The Vegetable Cart

Inspiration :

Photo by Clare Arni

Hands
reach out -
squeezing, stroking, cupping
her voice reaches a crescendo
as she finds
the perfect tomato

colours, textures swirl
before her
basking in the warm glow
of the only lamp in sight

the fragrance of the day-old flowers
nestling in her hair
mingle with the voices around her ;
the incredulous laughs
at the outrageous rates
of vegetables
that the children will waste

Note : I know that doesn’t look like a vegetable cart, and I don’t see tomatoes but I took some creative liberty and add some elements! I think the photo is really beautiful

If you think

if you think
if you think, I am small

a fly in the corner of
your eye

out of sight -
in a second
as I buzz right by

like a moment
you take when you blink
if you think

I’m a grain
of nothing
to be washed down
the sink

if you think
if you think

I am small
you mean nothing

nothing at all

Safe

Sometimes I want to run.

Stay back, the voice in my head
keeps a cold hold over
my feet.

My feet, they yearn
to feel bare soil, turmoil
anything but soft cotton
transparent : touch – me – not
but only watch
from here.

Here, where I am safe -
where I am safe from me.

Snail

because, you know
as I creep up the hard lines
of your palm, I leave behind
a trail of me

and as you squirm,
try to shake me off
I cling on, sticky sweet
gleaming in the glory
of the fading light

you give up, watch
as I make my way
to the tip of your finger
and I think it’s done

I’ve won.

Vidharba

A pale streak across
the sky ; yellow, like
an old woman’s tooth
mottled and stained
with time

there are clouds,
(dish water grey)
wet rags that
drag along a floor

and yet I see you,
tired and frail
head thrown back
trying to drown in
imaginary rain

The Platform

the platform
eternal pausing, the shells
of smoked peanuts
scattered
drips of tea on the stone bench
cold, now
and as I watch the train pull away
dragging a bit of my heart
with each chug
across the littered tracks

there are questions
answers I don’t need
for now, I’m a blur
a thing-of-the-past
yours, a moment ago
when you ran your fingers
through my hair
as always, your fingers caught
in the tangled ends
and just like always
you left them like they were





The Missed Train

there is this version for him and
another, and the other will
be this version for her

the insurgence of now
no matter where the fire
burned, the embers of
a long pause remain

breathe.

I lie here when I say
there is another train to catch
I will never reach
the same place
I will never know the place again
when it is bathed in us

Listen

nightfall -
laughter in the distance
there’s a song being sung
by the firelight somewhere

feet crushing, hands
slither up georgette
and now she can hear
those words turn
from empty meaning
into full moons

sheets rustle ending
years of seconds spent in silence
it took a verse of him
a chorus of her
the perfect note of them

Three

fine rain in seven colours
there is light, can you see?
in the white
in the pale yellow
of the lamp on the floor
a strand of hair
split, lies dead
mourn the passing
of the passion
from which it fell

oh, do tell
as I imagine he must
treat you very well
until the first sign
wait, let me ring
that bell for you.

Old Shoes

Old shoes scuffed
in places that once were
white as your teeth
on the day you brought home
the new shoes

New shoes still
shiny, still smell like
air tight boxes and tissue.
You wear them all the time,
everywhere, they squeak
like mice, like scared little mice
who chewed
the old shoes

Old shoes left
in another box, musty and dank
alone in the basement with the mice
who claimed them
on the day you brought home
the new shoes