has a new look

Go to the new

Poetry by Ayesha Mark




© 2005 Ayesha Mark



The Man

Papa said not to stare
at the man sitting
on the side of the road.
"It's said that his eyes
are hypnotizing," says Papa.

Smoke creeping slowly
from his hookah,
wraps his head
and stains his head grey.
Never-ending and straggly,
his hair hangs intertwined,
Hinting of past years.

Wrinkles cover his face,
creating a maze of
what is
and was.

I watch
as he keeps smoking,
in and out
and in
and out.




Monsoon Day

Bodies drop down
from the road
like rain
on this monsoon day,
drowning all the serenity
that was.

A landslide of
men, women, children-
gushes before my eyes.

Shrieks and sounds of cops
slamming sticks
sabotage this once quiet night.

Papa, Mama, Serena, the cook and I
sheltered by brick walls
and locked doors,
we wait by the phone,
feeling secure -
yet helpless.

I fall asleep
on Mama's lap,

only to awake
to rain
diluting blood,
once spread
so concentrated
on my front porch.





All work is copyrighted property of Ayesha Mark.



[back to top]  [home]


© 2005 SubtleTea Productions   All Rights Reserved