Vitriol.

Born with an acid tongue, you launched verbal attacks that ended careers.
Like burn victims in India, you lashed out to defend perceived threats against your honour. 
Sonic boom—the sound of each blow landing like atomic bombs in Hiroshima. 
Nagasaki even knew you created more casualties than Iwo Jima. 
Instead of saliva, you spit genocide, each word its very own Holocaust. 
Casual remarks were like concentration camps, reuniting divided families in chambers gassed. 
Vocal terrorism, with every sentence ending in beheading.
The scars you left were like brands by iron rod on broken hearts.

Vidhava.

The stark contrast between the brown sand
and the bright orange flame of funeral pyre,
set her mind ablaze with her own devastation,
now that life had changed in an instant.

Despite her own bereavement,
or the insurmountable grief corroding her,
her own children’s accusatory stares
convinced her she was somehow responsible.

Once expected to self-immolate,
for a life without a spouse was not worth living,
fortunately some progress had been made,
now her exile was all that was required.

Plaited hair removed in patches,
revealing the tender scalp it covered.
A woman’s worth has no value,
in patriarchal lands ruled by tradition.

Alas, this sacrament was all for religion,
as she received the white sari that was now her only uniform.
Stripped of her name, she joined her renounced sisters,
in this ashram built on the tears of women who knew her pain.

There is no social death like widowhood:
the loss of one’s spouse, status, and title in a day.
Punishment for the misfortune of being female,
her existence ostracized
until she also believes that she has failed.

The Visit.

Silhouettes and photographs, 

through the graveyard, 

walking fast, 

Depression era screenplays, 

around the corner 

fudge is made.

Streets now broken

once were paved, 

dystopian playground 

that can't be saved

blasting off like 

rocketships, 

careful to mind 

broken hips.

Steadfast like masts 

on olden ships, 

chocolate cookies 

without the chips, 

a bust of a long 

forgotten mannequin, 

shares cobwebs and dust 

with lustful novels harlequin.

Pornography disguised as romance, 

good for nothing more than laughs, 

that once filled the room, 

then caked the walls;

the floral prints inside the hall.

Buttons strewn across the floor,

sensible spools of yarn,

and cutting boards,

I memorize ev'ry cracked tile,

one day, I will emulate her style.

When all things old are new again,

and I wish I’d paid closer attention.

Careless clouds of smoke 

billowed with each puff,

of her menthol cigarettes

that made me cough.

Murder mysteries flashed 

on the silver screen,

whodunits solved by 

faded beauty queens.

She relives her glory days,

filled with movie stars 

and runaways.

Yesterday always sounds so neat,

when she talks of brawls 

that spilled into the street.

The ruthless record player slows to a halt;

hair once fiery red is now pepper-salt.

Classically beautiful, 

reeking of sophistication,

a kiss placed on each cheek, 

I'm fascinated.

My connection to the golden age

closes the door, 

then waltzes away.

Unbeknownst to me,

this would be the last time,

I would sip mint juleps 

and drink sherry wine.

My fairy grandmother 

slipped away that night,

dancing off into the starry light.

Ancient Love.

In the stone ages, I chased you for days,

hunted all the prey so we could make a home out of our cave.  

Prehistoric times could not even break my stride,

my only real concern was making sure we both made it out alive.  

Even though the threat of being eaten alive was always a factor,

with you by my side, nothing else really ever mattered.  

I was grateful every morning when the sun would rise,

our love story began in the land before time.

I drew pictures of us on walls so that future generations would know of our love,

with our children in your arms while my own held a club.  

As the days passed by, and we learned how to grow our own food,

I added smiles to their faces to properly reflect our moods.  

We had made it now that we could settle

and watch our boys grow into mesolithic men,

a connection this strong

could make it through any mass extinction.

We danced around the fire in worship of the gods,

the festival of Dionysus always left us awed.  

We laughed in merriment whilst watching comedies,

then consoled one another as we weeped during the tragedies.  

Inseparable even in Ancient Greece, we saw the rise of democracy,

then spent our nights drinking wine and debating philosophy.  

Nothing could come between our love, it would not even matter if you were a slave,

society could not change the fact that your olive skin was all I craved.  

Electricity fills the air, rumour has it that a prince is born,

Queen Maya's said to even have dreamt of a white elephant with six horns.  

We watched in awe as this boy aged into a fine and mighty prince,

who denounced his riches once he encountered his subjects’ suffering.  

I could understand his decision to leave his fortune and wealth behind,

for all I needed in this life was your presence by my side.  

Around the same time Gautama traded his riches for rags,

I was surrendering to our love, and raising my white flag.

When the Roman Empire claimed Egypt as its own,

I was there to quel your fears when Cleopatra was dethroned.  

Although her affair with Mark Antony is the original love story,

their romance could not hold a candle to the warmth between you and me.  

Walking hand in hand through the great pyramids with you,

was all it took for me to feel pharaonic and brand new.

We built our mud brick home along the Nile's fertile riverbank,

at night, we worship Geb for providing us with food and drink.  

Our ancient love survived the rise and fall of empires,
it saw the invention of the wheel and even fueled the first fire;
civilizations would never have collapsed if they knew the secret to our bliss,
no amount of time could erase a love like this.