Widow

The Widow

  There she is, the widow,

  Walking like an aimless ship,

  Across the meadow,

  The mute grass seems to feel her grief, deep.

 

The cruel sadness flutters its flag in her ashen sari,

  The goalposts’ blank stare worsens the things more,

  The sitting sun on the branch of a tree,

  Can hardly do anything for her.

 

  Stares through the windowpane,

  Daily at the dead street,

  And the almost dying lantern,

  The squirrel seems to make her smile a bit.

 

  She is a moon,

  Yet can’t stand the existence,

  Of the physical one,

  Since memory lets her fly and shed tears.

 

  The hectic machine-like-earth whirls as usual,

  And all her torn heart needs is Homerian Circe,

  Who can heal her orphan heart salvaging from the timeless jail, 

  But reality is rather impolite and alive with farce!

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

In the 5th line, 'Saree' or 'sari' is a long piece of cloth wrapped around the body and head or shoulder. The women in southern Asia wear it.

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Missing Passenger

Vows taken on a crisp Saturday afternoon in September,
You wore a velveteen black suit, and me and my cream colored lace,
We swirled through the park like doves in flight,
Everything was oh...so right!

 

That first year, you held me in the rocking chair your mother gave us,
No arms had ever given me such peace and comfort,
Your gentle kisses to my neck and ears,
Three long blissful and beautiful years before our first born.

 

Then the security of all we could have asked for,
The nights of laughter and after dinner rides to the custard stand,
You in your jovial disposition and me with my coy school-like charm,
And then home, to snuggle together on the couch.

 

The tenth year was busier after our daughter was born,
I could not have chosen a better father for our children,
But the rocking chair needed some repair,
I missed our snuggles we used to share in the days of old.

 

You always made a point of reminding me about how you loved those days,
I'd kid you about your extra pounds ruining the dowels under the seat,
But in our own way, the memory savored, lasted into our 25th anniversary,
Still, every few months I would beg you to fix it.

 

Now that the children are grown and come to visit,
I sometimes tell them how you used to hold me in that rocker,
They smile with the same tenderness back at me,
And I see your twenty year old charm in their eyes again.

 

One day, a few months after the funeral,
I took a seat alone in the chair when I came home,
Rickety now, the wood is dried and brittle,
I hardly can imagine those days were real.

 

The days are getting longer, it seems, and many times I wonder
Where you are, maybe sitting on a crescent moon, gazing at the stars,
I have gained so many beautiful memories from the life we shared,
And I still wish you'd fix this rocking chair.

 

 

 

10:19 PM 4/28/2013 ©

Author's Notes/Comments: 

About solid marriages.

 

I have to be more careful copying and pasting...at first I only got half of the poem!

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The Widow

Folder: 
Dark

As hope turns its shoulder
and the wise have gotten older
No one can catch my lies

As the cold gets colder
the silence gets bolder
my heart has just left you to die

for my Spring to begin
your Fall must end
and our Winters be burned alive

As the dark gets darker
and our lives get harder
You have failed to notice the signs

May my love be your death
I shall take your last breath
as though it had always been mine

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