Trudge On

We revel at the end of this tireless and seemingly timeless day
Fatigue later strolls in
Numbs our minds to rest further and further….
But a voice at night gently prods:

The night is short and fleeting like slippery time
Sooner than this day will end
Another shall soon begin
To unleash its unknown unknowns;
So relent not you weary travellers
Give in not to slumber all through the night
Awake and arise before the routine sun
The journey, in which you trudge, has not met its end
It further continues beyond this euphoric fog

One Exam Night

The night is donned in sequined black
So black, my melting candle is promoted to a relegated sun:
A dancing leaf-shaped fire held in place by wick

The occasional scurries and squeaks are of those
Timorous vermins playing hide and seek
In the night where my sun cannot reach

Oceans of caffeine have drowned sleep to coma
I am partially lost in a forest of processed leaves
I leaf through another leaf that would be precarious to leave;
Dried ink of familiar tongues long drafted in dusty tomes
Transforms into a mixture of Aramaic and other unknown tongues

Sprawled beside me in the bosom of sleep,
Emitting a concordance of snores, is the forbidden apple
Seductive in rounded curves
Highlighted by this dancing fire on dying wick
My tongue is flooded with desire

But I pause my arm in mid air:
Not tonight…

Scurry sounds across the room…

The clothed night gives a strip tease…

My erect candle further dwindles…

This forest still is thick

The Long Gloomy Night.


Being birthed black must have been
nature’s lottery loss or a perdurable curse:
The grim night’s hue, the resplendent day’s shadow,
mourner’s shroud or an unknown of something worse;
where surveying stars neither illuminated
nor twinkled, but glared and seared flesh of sweat
spewing swarthy toilers of the cruel fated
and the leather lashing rain smeared a wet
legacy of red tinged imprints across naked backs;
which streamed into the undrying tributary
of eye sourced brines constantly rushing
into the flooded sea shores of pain’s territory.

The waxing moon: a morose crescent
of sad emotions beamed in descent;
the half moon reflected
a race’s status inhumanely inflected.

But the ocular monocle of full moon
through which a sliver of gleaming hope
was glimpsed, that one day soon
this oppressive night shall surely elope.


Beneath the earth or above sky
Where will my life beyond tiled bed lie?

Fire fire burning bright,
Within confines of heathen’s sight;
What concrete ice or quenching sea,
Could snuff out thy fickle tongued fury?

Tongues which eternally licks flesh uncharred
With its corresponding sensation unbarred;
Chthonic flames which forever blossoms
Where the above thorns, that choke, find their homes.

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Come let’s sit by the riverside
On twin stone seats placed
By nature for our behinds

The troublesome winds roughly
ruffles the trees the trees whisper
in pain to the birds the birds reply
with song to soothe their ears
On the wind’s back the birds
later will ride but the trees
in their clutches still will
be a haven for its nest
Toss across the river’s wrinkled
face a polished pebble and watch
the gyres growing on each spot it
bounces even long after it sinks
How long will our ripples last
when our pebbles lie under?
Will it be strong enough to
change the course of this
ever flowing river?

The East throws up the rising sun
And the West swallows it whole
And thus another day is gone


For the victims of the new road….



They came to our land
And strong-armed us
With a curt warning,
To pack from houses we built
On a land we thought was ours.

Then they came with
Their caterpillars, cranes
And other metallic beastly predators,
To crumble our brittle houses of prey to dust;
An overreaching sacrifice
For a six-lane asphalt rug.

Then they pat our jutting backs
With fattened palms of meagre atonement…
How can five loaves and
Two fishes feed thousands?
When you’re not the Messiah
Why six when four will do?
“Simplicity, simplicty…”
Thoreau had always said,
But they had never listened.

They came and left all bare
After flattening our homes to asphalt
All in a hurried superficial scheme
For an old king to renew his title



Out of this hollow mass of skin,
A new star ascends the divine vault;
The heavens brighter,
Noctophobia outshined.

Like Moses I part my drapes
To let peering your familiar watchful gaze
As the night’s spell of heavy lids
Transport me to temporary oblivion.



Every subtle whisper is a clangorous bang:
A large bell’s ringing sound resounding in my ears
Bound to buried booming speakers in my skull.

The spring of grief, of the bight before,
Compressed by the fleeting hold of alcohol,
Blooms forth with renewed force at dawn.

What form of magnet draws me to your wholly vitreous insides,
When my sunken self lies in shattered shards?
Why do I seek your battered route of escape,
When I know its trail shortly ends at my captor’s thorny grasp?

If honey has not been ever so sweet,
This sudden romance with gall wouldn’t conjure this much grief.



Our own version of winter:
The morning fog afflicts us with
temporary myopia;
The early cold continually snoozes
our alarms.
Hence, more childbirth in September.

The car zooms past us,
leaving behind
a mushroom of dust,
which find homes on
thirsty leaves and naked roofs.

Wrinkled lips like dried tree barks;
In between fingers and toes,
‘white’ strategically hides.
Sometimes giving the illusion of
a hastily powdered skin.

On TV,
a kid wails in betwixt laps
of a grinning-rotund-black-white-bearded-man
in loose fitted red and hat of same.

Wasteful spending begins:
My neighbour has starved
all through the year, to fatten her purse.
Only to empty its contents on stocks,
needed and unneeded, to be
demolished in two hurried gobbles!
Every other year, she’d repeat same.

Quick ascension period on the financial scale and all other weighted ills:
Birthing houses scythed for day old young;
The road lies in wait with an appetite larger than ever,
Twisted metals and shards of jagged glass smeared scarlet
are remnants from its daily meal,
Still beings void of organs
flank our roads;
All forms of nappers device new means
and revise old means for capture;
Our own forceful and erratic aurora borealis,
with showers of debris and disjointed beings,
casts a gloomy shade all over.

Why this sudden change?

‘Season Greetings.’

Now it all makes sense.