Contempt

Is it contempt, that look on your face,
The twisted lips, the taunting eyes?
Facial contours transformed in a grimace,
Ostensible humor, stealth attack in disguise?

Or is it just some good natured ribbing,
With a baked in astringent feel,
That within a sleight-of-words, is hiding,
Anguished discontent you want to conceal?

They used to rankle, they used to sting,
Those barbed words, those remarks, snide,
Now they simply add another callused ring,
To a hardened soul that takes it all in stride.

The Guilt

A guilt immeasurable,
Born from knowing,
My life remains immutable;
Unchanged at your coming.

Your momentous entrance,
Into this world unforgiving,
Mere ripple on the surface,
Not an upheaval, shattering.

Life goes on extant,
In undisturbed placidity, though,
Your love, my tender infant,
Does indeed lead priority.

Your sparkling smile, your glowing visage,
Momentarily soothes a guilt-ridden soul,
Still I cling to the dreary baggage,
Of every unrealizable goal.

Self-absorption continues,
Unabated in intensity,
Motherly sacrifices don’t imbue,
My profligate propensity.

Tears fail to rend my calm,
Pleadings don’t beseech,
Wracking sobs don’t twist my arm,
As for the door I reach.

Muttering sweet banalities,
Disappearing, thirteen daily hours,
Complacent about your ephemeral memories,
Confident about your resilient powers.

Only the burden on my soul;
The immeasurable guilt,
Will never let me feel whole,
Just guilt-ridden to the hilt.

© Pragya Thakur

Fond Wish - Bad Acrostic

At last! Twelve hours of solitude,
Left alone, prayers answered!
On this bright sunlit day,
Not stressed, nor pressured,
Excited escape, just minutes away!

A morning languorous and late,
Toast and tea, little else on my plate.

Leaving home as the engine roars,
Adjusting controls, turning up the bass,
Screaming Zeppelin, singing The Doors,
Tensions gone, devilish grin on the face.

(Up) Set the Pace

In response to a writing exercise that required the description of something that upset the normal course of events in a life and how we emerged victorious.

What if I was to gladly welcome an upsetting of the pace of my life? What if I feel it couldn’t get any worse, only better? Perhaps I believe that the choices I have made and the resulting consequences have led me to a never-ending saga of despair and disillusionment, where I am getting increasingly cynical and jaded as the years go by. Perhaps my best efforts at every stage of my life have only contributed to maintaining a steady state of defeated disenchantment. Perhaps I see my life as one long, flat-lined, comatose moment, where the life support systems and mechanisms have been working just fine and keeping me technically alive, but never really living.An upset to this pace then, would be a welcome change.

It would be the much desired blip on the life-signs monitoring system, making me sit up, throw off the tubes and swing my feet forward poised for actions that would help me emerge fulfilled and victorious. It would then be easy for me to look back, from the present day vantage point, and gracefully accept the defeat, one that stretched, agonizingly, over two decades.

Perhaps now is the time to emerge victorious from this defeat, the time to start over, to seriously consider the entreaty from an incarnation of myself from a week ago, that went as follows:

Don’t fill these empty spaces,
Leave them alone for the moment,
Close your eyes,
Seek comfort in nothingness,
Find reassurance in Spartan starkness.

This clutter of disguised insecurities,
Sweep it all aside this instant,
Absorb the clarity,
Of this pristine space,
Revel in a momentary state of grace.

Now swirl your paintbrushes,
In hues unseen, step away,
From a monochrome destiny,
And create a terpsichorean vision,
Of twirling, twinkling dancing passion.

No longer hesitant,
Nor afraid anymore, of new beginnings,
And life at its unrehearsed best,
Of leaping into the unknown abyss,
And taking final aim at everlasting bliss.

If I could do what I told myself to do last week would I then be happier, more fulfilled, or will I simply be starting a fresh and gleaming chain of events that would lead to another state, twenty years hence, making me look back, once again thinking of the past, christening it the second phase of defeat? Perhaps life is just a succession of defeats. What is victory after all? Would it come with Nirvana? Have I done enough good deeds in this lifetime to even attain Nirvana? I only have questions, questions that lead to more questions, never any answers, no solutions!

Nightmares

This dream had sharper edges,
It sliced, nicked and burned,
Jarringly lucid, unmistakably direct,
Inflicting raw scars of lessons learned,
Demanding wakeful pledges.

Pointing scaly talons at the soul,
Death-masked faces, cloaked in gloom,
Cackled in reedy, screechy voices,
Warning against entering the room,
Of indulgent distractions; the only goal.

Morning’s pledge of mended ways,
Fleetingly burdened a tense brow;
Scattering, shattering as the body rose.
Trampled over, discarded, dormant for now,
Glinting heads of Hydra, in menacing arrays.

© Pragya

Starting Over

Don’t fill these empty spaces,
Leave them alone for the moment,
Close your eyes,
Seek comfort in nothingness,
Finding reassurance in Spartan starkness.

This clutter of disguised insecurities,
Sweep it all aside this instant,
Absorb the clarity,
Of this pristine space,
Reveling in a momentary state of grace.

Now swirl your paintbrushes,
In hues unseen, step away,
From a monochrome destiny,
And create a terpsichorean vision,
Of twirling, twinkling, dancing passion.

No longer hesitant,
Nor afraid anymore, of new beginnings,
And life at its unrehearsed best,
Of leaping into the unknown abyss,
And taking final aim at everlasting bliss.

© Pragya

An Observer's Woes

Reflective surfaces show her your faces,
Bright, sunny days, your frolicking shadows,
She inhabits with you, these massive spaces,
But she’s so rarely here, will she at least share your tomorrows?

You carve jack o’ lanterns and build a snowy Frosty,
You bake sugar cookies, giggling, dripping melted ice-cream,
Your faces lit in laughter, smeared with cotton candy,
Will she ever be in these memories, her heart wants to scream.

For lately she’s just an observer, the forgettable photographer,
Documenting a pleasant, Kodak chrome recollection,
A consummate and obsessive cataloger,
Seldom captured on film, completely oblivious to her own reflection.

Indulging her compulsions, on some restless quest,
Filling white, empty spaces with burdensome thoughts,
While precious unlived moments vanish unpossessed,
An unbearable disembodiment that may pass, though she doubts it.

© Pragya Thakur