Tag: melancholia

VERSE | MELANCHOLIA

On By Mahvash K. M.In hope, poetry, verse, womenwriters, writingLeave a comment 
When evening falls and once again 
Melancholia sets in 
Tinctures and shadows of times gone by 
Come bleeding, weeping in 

When the orbit of the earth 
Has brought in the dark of night 
And memories, remembrances 
When all with the world was right 

When you cannot escape the bed
That has forged into a cell 
Holding you fast for the night 
In unending wakefulness

When at last your weary mind 
At some hour releases you 
Into realms of visions and dreams
That bruise and lance anew

When you finally awake 
And the sun shines bright again 
Pumping the lifeblood that the night 
Has stolen from your veins 

Breathe in deeply, close your eyes
This will not be the last 
Of eventide’s strange conjuring 
Of aching for the past 

Many will be the days when 
The joyless cycle will repeat 
But at some point the salve of time
Will turn the memories bittersweet.

VERSE | CAUGHT RED-SALAD!

On By Mahvash K. M.In Foot in the Mouth, plants, satire, verse, writingLeave a comment

This is my Alice in Wonderland type of journey through my bowl of salad. Some trials (including of the dietary variety) are best undertaken up close and personal! Also thrown in some existential angst for good measure. The title of the piece is a play on the phrase “Caught red-handed”.

I pick my way through little bits
Of bright green, the shade
Of fresh cut grass
I then pass
A scarlet flower the size of my head
It sits on the ground like it’s dead
Or perhaps waiting 
Anticipating 
Food? Me? Like the Venus flytrap?
I shudder and go on 
It agitates me that I’m alone

I look up
There propped 
On a frilly green tree
I see
A brown green dome 
Velvety on the outside 
Is it a temple? A den? A ploy to lull the senses
Full of pretenses
Of warmth and safety 
Waiting slyly for unsuspecting prey?
I shiver and go on

I’m borne on fogs 
Of peppery wet air
I stop and stare
At uneven bricks of black and white 
Stacked haphazardly
Here and there 
Are these stairs to heaven? alien art? remains of ritual sacrifice?
I can’t tell … but oh the smell!
As I step through a hole
Soft and pliable, the pong
Makes my eyes water 
I falter for a bit 
It it a giant fungus? A virus? A disease? 
I step through gingerly — 

“Good afternoon ma’am. How’s the salad”
I’m startled, awakened from my reverie
I look down at my bowl
Where I had been traipsing 
Thumb-nail small
In a fearsome fantasy 
That my despairing mind had woven
In garden salad tapestry 

Lettuce, tomatoes, olives and cheese
Untouched, unloved, salt-pepper doused
Waiting for a forkful raised to my mouth
Sit patronisingly, self righteously 
In the bowl, staring back at me.