A like isn’t always a like

 Sometimes it lets you know

That you are desperate for attention

That you have curated you feed, to get

An explosion of reactions

Sometimes it tells you

That you are insecure enough

To need validation

From a bunch of strangers on the internet.

Sometimes it is to discuss, behind your back

What a spectacle you are, how incredibly unhinged!

That you should need to broadcast

Your happiness, your love, your perfect life to a crowd

You have gathered on a virtual board.

 

But at the end of the day, after all the screenshots are taken

After you get your dopamine by posting

And I get it, by discussing you in some group chat,

I will stick a blue thumb on you post

And pity you.

Smoke

I stood with her, ankle deep in snow

On the pavement, outside her non-smoking flat 

Our noses red, our cheeks flushed, cold

Talking about life, between wisps of smoke. 

It made us cool, it made us bond

It was an antidote to our existential angst

We were lost, we wanted to be found 

And find ourselves, in wisps of smoke 

Then sometimes, in spartan bedrooms 

In the after-glow of oxytocin

Wondering if this is all there is, 

Planning break ups, in wisps of smoke 

Sometimes lost, all alone, gazing out of the window

Watching the moonlight bounce off snow 

Thinking of ending this chain of breath 

And changing my mind, in wisps of smoke 

On the balcony among potted plants 

Basil, cilantro, rosemary and thyme 

With the man I call my man, in a home I call my home

Taking a break, in wisps of smoke 

Is this all there is to me? Have I lived it all? 

Would I repeat myself, if I keep doing it over? 

When love ceases to be, and the breath becomes heavy, 

I'll be gone, in wisps of smoke. 

The Canary Song

Sunday started with the usual noise

Of breakfast pans, and other things

But over the whirr of their daily life

They all could hear a Canary sing

Grandpa rushed to get his Bird Book

He always forgets the names, you know,

Dad rushed to get his phone on portrait,

With the smarter, older brother in tow

Mom had things to do,

Or she always thought so,

Why, now if she starts watching birds,

She’d really have to let things go!

The three year old, with his feathery feet

Climbed on the chair, without scaring it away

He watched it flutter its yellow wings

And heard the song that came his way

Just moments later, everybody was back

But the bird was fickle, it was on its way

So they thought the tiny three year old

Must have scared the bird away

The little boy doesn’t know the name

And he is too naive to care about those things,

But every day, he draws a little yellow bird

While just like it, he tries to sing.  

Intergalactic understanding

As you lay there, ailing
On my bed.
And I was an Ocean
And a half away
My story was melted and
Recrystallised for you
With very little of what
I had to say.

It took me some time to bring it together
But you were gone, With the second hand version
You left at a time when
I was still busy
Finding an end or a conclusion

It breaks my heart to think
About you
I would have talked then, if
I could
But a strange flash of insight
Tells me that it is all understood.

Feline Fantasy

No silver anklets, thank you!
I don't need those pointy stilettos either
To announce my arrival, or the music
Around my being alive.

Tell me more about you, or let's
Just talk about the weather
Don't ask me where I am going
Because I may not know, or worse
I may be heading where
Where you don't usually let your thoughts go!

After a while, even judgment loses its edge
And talking about choices
Turns into one of those futile
Social see-saws, which you put me on,
To feel good about yourself

The key to feeling great is to live
Like a cat; jumping off balconies,
Squeezing through gaps, using
Flexible ribs and whiskers
Accomplishing great kills
(Rats, squirrels, pigeons)
Without a single, audible, footfall.

Release

Feelings can sometimes be abandoned

Just like getting out of a pair

Of really tight jeans, at the end of the day.

And crawling into the soothing softness

Of a well-made bed. 

Not thinking about tomorrow 

Not thinking about today

Just taking a break before

You have to get back into

The same pair of pants. 

Next morning, renewed, you're ready

To confront them

To accept them

To analyze them

To ignore them

To deny them

To change them

Whatever. 

It's nice to not just have them on,

Right now. 

Poet Killers

The happy purr of a broken fridge
That keeps a background score
To the orchestra of other broken things
A stressed pressure cooker, and more

Time killed at the hands of clocks
As alarms and cell phone reminders sing,
Seconds, minutes and hours spent
In making a respectable living

A stable baseline, with a whiny pump
Not loud enough to be annoying
Happiness as absence of angst
Where everything seems, just fine.