I see a woman standing at the traffic light Even in her shabbiness, she’s neat and clean She stands on the wayside wondering For the hundredth time what she is doing on the street. People look at her from their car windows A nonchalant glance up and then away Their psycho-social barriers Comfortingly coming down to save their day From unpleasant pangs of conscience As they niggle at the edges of their minds The world is troubled, their impact small Sometimes it’s just better to be blind.
She looks at the faces in the cars Indifferent, unseeing; wishing her away She clutches the hem of her tattered shirt Picks up the gumption to still walk their way She looks at a lady who hasn’t averted her eyes The shame is too much and she swallows hard Even so, she manages a faint little smile Hoping for kindness, compassion, regard The lady looks up, seeing her for the first time She’s irritated, she’s irked for letting her guard down Beggars, pleaders of various requests Destroy her peace of mind, she frowns.
She waves a dismissive hand at the sight And looks away, she will not lock eyes Maybe the beggar will go to the next car With her chafing, imploring enterprise The woman feels the withering blow As she hurriedly backs away from the car The wounds in her heart are bleeding anew Everyday there are fewer healing scars She stumbles back onto the foot path Eyes stinging with hopelessness and fatigue This world seems done with the likes of her She too is done with her destiny.
I carry this thing, it sits on my shoulder Some call it a chip; I call it my boulder It gnaws at my insides, it makes for low blows When I’m swirling around in its treacherous throes
I am sometimes deceitful when I feel its weight Dignity and grace I cavalierly leave at the gate If it tells me I’m worth nothing, that I’m wretchedly small I’ll lash out blindly at one and all
I grew up believing this weight that I hold Of inflated egos and machismo bold Is an age old legacy that’s been bestowed From father to son and from son down below.
With time, it has morphed into an ugly avatar Sometimes the pricks of conscience are stark But driven by habit and custom and time I let my massive chip drag me into the grime
I’m weaving this rhyme when I’m feeling lucid And can see the chip: festering and putrid Most times though it pokes me with its manly muscle: I could murder that person who honked at my Honda Vezel!
And so I go blundering and blustering through life Ego in one hand; in the other an invisible knife When my shoulder can’t bear the weight of the chip I unburden, I plot and I rage. I’m insidious.
Almonds and walnuts, cholocate and ginger All share the colour that I am Woodchucks that chuck wood, baskets and bagels I am the colour of a beaver dam
I am the colour of the moose and the swaying camel The ruddy duck and the wolverine, Wood and toast, I am the colour of roast The garden snail and the centipede
I am the colour of the giant fin whale And of your sweet little sun-kissed face I may even be the colour of the desk on which All your favourite books are placed
I am the colour of well loved teddy bears Bearded dragons and kiwi birds I am all around, from beige to BROWN I am the beautiful colour of the earth
I am the colour of cherry blossoms And of the beautiful magnolia I’m like the onion, chopping which is no fun I’m also like the flesh of the guava
Himalayan salt and the Pygmy seahorse Are the colour of your little tongue Which is the same as the river dolphin I am also the colour of bubble gum
I am the color of lychees and the guppy fish Turnips and the galah cockatoo I am also the colour of some sea anemones They don’t have brains like me and you!
I’m the colour of ripe raspberries Of the lotus and the carnation I am the hints of health on your little face I am the delicate colour pink
It was just another day I was going to my cafe I got onto the escalator Inching me up on my north-easterly way
I turned around to the sound Of a straining, hassled parent As he looked at his little one His mildly stern gaze quite apparent
The boy looked away; he was not in the mood To be held back from his play The stairs running up all on their own! What fun to skip around on them all day!
I sensed his bright happy energy Even as his little hand was grasped In restraint; in gentle admonishment Grown-up impatience was writ quite large!
The agitatated parent caught my eye As I took in the scene from five stairs above I smiled; he smiled; something freed up And he looked back down at his little son
He picked him up and kissed his cheek Then up on his shoulders the little boy went The child gave a glorious whoop of joy As on the magical stairway he made his ascent.
I looked up, the special journey was ending I bade it farewell with a skip and a hop The child still grinning chortled with laughter It was just another sweet day out and about.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 