mother (1934 – 2008)
she left me, with the thoughts of her embrace to warm me, in frigid mornings of tomorrows yet to come.
she left me, with words of tender truths to shroud me, in the coming evenings of stabbing sleet.
she left me, yet she stays within me, in my waking dreams, my restful thoughts.
she stays forever within me,
of me she shall remain an abiding part,
of the love.
the pain.
the tears.
so that we shall never be truly apart …
_________
My Family – A historical journey through the seasons …
https://afzalmoolla.wordpress.com/2016/01/12/my-family-a-historical-journey-through-the-seasons-2/
Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite patterns,
forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,
while morning’s dew whispers,
tales of forgotten woes,
left scribbled on every leaf.
Murmurs float gently,
across solitary trees,
to distant forests deep and dense,
teasing the waving grasses,
while coquettishly inflaming every sense.
Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all,
listen carefully,
as the whispers recall,
the crushed memories of the lovers’ call.
Listen!
For the whispering leaf shares,
a story that may travel,
to you, to me,
if we still our minds,
and,
gaze upon each leaf,
and quietly marvel …
tiny splashes
toes teasing toes,
as the rain lashes,
dancing under moonbeams,
hazy lazy clouds dripping nectar,
cheek to dripping cheek,
your hands in mine,
your eyes sparkling with a fire divine,
dancing barefoot in the rain,
with you, my whole, my own, my life,
dancing with you,
barefoot in the rain,
toes tickle toes,
far from this life’s pain,
away from the strife,
with you, within you,
I have found renewed life … … …
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 … … …
time
erodes
loves lives hearts
souls spirits selves …
time
mends
wounds
souls
a salve
a balm
knowing
in the end
there is always
only
stillness
silence
peace
calm
and when all lies are spewed,
intricate threads promised,
eternal jazz and all that,
only to be summarily screwed,
by words of fluffy dreamscapes,
by incantations of endless service,
by mouthed lies,
time after time,
even as time flies,
the only constant – lies.
ah!
that time of year once more,
the expectations to do this, buy that,
begin to tickle and murmuringly gnaw.
should there be roses, and if so could they all be red,
or fragrant petals strewn all across the bed,
with some catnip on the side, pretty please and with sugar,
and dollops of whipped cream,
for that,
I do know,
would be my old cat’s Valentines Day dream … … …
( for Scully 1999 – 2016 )
clutching, grasping,
holding onto,
gulping down, hungrily,
each breath, every breath,
fearing the onset of the years,
the splinters of time
embedding,
piercing,
this moment, the very now,
numbed by repetition,
embalmed by trepidation,
of tomorrows yet to dawn,
suspiciously sifting through the strands of greying hair,
seeking clues,
the because to the whys,
the slow mornings,
restless nights,
jabbing reminders,
as years, decades,
scurry, scamper,
flee,
feeling it all slipping away,
standing, immobile,
stilled by the implacable sentinels at the doorstep,
these immovable sentries,
concealing the door,
that leads to today
desire.
the furnace rages, beneath a simmering need, senses aflame, fanning a wanton greed.
aching passion in the cauldron of desire, famished yearning stoked by an overwhelming fire.
the distance between us reduced to a bead of dripping sweat, lost in an embrace, lips inches apart, beholding your face.
the hunger aches, surfing undulating crests and troughs, the impatience grows, sweltering in the spaces where desire flows.
fingertips tracing words of an unfinished rhyme, patiently now, since we bask in knowing we have all the time … … …
alone in this teeming city, surrounded by souls gone cold, we weathered the storms that lashed, we absorbed the barbed words that slashed, harsh times when dinner plates were empty, huddling close, feeling as desolate as the solitary rose, still we made it through, we held on to each other, knowing our love was true, we found work and we slogged till dawn, our only wish was for a kinder fate to be born, we have waited a while for those dreams to come to pass, shredding our hopes like shards of glass, was this the hope that drove us here, to share this single room, in a city of ugly gaudy tinsel meant to smother the gloom, this was not our dream, not mine nor yours, when we embarked on our seemingly never ending course, to build a life hewn from the promise of a better tomorrow, well we have waited through morrow after morrow, we are waiting still, for the fates to be kinder, to keep away the frigid winter chill …
the comedy of mid-life surprises … … …
we have been around a while, we have had our share of tears, and of many a smile,
life has often been kind, though at times it felt like all joy, all peace, was left far, far behind,
now our hair greys and thins, and we have chronic medication in more than a few tins,
we may have seen and heard it all before, yet, and still there is a wish felt deep within our hearts core,
perhaps not of rose-tinted love, or falling stars streaking across the skies above,
perhaps just a need to feel human again,
for the sun must shine after a shower of rain,
so why don’t we give it a shot, for who knows, things may get a bit steamy, if not desirably hot … … …
history shall look back upon us, and a light shall be shed, upon this time when the few were fattened and sumptuously fed, while the many were wrung till the last drop they bled, to the hypocritical wars that for resources were fought, and the complicit silence of the power-brokers was bought, where children went hungry and were pummelled by shrapnelled lead, when obscene chariots roamed the streets and not a word was said, about the inhumanity of this technologically advanced human race, propped up and gaudy as it showed its skewered face, allowing the few to pillage and plunder, as the hopes and dreams of the many were torn asunder.
yes, for these are the days when noxious ostentation does rule, caring little that its modus operandi is so patently cruel, as long as the diamonds are adorned and the gold is worn, it matters not the billions of families’ that are torn, torn apart so the machinery of greed flourished, while the child remained forgotten, mattering not that billions of souls were left malnourished.
yes, history shall look back and judge us with withering hindsight, when we perfected avarice, fine tuning it as best as we could, while ignoring our fellow beings as though they were hewn from wood, and history shall not be wrong to judge us in a horrified light, for even as we read these words, the many lie huddled under bridges, on yet another bitterly cold night.
I want to walk with you, freely on this earth, soaking in the scent of the soil, our calloused hands testimony to the sweat and the toil,
I want to share with you my deepest hopes, my desperate fears, I want us to share, the joy and the tears,
we shall share a life together, not without sorrows, neither of hardships free, but you shall always be you, as I shall always remain me,
so take my hand in yours, my friend, we have much to traverse, with many a shoe yet to mend …
we shall walk hand in hand, vowing to take a stand,
never to be one with the soulless parade, not to be fooled by the ostentatious charade,
we shall carve our own road ahead, together, always together, walking our paths yet to be tread …
the 1%.
snouts deep,
all conscience excised,
seeking more,
always seeking more.
the 99%.
shrivelled shadows,
huddled under underpasses,
seeking enough,
always seeking just enough.
Soaking,
the rains settle,
meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.
Drenching,
the rains settle,
streaming through veins,
the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.
Absorbing,
the rains that settle,
within each of us,
herald rebirth.
And,
if you listen,
if you strain to hear,
while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.
If you listen,
the whispers of the ancestors,
speak to us all,
lending us warmth,
urging us to stand,
even though we may
stumble,
even though we may fall.
uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”
these interwoven veins
dna
double-helixed
microscopically
binding
me
you
us
all
through
this common
shared
truth:
‘I am because you are’*
all of us
together
as one
me
you …
… uBuntu*
* – uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”
weighed down, bound by the travails of this life,
at times desolate,
at times with seemingly no respite.
the sunken talons of the drudgery of the days, clawing deeply, shackle each breath taken, wresting joy away.
the fierce mauling of time, swatting dreams once dreamed, left to fester in the chords of the unfinished song.
still we trudge, still we stand upright, still we scribble odes for tomorrow, still we somehow cope, still we carry our drained bodies, still we persist, still we somehow hope
when joy flaps its wings, soaring into boundless skies, all despair recedes, dusted off as hope freely flies, high to that exalted place, where smiles are worn on every face, where mirth bursts open all closed gates, showering all in its midst with kinder fates, where the world is no longer a slave to war, and peace reigns forever more.
an idealistic hope, though this may be, will we ever know if we do not try and see, to build a better, kinder, gentler world for all, where pained tears no longer into dust do fall …
withered feelings, like frozen tears, litter the dusty floor, splintered shards of vows, once meant never to be broken, lie callously shattered, strewn across the carpet of dreams, torn and mercilessly tattered.
why does love die, with hearts tearing each other apart, while desire dimly begins to fade, retreating to a far off place, in the bleakness of the shade.
we were once loved, exalted to the crests of joy, but now we sit in the corner, not unlike an old forgotten, used toy.
soft rain settles, infusing the parched soil, rejuvenating life.
what of the parched heart, waiting to be quenched, after a lifetime of drought.
taut strands of emotion, tugging heartstrings,
into soulful music
nostalgia …
bicycle rides in the deluge of the monsoon, soaked sneakers squealing underfoot, mum’s voice calling us home, sipping cardamom tea, as the streets became a torrential sea.
stealing kisses on the school bus, furtively holding hands, innocence of young love thud-thudding in our hearts, surreptitiously catching a smoke, all trying to look like young humphrey bogarts.
cricket bats oiled with linseed, all patched and chipped, the field across the suburb our home ground, recreating matches heard on the radio, always on the lookout if any girls were around.
youthful joys, young heartbreaking moments, of having to repeat a grade at school, losing the carefully crafted image, of being just so cool.
days of scribbling notes in class, school a world in itself, ties undone in an effort to look tough, ears twisted by our teachers, the principal hauling us off by our necks’ scruff.
those days now a lifetime away, yet persistently and stubbornly etched in our minds, all grown up now with realities harsh, a long way away from looking for that lost cricket ball in the marsh.
old friends lost, not forgotten though, as the decades roll past, finally realising that nothing is meant ever to last.
what would we give to smell the monsoon rains once more, miles and miles away on a distant shore, ah but the memories remain, in the deepest recesses of our hearts’ core …
( inspired by Bruce Springsteen )
these days, without you,
wasting breaths meant to be kisses,
squandered caresses, lost moments of yearning desire.
these days, without you,
pilfering smiles meant to be hearty laughs,
seeing the time out in between, lost in the embers of love’s roaring fire
( apologies but had to rewrite this piece )
the stench of xenophobia … … …
1.
when rancid racism strikes,
in cocooned fungal minds, narrow, superficially deep,
an insidious venom begins to seep,
into our consciousness as we sleep.
2.
racist beliefs held so true, so deep,
stripped of feeling,
empty, hollow, feigned, designed, branded as compassion,
feeds the conceit in chests swollen and rotten with self-righteous passion.
3.
the racist xenophobia once firmly entrenched,
envelopes all, not unlike a comforting shawl,
needing more and more bluster to fester, and to mutate,
into doctrines of superiority, bigotry, and new fashioned hate.
4.
are we guilty of succumbing to this virulent plague?
sipping martinis, and shovelling more, always more onto our heaving plates,
falling, slipping into inebriated stasis, without care,
as the stench of hate, prejudice, gay-bashing,
as the proliferation of anti hindu, muslim, christian, buddhist, and anti people of african and arab heritage and anti-indigenous and anti-semitic and misogynistic drivel and xenophobia,
continues to belch into the polluted air.
Scribbled Verse 
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