she gathered a smile
so beautifully,
so absorbingly,
so effortlessly, painted;
like the modern Monalisa
reinvented.
And for a blooming while-
I felt time suffocating
on my laps;
Whilst my hopes
of us
ran down the slopes
of lust
and burst
into a dawning flame
again-
like the first
time
my lips, hugged
hers.

silence is the coffee table
where books and men,
in a knowledge seeking game
drink to the rhythm
of learning.

new pages, new tastes.
for the mind's empty cages, more distances
are raced.
call it a silently loud
conversation,
of men with their pride
aside-
listening
when books
speak.

We paced through love, so quickly!
And now, my lips can’t believe the end
Is here already.
We vowed to be turtle doves- to empty
Each one’s heart into the other’s and to blend
For years in plenty.

Maybe, it was me.
Maybe, it was you,
Or better still, the both of us;
Maybe we all failed to envision
Life’s unmasked reality.
That love grows and fades,
Like music played all over again.
That change is a distant traveller,
With no definite destination
and home to call its home.
That love and change are sisters,
And we were just their make-up for the day.

Sometimes I wish
I foresaw this mess,
Then, I would’ve bought a cheaper dress
And stayed home after all,
Than sit by this roadside tormented in the cold,
Awaiting your unexpected call.

that he had no money to give his only son
for the length of the day, while at school-
made him feel less of a father again.
In the old uniform,
thirsty with adult stains printed all over,
and yawning shoes,
his son hastily jumped off the back of the bicycle.

The rain and the wind
like two elephants, fought around them
******* out the few exercise books
into the air,
and picking them off the mud
meant another challenging affair.
The bag had one mouth,
with no zipper to seal its lips,
but banana fibers strapped them loosely together.

Turning to say farewell,
the boy drew tears in his father’s eyes,
authentic tears diluted in the minute rivers
of rain streaming down his cheeks-
that quivered subliminally,
with the bitter scent of poverty around him.
His son smiled charmingly,
never spotting the wounds
in his father’s emotions.

As he never asked God
for a wealthy dad;
but for one
who awoke early morning
before the moon went to hide again;
just to make an African fire and boil black tea.
To iron his uniform with a ‘charcoal iron’
and kept blowing off the stubborn ashes
that escaped onto the linen.

One who toiled gardening,
from before the sun peeped at dawn
to before the moon peeped at dusk-
to harvest an education for him.
He only asked of heaven
a single favor-
to let his dad live to that day,
to that day of graduation
to that day when shoulders are soaked wet
with tears,
to that day of intellectual harvest,
the day love in rags
triumphs
over
money in suits!