get off!

Get off that merry-go-round!
It’s for people half your age!
Get off that table!
Stop that dancing!
Stop that drinking!
Stop that singing off-key!
Join the matrons now!
Your turn is done!
The sun has set,
on your parade!

Cant you see?!
We were just,
Too polite to say it!
But now it’s time,
To hang up those dancing shoes,
To put away your clown hat,
To pick up that walking stick,
And settle down quietly
in that rocking chair.

It’s time to complain
About the nasty weather,
of tired aching joints,
and sudden pains,
faltering eyesight, fine print,
And lack of civilized company.



published ages ago on manishalakhe.blogspot.com. clearly i have not learnt this lesson yet. call it a reminder...

Spring Cleaning 2

the big blue velvet chair
of cosmic recklessness,
has been vacuumed today.

i have retrieved several lost kisses,
the green bottle of stardust
i’d planned to sprinkle
over the furrows on your forehead
when you are asleep,
six coins from your jacket,
many a silly thought
which other accomplished friends
would have converted into
instant poetry, are all now tucked away
in my memory box
that still has the pink button from my shirt
evidence of our early passion.


the pillows are now fluffed
and i’m halfway drowned in merlot
unable to decide if i should
simply snuggle up to you and listen
to laughter rumbling in your chest
as you watch comedy on tv
or i should sneak up and steal
you away from the sofa and...

Spring Cleaning

housewives know how 
everything must fit in the closet.
that’s why they're almost always locked
and the keys are safe in handbags.
This way no one would accidentally 
discover hastily dumped everything
that wasn't cleared in time for guests.


i’m more organised.

the back of the top shelf is for names i am called
like clothes that don’t fit.
I take them out once in a while
for airing. keeps the venom alive.
everyday arguments are kept within reach.
insults, mean and vicious words
need to be accessible.
you never know when you might need them


the other shelves have clothes
black or white mostly
so you never again put up with the uncertain greys
shirts and pants so you can be your own boss
dupattas that smother responses
salwaars and churidaars
neatly stacked, occupying space
that might otherwise
be occupied with doubts,
low self esteem,
like chores of my day.

knick knacks from happier times have been
strangled in plastic bags
because they add up all the lies lived.
i know i should throw them out
along with lacy underwear that prayed for passion
but i don’t find the time.


i am dealing with the daily
ironing out of creases in feelings
darning the damage done 
by words spoken in anger...


oh how much i ramble
let me make you some coffee
and rustle up little vanilla cakes
with blue, pink and yellow sprinkles
the cleaning up of this closet can wait.
skeletons don’t kiss and tell.

quiet life

in meetings you are the facilitator,
allow everyone to have a say,
at your desk you cook up strategies,
thousands depend on your documents,
you drive home to old rock songs,
you write funny things, share pictures
on social networking sites,
you call in groceries, talk to appliances
just so don’t forget words.
the children nod at the food,
the parents eat in front of the tv,
the husband talks through lawyers,
you cry silently in the bathroom,
the mirror is a mute witness.
you can’t say anything to the maid
or she might just leave.
the milkman and the news,
arrive at the doorstep.
the house runs on your magic touch.
the lover prefers long quiet walks
to sweet talk, heads resting on pillows,
and one day you realise, you barely say
anything. in fact you are still invisible.