Burked Ballads

Do you not remember me at all?
I am the hill that never sleeps,
the tree that lies by the street,
listless, longing to breathe;
the vine that tangles across
your fence, waiting on death
and its trail of savage footsteps.

Do you not remember me at all?
I am the forest that you veiled
in a miasma of fumes when you built
yet another automobile, cramming
roads, so that you could cut deeper
into me until I sprawled cold
and stark naked by the roadside.

There were times when you chopped me
down and buried me with mounds of sand;
when women chose to buy happiness
with cameos and satiny dresses and you
built that tall concrete haven for them,
while I lay buried awake under
glittering mosaic floors.

Do you not remember me at all?
I am the rain that pours down on you
washing away your sins, regrets and
your dark secrets, but do you even feel
the pain or is that just a smirk I see?

Today, you walk through broken down
villages, drawing a map in your mind
of the scraper you would like to erect;
rainbows, they splash hues behind
the distant valley while you dream
of the vivid concrete jungle not far away.

You and I

You remind me
of white lilies
– the ones that grow
in open green fields,
seen from tiny windows
of picket fenced houses.

Cloudy, Sunday mornings
when the winter breeze
made music, from fallen
orchard leaves
swaying to the wind,
before kissing the ground.

When noon skies blaze
a longing for solitude,
away from household madness
– far from pandemonium
under jacaranda trees
of red blossomed flowers.

At dusk, skies blush
shades of pink and orange;
a film of mist wraps
the open fields ahead.
Unhooking rusty latches,
I close wooden windows.

Before I set in for the night,
I think of tomorrow
and of days to come
– promises and little surprises
of white lilies, orchard leaves
jacaranda trees and pink skies;
everything that holds, a story
of you and I.

Train # 217

With bags tied to our backs,
we wait at the platform.
Dusk borders the skies above
enveloped by thick black clouds; below
against white walls with scribbled names,
we share laughter and small talk
about chai and the weather.

Taking warmth from cups
against freezing bare palms,
we watch baggage balanced
on tiny coolie heads,
wading through crowds;
hawkers with nasal voices
calling out to frantic travelers
– bobbing heads, a blur in seconds.

Leaning against a grey marble pillar,
he stands clad in a black cashmere sweater;
blowing into his tea, he glances my way
against the dark of the moonless night.
his eyes hold mine for a moment too long,
the moment broken by the blow of a whistle,
the crackling voice of a woman
from blaring speakers above.

217 the announcer calls out;
dragging piles of heavy bags
we clamber into the train.
He waits next to my window
as I walk up to him with jelly like legs;
no more goodbyes, I whisper.
Against the darkness of the night
his body is a silhouette now;
his mind, oblivious to my thoughts
his presence, a utopia in my brain.