Cold Feet

Let me caress you henceforth
so I may fill you up with warmth,
whenever you have cold feet
don’t allow your heart to skip a beat
Cos some are in dire need of cold feet,
to make their hot summers complete
so some even go to feel the waters of Crete
So call on me as and when you have them
As I will stand firm
I don’t want to seem to rhyme
but you’re worth more than a dime
But just whisper my name always
as you take aim
cos it’s only for you that I came

Advertisements

Promenade des Anglais 

Don’t tell me that this is an ode for the dead
Don’t tell me that this poem
is a hate-speech
Don’t call him a Muslim
Don’t tell us he acted in the name of religion
Don’t ever tell me that the muslims in the world have been marginalised
Don’t tell us what he did was in the name of Islam
Don’t tell me he was human
Don’t tell me he had a conscience
Don’t tell me you can find ways to explain this barbarity
Don’t tell me the “French” are to be blamed for this
Don’t tell me that Muslims in France are disenfranchised or have been segregated
Don’t tell us that: we won’t believe you
Don’t tell me that this perpetrator
stood for a cause
Don’t ever tell us that he went out to avenge something or some acts
Don’t tell me he had blood running through his veins
Don’t tell me he was once referred to as a son
Don’t tell me his name
Don’t tell me where he comes from
Don’t tell me anything about his
character
Don’t tell me which neighbourhood
he grew up in
Don’t tell me anything about his family
Don’t tell me that his children
looked up to him and ever called
him “Dad
Don’t tell me that someone is to be blamed for his actions
Don’t tell me that France is a segregated or homophobic country
Don’t tell me that Muslims of France have no say
Don’t ever blame his actions on Islamic teachings
Don’t tell me that his family
is responsible for this
Don’t tell me that every muslim is a terrorist, a timed bomb whichcould explode any moment from now
Don’t ever tell me someone’s
inactions caused these horrible scenes
Don’t tell me you’re not moved
Don’t tell me you’re not weeping for the dead
Don’t tell me your heart is not aching
Don’t ever tell me this is not a sad reality
Don’t tell me that Muslim should be victimised from today
Don’t tell me that any Arab looking person should be stopped by police and interrogated
Don’t tell me that it’s a fight between Islam and the rest
Don’t tell us that France stands alone
Don’t tell us that Nice stands alone in this fight
Don’t tell me that Promenade des Anglais will forever be the same

Not in anyone’s name
This is just not right

Park Spoor Noord

Time and time again has it been told
Colossal words will be redundant
to clarify the fact of the matter
Who are we to judge?
You, men of today,
who trod namby-pamby
you natter around like week-old chicks
and tessellate in smaller circles,
to dine away your burdened souls
You are ebbing away,
not into the annals of history,
but as disappearing meteorites

So who are you to judge?
You, women of today, who thrive
on inoccent anthers,
to invoke a ripple of approval
from the present
you tessellate unlike your men
in bigger circles
to dine away your troubled hearts
You are all saying your final goodbyes to spring,
maybe actually to Park Spoor Noord

Cheer up, dear brother!

you tasted the unknown waters
and touched the distant seas – afar
along the inconsiderate tides
with the sacrosanct skies, staring beneath,
unto your scalp
cheer up, dear brother
as winter blurs into spring
– with minuscule day sunlight
every now and then
and the longer nights bringing forth
shorter sleeps
Autumn is still in sights
the bamboo orchids lie dormant
along greying greens
cheer up, now and tomorrow
the seasons are passing through,
the moments come and go – for good
so cheer up, my dear brother !

FORTNIGHT (A birthday poem)

A couple of words, candid and true
It’s a year on, placid as the ages accrue
So no expressions of flattery today
And be that as it may
it’s a year on, all but not astray
it’s barely a fortnight
that Other and Jackie crossed path
So I’ll just allow you to a have an early bath
Cos it’s a year on, one more time
“Happy Birthday” is all what I’ll mime

December’s Warmth

Your words have dried up
You give infinite answers
it’s like you have no soul in you
you can’t sustain your breath for long
it’s like you’re holding onto a crumbling stick,
cautiously
the same way one would be reticent
in spite of a brimming tension

Your questions remain unanswered
It’s like you’re walking in a mist
or perhaps you are the mist itself
You have blood stains in your cough
It’s like this might be your last Christmas
you miss the days of old
and the gone era
you still brim with confidence
amid the tiresome rounds you make daily

You have been asked to speak louder,
be bold and articulate your sentences
it’s like a rebirth or a renaissance
learning how to take steps all over again
you have dreams, lost letters and broken hearts
it’s like you take a sojourn in people’s minds-eye

You reflect on the past
And continue to walk with fervent hope
It’s like your future is already written in the stars
So you’ll forever take refuge in your dreams
and carry on like never before

Silky Hair

Woman, wherever you sit, its radiance lightens up
To brighten the woes of our today
Like it has already been, for years

And each strand has a story to itself
And a rubric, coined with time
So as silky as it appears
It will forever be a sparkle in the dim days
And travel through time

To show glimpses of the miles trodded
And the heights achieved
Or even tell tales of the hands it has met

As its lustrous fibres continue to glitter
Each thought of our innocent hearts
While they journey on along the woes of today

Are You Writing Your Life ?

It’s been a couple of years
after you asked that question
Till now, you’ve never been missed,
due to the presence of your words,
the unplanned meetings in public transport
and honestly, you reside not far from here
You’ve been spotted going out and about
as days turn into years
Sometimes, picking your noble son from school
holding each others’ hands tightly
along the brick-pavement
You must be a proud mother
The spark in your eyes says it all
You’ve also been seen taking strolls
in and around the public park
others call it a recreational park,
with your belly-full
You were carrying in you either a
prince or a princess or even both,
an unborn monarchy
Lately you were seen pushing a pram
you seemed to be in a hurry
Maybe you had an appointment
with a paediatrician
How time runs!
Nine months have just gone by
within a blink of an eye or did you
deliver prematurely?
Anyway what matters most is that mother and child(ren) are healthy
So be it then
But what happened to your plans?
Are you still on them?
Pursuing your goals of becoming a
journalist.
You speak four languages;
Turkish(your mother tongue), German,
English and of course Dutch, right?
Great stuff
My regards to your husband and children
and who knows, maybe we’d bump into each other some day
either in a public transport
or I might see you reporting on TV
or hear your voice on the radio
or meet you at the nearby recreational park with your children
They may be of age by then and I wouldn’t be surprised if they ask
if indeed I’m writing my life
Till then, I’ll be preparing for an answer.