I embellish my arms with bangles

As thick as two strands of hair.

Their raucous cackles

Suffuse the tepid air.

Air that's fragrant with spices

I add to my copper pots. 

Air whose redolence

Reminds me of what I've lost.

The dough that I mould

Sans a scintilla of strain,

Boasts imprints of my knuckles manifold, 

Knuckles on which those kisses still linger, ...

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My Mother’s Kitchen

I’m in my mother’s kitchen

It’s a Monday afternoon

The oven’s heated up the air

The buns will be out soon

Everywhere there’s an aroma

Of cinnamon and spice

An apple pie sits on the table

I’m waiting for a slice

A black-leaded coal fire

Does it’s best to dominate

The heat and the smells

That the baking permeates

An old fridge hums...

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I look at you

You don’t look back

You can’t hear what I’m saying

Blinkered, you start to backtrack

Into your world of playthings

I wish you’d join me

You never know what you might see.

A thousand fountains – a million forms of ecstasy

A trillion ways to make your brain cells dance

But you won’t even try, your pupils are too blind

I’ll speak to

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I look at you

You don’t look back

You can’t hear what I’m saying

Blinkered, you start to backtrack

Into your world of playthings

I wish you’d join me

You never know what you might see.

A thousand fountains – a million forms of ecstasy

A trillion ways to make your brain cells dance

But you won’t even try, your pupils are too blind

I’ll speak to

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