my roots.

there are days when i hold my roots with pride–they emanate from the golden, bejeweled shalwar kameez and frocks i wear, from the scent of biryani and chicken korma that lingers through khalas and chachas and cousins and sisters seated for dinner.

and then there are days when I yearn to rip those clothes from my skin, dig deep with my nails so my grandparents’ war, my people’s toil, the beat of wedding drums in my father’s village, and the dirt from a land I call ‘back home’…. bleed out.

they say that we hate our roots when we criticize some of their deepest held traditions and beliefs and adages…they don’t know that we are the first ones to defend it before the white man vilifies it with his senseless tongue. they don”t know how our mind tires of exhaustion from responding to every attack of our brown skin, of our God, of our very existence.

because it is our honor. just as it is yours.

 

Thirteen Years’ Worth

It’s been thirteen years

since the demon

entered my mind.

The demon,

anxiety.

 

But I am not my demon.

 

Yes,

I worry about tomorrow,

even though I’ve been told to

worry about today.

But I now know,

my demons are not as strong

as my resilience.

as my fight.

as my survival.

 

That bitter, sharp wind

may make wounds on me

with its twisted blade;

still,

it does not

rip me inside.

 

And the seasons shift,

as the ocean tides

do

when the moon beckons closer;

the light seduces me

into bearing

the winter current

for the reward of a ray of warmth

And for that,

it is worth it.

Our Love

Our love is the

Whisper of dandelion dust

In the soft breeze

Our love is the

Mist and scent of fresh earth

In the rain

Our love is the

Lingering footprints

After waves have swept away the sand

Our love is the

Vibrant auburn and violet hues at dawn

But it is also the fading glow across twilight skies

But most of all,

Our love is when your eyes meet mine

When your hands hold mine

When your lips touch mine

When your body interwines with mine

And on the days we bring each other

More pain than comfort

Know that our love is too strong,

Like the solid, decades old trees-

With their thick roots ingrained in the earth-

To stop fighting for.

I love you.

High and Mighty

Poesy plus Polemics

surrealist man “Surrealist Man” Painting by Cristiano Siqueira From deviantart.com

he used to hang from the moon
stuff stars in his pockets
chase night from the face of the earth
hurl lightning bolts back to the cosmos

men clamored for his bold imprimatur
angels sat on his shoulders
together they gave righteous escort
protecting the driven and noble

he had powers electric invincible
wielded success like a truncheon
to instigate oomph in the abjectly timid
the dullards unblessed by ambition

then came cold reversal of fortune
disabling his ego with frissons of fear
felled by silence that amputates glory
prosthetic humility simply won’t fit

nothing sadder more tragic
than losing great pieces of self
nothing gladder more suiting
than hubris when brought to its knees

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