I wake with a lump and the news confirms it!

We're prisoners of war... a war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. Our dreams have been doctored. We belong nowhere. We sail unanchored on troubled seas. We may never be allowed ashore. Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough to matter!




The God of small things
Arundhati Roy

Always Brenda of the township

Swinging

‎...who danced shamelessly,

dressed like an animal, rolled like water... 

Who we all applauded and joined, making faces at joy!

Sunday Night

They stood like church spires, signalling the hour in fan fare

Shot glass vision

They squatted into the dome of her dresses; hems ran like terracotta geometry lacing all the loose ends. 

Threw the neck

Uncrossed her legs and eyes 

Surrendered

Raised her hands like minarets and belted calls of prayer 

But one after the other they quivered and dismounted

Resuming the gagging bite of palm over begging lips

Her gaze glazed

They kept coming, stretched sick thoughts like cord bridges over what was once remote and then the traffic came, 

Five lanes,

One way,

Flowed like magma, 

Smelt like sulphur,

Stiff

Determined

They gather on certain Monday mornings,

Some times Tuesdays 

I can’t remember the faces

Just when you think there is no more left!

If only...

The Line up

While HOPE is far sighted,
JOY is ripe and firm, may you catch it when it is thrown to you.

Promise you won't lose it!