haiku

wife cooking for two

husband came home tired from work

should have cooked for three

broken heart

the moment was a stab

songs written half, fall short

describing only tears

flight and loneliness told.

poems paintings movies

immortalize heartache.

yet one forgets feelings

most broken hearts live, long

patch the stab, beat and

heal.

photo by Porcelaingirl

the spender

one invitation, he buys five

one small salary, he shops thrice

one upgrade in a gadget, trash

the old, credit the new and lo!

just pay minimum of big bill.

he lives for the buying, shopping

and works for it too daily, like

he can get sick if his purse full

or if some cents left of his payhe spends and works for the spending.

it gives him high, high, so much high

as he spends all, self included.

love quadrangle

if walls could talk, it will be known

but hearts bleed alone and hide

in the classroom, i spectator

one woman thought she was loved

was it her own hunger or real

from his lips she was beckoned?

a month later, another girl

same recitation she cried

was it her own thoughts projected

or the man really felt, true?

after a month and another

new student, fair and lovely

as the man approaches i heard

courtship like it is his first

how he talked, smooth gliding advance

speeds through a maze called barrier.

it was a perfect replica

of first woman’s sad story

it was a reenactment of

second woman’s history

all four of them in one classroom

i, teacher and observer

is this waterloo of two, three?

if walls could talk, tell me four?

when cries are wailed, shoulders go scarce

as he roller skates away

may their eyes be dry as they rip

from each other, separate.

a sick hard worker

when a busy man gets sick, then he is forced to rest.

he is bored and wants to shake the silence away.

his mind is at work and his work is in his mind.

can he really rest with all those thinking to do?

he surfs the net lying down to say to the wife,

i had bed rest the whole time you were away.

he reads and writes while in bed, conscious

of how he still can produce and make use

of the time he has for rest…can he really rest?

i wonder if bliss it is for the hard working to abhor

rest and never wish for it, for the world indeed

is full of work to do and never ends, perhaps it

even magnets the hard working, but for what?

but man you are sick so rest this moment, stop.

tomorrow, when strong, go and play and jump

be happy with your toil, with your strength.

first encounter of a feeling

seven years ago when in a bed

i slept and woke for days sick

white coats move daily for a week

my husband’s brows met

feeling he encountered but

as the sick i did not.

now for nearly a week he is

sick weak and strapped to bed

i encounter for the first time

a fear i have not felt

a loneliness others cant blow

that man is separate and one

at the same time, moving two

but one in marriage, union

but physical things can rip

no one can perfectly anticipate

an encounter of a feeling

which can leave one shy

of the life in the future

wary of the strength of now

fearful of the shadows ahead.

TB patient’s whisper

work will shy away

friends fly and hide

more than cough

these stab me

and the thought

of giving everyday

bacilli to lovely

daughter and wife.

but hope sparks inside

as a melted physique

tries to form strong

6 months, 9 months

forlorn to smile

weak to jumping

must count my tabs

must count my weeks.

photo by Saad.Akhtar

the TB patients

one cough is enough

because they all know

shame, shame, shame.

it is more hurting than the physical blow.

the looks some cast on him

injects a flood of casting away.

at least he knows he has

and curing others scorn

but harbor more bacilli

per organ, more organ

per man, more sufferers

per family,all not knowing

because no cough, no shame.

deceived believing safe.

a mother’s lamentation

where is my son

is he this big man

who comes and goes

without a word to me

has he eaten my boy

and substituted me

with another voice

in the telephone

to twelve midnight

daily, they talk.

has my son disappeared

or has he forgotten

where now the look

of loving and gratefulness

in his eyes many years

past, it is past.

old man’s daughter

man dying, old enough, bedridden

daughter left to care for him

other sisters and brothers married

she has to care for, she is single

she looked at her father

obligation and love mixed

others come and go, always

remind her she had to stay

she is afraid, moments of end

pray that older siblings

be there when death strike

being single this her curse?

or a chance to pay tribute?

duty overwhelms affection
she just wait for the hour.