Refugee Camp

Our roofs were torn away, often violently,
We were asked to pillar their rooms,
Saying they’d provide us shelter.
We were atlassed upon, we shrugged, taking,
To our roots, in our green earth, though not for long.
We were weeded out, and seeds sown,
Of landmines and grenades well planted.
Toxic fumes to kill “pests”, ya that was our new name,
Birds in the air, to rid the field of worms, that's us again,
Seeds watered red through trenches blown apart.
A rich harvest of camouflaged crops and corps, they got.
They seeded and weeded us again, more ruthlessly.
When they said they’d picked crops with corps,
They did not say they made corpses of both.
They said we’d be planted, back where they took us from.
Yet they took from us, where they took us from.
Rootless and roofless, we are, left hanging in their gardens,
Of barbed fences painted green. While the world looks on,
And showers accolades on our leader, only we know,
Refugee camp is a euphemism for a butcher’s yard.

Sixth Sense

My eyes opened, to see a butterfly
On the wall opposite me,
Where from, to where was he?
Why here was he, in all the world?
Was it black with red spots?
Or red with black spots?
A closer confounded me more.
Vigilant wings, that stir storms,
Coiled horns, that build bridges,
Thoughtful eyes, sad and deep,
I caught his eye, to enjoy the limelight,
What was he wondering about?
Looking for his dinner petal, or wondering,
Where the next tornado’d be?
Love lost, or discovered yet unfound?
Maybe it was the last one,
When I thought out loud, if he wanted to woo
His dear girl, one with spots to complement his,
The fellow nodded his head, saying yes,
But the moment I asked him if I could help,
He took off, clearly answering me,
Maybe his sixth sense told him, that
I had not, a sixth of his sense for romance.

Who's Who

Long ago lived two men in the country,
So different, in contracts held. Here and elsewhere,
One a warrior, all his life on the battlefield,
The other a fisherman, a life on the waterfront.
Waves of navies and watery armies, the warrior fought against,
To get his prized catch. None escaped his net.
However skilled or lacking in, none escaped for long.
Sword and shield and hooked spear he held,
To kill his prey, the ultimate predator that he was.
In the dark, he walked among abandoned carcasses,
Of once lively fighters. While he made love to his woman,
His weapons lay along the side, metal and wood welded to one.

The fisherman’s life was not so easy. He lived from day to day.
Struggling from dawn till dusk against forces,
Forces that wanted to bury him in a watery grave.
His job was not traditional either; he had to fish
On land and drop his catch into the river.
He worked in tandem with the blind boatman who took the load off.
Drifting along the Styx out to sea, to see a thousand ships set off.
Warrior or fisherman, contracts in contrast. One fighting
For the fish he killed, other for the kill he fished.
One a life so anonymous he was forgotten before he could forget,
The other a legend to know, long after he was no more.
Who to be? The fishing warrior or the fighting fisherman?

Face of Paparazzi

George Washington sits there sipping
A cocktail with a Loyalist soldier for company.
Lincoln with a clean shaven face, forcing his
“colored” comrade into action. Steve Jobs
Sits there carving sculptures out of scrap,
While Gates in specs, packs plastic into boxes,
And Hillary removes a blonde wig to reveal
A dark brunette outcrop of hair.

Some of them laugh, some cry, while some just
Wanna go home. A couple of them running,
Chasing each other, with battle cries in the air.
All, while parents coaxed their kids at the dress event,
To be presidents and CEOs and other famous folk.
But as they say, kids will always be kids.

Contra Natura

Luminance covering Lucifer, his pitchfork dripping white,
The tempter entered into my life in the guise of an Angel.
Along came happiness, love and bliss, or so I thought.
It was spring in Eden, and winter in Pandemonium,
Roses lined the streets; rainbows paved the roads I walked on;
At every turn a pot, of laughter and joy, the melody of a duet.
We danced to the tune, round and round, on the world’s dance floor,
The music continued; I was dizzy with ecstasy, danced and stumbled.
Embarrassed and pride shorn, I waited for her to pick me up, save face;
Wrinkles on my bald head; grey hair where it was left, and yet,
I was still on the ground, with the music a monotone, and me, alone.
The bright butterflies that drifted past, a colourless memory now,
Alone I was born, alone I had been, and alone I am, but no more;
The memory of what had been is still fresh; the colourful butterflies,
The melodies of youth, the pleasure of a bedmate long gone, but alive,
In the petals of a shrivelled rose, in the broken bow of seven colours.
My road is a thorn bed now, bedmates finding new homes
In the crevices of my withering feet. Lucifer in silhouette,
Laughs at me, seeing me writhe and squirm, in the fires
Of the Lake of my failure. Fires of my own love, burning me,
Twisting and turning in pain, I hear, him with the horns,
On how chalk and cheese stay separate, as do oil and water;
That love can build bridges of passion, fiery passion,
That burns the heart it burns from. All that is left, is one,
Suffering alone, hearing the monotone, the monotonous
Cackle of love and other demons.

Awake, Asleep

A papyrus spear thrown at my door, early;
Faster, faster than anybody could catch it,
Flung by a knight on his wheeled stead,
A force faster than light or its quicker cousin the neutrino,
Armed to kill, it hit my door with a bang,
Its victim, my sleep, died a quick unnatural death,
I have pleaded and even pledged tribute to him,
To the knight that serves as my wakeup call, albeit undesired.
He calls it his duty, to keep subjects aware,
Things that happen need to be told. This round world,
Which pales in comparison to my beautiful sleep,
Needs to see and hear and wake up to the sound
Of bangs louder, and spears thrown faster than his,
Of fences demolished so sheep need no longer jump over,
Of blood flowing freer, unbridled, than the rivers of my dreams,
Of men and women sleeping sounder, forever, than the silence of my sleep.

Gift For the Wise

Luminance covering Lucifer, a pitchfork dripping white,
The tempter enters into life in the guise of an Angel.
All was sunshine and all was rainbows,
A dim dusk, a dull dawn, the colours had not known.
Walks in the park, with yellow flowers to give company,
Flaming yellow flowers in the boughs all around,

Burns to beautify and scars to sanguine,
Walking in glee, through purgatory, with breezes storming,
Gentle ruffle of the hair while worlds ripped apart.
Feast of the senses, the wine of sweat flows free,
An exhilarating exhaustion, the labour of limbs and all else,
Lustrous and luxurious, yet shorn of virgin glory.

A full hand wishing fuller fingers, to rob empty hands,
Armour of emerald, spear of jade, to shield, to stab;
Blood pumping through brothers, in combat to kill.
As shepherd is sown into the soil by the farmer,
Where bone rots, and His kingdom lies disinherited;
The green eyed walk by nonchalantly.

With ever expanding coffers, built with walls of coffins,
Housing those with, not dignity, but denied opportunity,
Lying face down on, looking at, the earth they so loved,
Lying like the lizard they listened eagerly to,
Advocating the virtue of the prince they worshipped,
Toads of Mammon holding close their offerings to him.

Bloated bellies and expectant eyes; skeletal carcasses
Loading plates they dare not devour. Dinner tables floating,
When the sun is high; thru rivers of wine, flowing from lip to luscious lip,
Of pork; dead and succulently cooked, eaten with siblings
In flames, in toil, eaten while they still boil; with flesh and blood,
Passed over from tummy hungry and throat parched, thru a hand of plenty.

Passed over, yet buried, the virtues and talents are,
Idle workshops, idle as the snow bird’s wings,
Lost in laze, with lioned streets striking fear, preventing work,
Careless to catch morsels of talent thrown around,
Walking on hedges of willed thorns, hopes turned to apathy,
Talented chiefs slaving under lesser beings that merely stand and wait.

Thrones of air, upon fair frothy nimbus palaces,
Where maidens and fair lords look out from mirrors,
Looking in are faces that drown, in themselves; in vain,
His favourite sin, as it mothered his transit,
From a servant to the master; and fathered war.
Fighting Sisyphean battles to sing better than the next peacock.

Deprived and lost, arises a fire, stronger than all else,
Rising from scorn; scorning the Son and scorned by the Father.
Burning all else around it, even the bonds that tie,
A desire for vengeance, avenging wrongs done, thru more wrongs done,
Rage for an eye for an eye, a burning rage to burn the burner,
Ending all, not needing the gifts laid there for the wise men.

The Fisherman and Achilles :)

A man and his wife, a house
Of mud and walls of air, living
In peace amid swords and shards,
The man, a blade wielder, who cut fish,
The woman, a priestess to him and Apollo’s liege,
Knew each other so well. The village’s envy they were.
Feeling and understanding, thought and action,
Yin and yang that fit together.
When breathless in each other’s lap,
Buried, they were, by their beloved sea.
Sea that saw a thousand ships, remembered more
For the lives it ended, than the end that lived.
Ya, their end lived longer than their memories.
Known well, to each other, but unremembered by others.

Not far from them, lies a man, far from his bride,
Apollo’s priestess, the swordman’s game.
Mad after glory and fame, throwing lives away
His and others, so that he may be remembered.
His bride wished to know him, yet watched him die.
In glory, remembered not as a strong warrior,
But one weak in the tendon. A lone wolf, remembered.
One nameless, unheard of, the other a tall memory, the stuff of legend.
Same boat in death, but different in life. Love, understanding,
Peace and happiness rocking one cradle. Hate, war, chaos
Sorrow drew the other in all directions. Who’d you be?
The nameless fisherman, known to his wife, forgotten in love,
Or the legendary hero, favourite of the gods, unknown to his bride,
Love sans memory or glory sans affection, you choose.

Achilles and the Fisherman

A man and his wife, in a home
Of mud and walls of air. Unfazed by
Swords and shards that lay around them.
Lived in peace, they did. The man,
Had not held a blade, other than to cut fish.
His woman, worshipped Apollo, but a priestess to him alone.
Dead in each other’s lap, they were buried,
By their beloved sea. A sea that saw a thousand ships,
A sea that is remembered more for the lives that ended,
Than the end that lived.

Not far from them, lies another man, far from his bride,
She worshipped Apollo and a priestess to Him alone.
A man known for his prowess with the sword and with death.
A man remembered across the ages. Giving up life,
His and others, for the sake of glory, to be remembered.
Remembered, in myth and memory, not as a strong warrior,
But one with a weak tendon. Killed, his slow demise watched
By the one he loved, the only one he loved.
Separated from her, in both life and death, in pursuit of glory,
Glory that made him be remembered, by all to come.

So, while one remains nameless and the other a tall memory,
Both are now dead and long gone. The nameless is unheard of,
And unremembered, but known. His wife knew him, so did his friends.
Remembered or not, he lived a life of happiness and understanding.
Wisdom brought from life, living and not ending it.
So who would you want to be? The unglorified fisherman,
Who his wife knew, loved and sheltered in her bosom?
Or the glorious warlord, favoured by the gods, but unknown,
Even to the woman he loved, more than his own life?
A life of love sans memory or one of glory sans affection?