Chasing Sunshine

And then there was pink.
Lots of it,
In many different
Shapes and sizes.

Some pink came
In fancy cupcakes,
Served at celebrations
In clubs, organizations
And institutions.

Some pink was in
Fancy lettering,
Smattered
With sparkling glitter,
On wishes,
That appeared on walls,
Real and virtual.

Some of it
Was in the attire,
Of beautiful women,
Smiling from pictures,
Celebrating,
Themselves,
And others like them.

While some of it,
Was in the shirts,
And flowing skirts,
Of water wives,
Making the trek,
For the water,
That’s tethered
To their worth.

And some of the pink,
Was in the garment
They ripped off,
To commence the torment
Of the powerless woman,
At the mercy
Of predators,
More vicious than,
A pride of hungry lion.

None of the pink,
Was in the comments,
Inked in black,
From naysayers,
And the not-feminists,
Who wondered
What the fuss
Was all about;
Why couldn’t women
Go back to when,
They served
But spoke not?

But when it was time
For the pink to shine,
They all said,
In unison,
“Happy Women’s day”,
Ad infinitum.

Image Credit: Photo by Foodie Girl on StockSnap

Comprehension
Brings awareness,
And sometimes
Profound sadness;
You feel like
The earth beneath
Your shaky feet,
Has given way
To an abyss;
And yet,
You don’t quite fall in,
You hold on,
Grasping on
To anything,
To be able to resist,
The free fall
Into oblivion.

Yes, comprehension
Brings awareness,
And is perchance
Your first step to doom.

The doorway
Holds a secret,
And so too,
The windows
And walls,
But most of all,
The floor
Holds the burden,
Of the darkness
That unfolded,
Within this space –
Seemingly safe,
And a haven.

And the secret,
Is as much
About the oath
Of silence,
Birthed in despair,
As it is
About the devastation,
That unfolded there.

The wind is strong.
You can feel it,
In the way the dust
Stings your eyes,
Even when you keep them
Tightly closed.
And in how your hair
Clings to your face,
In a tight embrace.
You feel its chill,
And you hold yourself
Really tight,
Losing, in the process
The battle
With your hair.

The wind is strong.
It brings in its wake
Stories from the past,
The ones you had
All but forgotten,
Except,
For the inexplicably
Sudden chill,
On a summer night,
When the ghosts
Were aroused,
Gathering the remnants
And causing a storm,
Carried on
By the gusts of wind.
The wind is strong.

You are not that person.
The one
Who makes heads turn,
The one
Who is heard
Above the noise,
The one
Who others look to,
For comfort
And advice.

You are not that person.
You just happened
To be,
And you decided
Somewhere along
Your journey
That it was fine
To simply be –
Until,
They took away
Even that.

You are not that person.
The one
Who simply wanted to be,
A quiet presence,
Among the hundreds.
You are marked,
Tainted –
And that’s all
You can ever be.

Strong.
It was the heavy lock
That secured your home
When you were four.

Some years later
You found it in
The steel cabinet
Where you stored
Your clothes
But more so
Important things.

It was also
How your father
Managed to carry
In both hands
Heavy suitcases
Amidst milling crowds
On a busy railway platform.

Strong.
You found it
In different things
And people
As you went along.

It was the chink
In your armour
That gave way
To the weakness
Which hangs
Like a dark storm cloud
And engulfs your strong.

Image Credit: Photo by Michal Jarmoluk on StockSnap

This expanse
Stretches forth,
Seemingly
Unto infinity;
At once intimidating,
As it is welcoming,
To the embattled soul
That stands at the shore,
Watching the waves,
Beating against it,
Relentlessly.

Almost akin,
To the pangs
Of unceasing pain,
That rise in the depths
Of her belly.

Somewhere in the past
A distant one
She chose to don
A veil of darkness
Hoping to hide
Behind its opaqueness
All her secrets
Vile, shameful, and dark.

She held it tight
Around her
As she walked,
And even as she lay
On her bed
On the darkest night,
Until her secrets
Were lost,
Not just to the world,
But to her as well.

Secrets have a way
Of tumbling out,
Like the skeleton
In the proverbial closet;
Perchance it was
A gust of wind,
Or even that
She had a lapse
In her attention
To detail,
And she let it slip,
Ever so slightly,
And it began to show,
The shame – the utter shame,
That hid beneath.

She tried hard
To grab
At the flying garb,
To hold it around her,
Wrapped tight.

But that which had
Been once revealed,
Could no longer be unseen.

So there she stood,
As alone, as she ever had been,
No garb to hide behind,
Exposed, her hair flying wild,
All over her head,
Lowered to the ground.