Shales of Memory
Their
names remained carved on the trunk
of
their favourite mulberry tree
for a
longer period
than
the concrete of their driveway.
Mainly
because they were obliged to sell their house
after
their divorce, and
the new
owner decided to tear it down
to
build a new one.
It took
her years to figure out that both of them
had
been playing at being a married couple,
and
their nest had been more of a stage
than a
real home.
If ever
there was a next time,
she’d make sure he’d know her
real self;
she
wouldn’t try to fit into any pegs
created
by an uncaring society.
She’d allow him to be himself,
though
she might need to tweak
any
obnoxious habits he might have,
just a
little.
Perhaps
they’d live in a caravan to start with,
for a
trial run, before moving
into
any spaces with solid walls.
And if
they carved any initials onto any tree barks,
they’d have to be in another county,
so her
heart wouldn’t get splintered
every time she passed by Evergreen Park.
Photo: Longing to
Dance by S. Raza
Choreia*
She longed to shrug
off
this heavy casing of inflexible stone,
so she could paint playful tunes
with her fluttering fingers onto thin air.
But no matter how much
she longed to
Twirl, pirouette, skip, or hop in sync with
these melodious waves,
her hands remained immobile,
feet rooted to the spot.
At least she could
still dream of dancing
with the waves, a few millennia ago
before that witch had turned her to stone,
and these misguided fools
had placed her in a polluted city in a tight niche;
not knowing, or uncaring
of how their nostalgic soulful songs
made her weep tears of dew at misty dawn.
*A type of circle
dance in ancient Greece
Inspired by the
art-work shown, Longing to Dance (also by Sultana Raza).
Note: previously published in Literary Heist in Dec. 2023.
Naught
None to rescue him
from dream gone awry,
None who could fathom
his unique, lonely strife.
None with his wishes,
who could comply.
None who could feed
his explorations of life,
None his needless dues
to death could deny,
None to paint sunny,
once again grey light,
None his suffering to
world could decry.
None for his vitality
who could fight.
None with dire destiny
for him who could spar.
None who’d mourn his
paintings of tombs.
None who’d long to
glimpse his bright star.
None to bestrew on his
grave blue blooms.
None who’d admire his
majestic melancholy,
None to revere temple
of his own psyche.
Note: inspired by
poets/artists such as Keats and Caspar
David Friedrich who died in poverty, and in relative
obscurity in their lifetimes (as compared to the later popularity and
appreciation of their works).
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