No doctor, you can’t fathom the

Depth of this wound which,

Runs through my soul and

The blood smeared ball of muscle with

Cylindrical passages,

Both of which carry deoxygenated blood.

I have little hope from,

You, and the philanthropists who,

Offer to stitch my heart severed into two.

No doctor, I don’t doubt that,

You can’t heal my wound and

Also, a local anaesthesia wouldn’t do.


Via Daily Post: Local

Scribble Series #7

I smell the familiar air,

Heavy with fried fish and coriander,

But also with sausages from the nearby fast food centre.

I can feel fresh sunlight.

Heating up the parapet like olden times.

But no one stands on the terrace drying long hair anymore.

The silence is still heavy,

Lingering at noon time among brick houses,

Silently broken by an old man,

Pushing his cycle cart forward,

Only coloured syrup replaced by branded ice-cream.

A Husband Away

I pushed the beaded pin into my hair,

Looked at the mirror, at the empty street again,

Just a few more hours,

I muttered a prayer.

I’ve left the crossword unsolved in the morning newspaper,

Dusted the bookshelf,

I’ve cooked your favourite supper.

Bottles re-arranged in the cellarette,

Decanters and port wine,

The vases full of tulips fresh,

Knives and forks for together we’ll dine.

A dutiful wife, I’ve hidden them well,

Boudoir mails and scented letters,

For a husband away is a husband dead,

All wise men can tell.