She

She wakes up to the din of the dawn

(Whoever painted the serene morning star,

Did not have a lousy spouse and kids to feed)

She works amidst the mass of chaotic humanity

(Brotherly love and knightly charm are

Superfluous verses on scraps of paper)

The heat, and the gray sky opaque with dust

Struggle to offer her hope and joy

(Those who talk of the beauty of summer

Must try taking her place, she thinks again)

Shared smiles and cursed exchanges

Are the highlights of her day

She dreads the walk back home

The night is neither dark nor quiet

Awaits is the cacophony of the

Evening chores and the kitchen fire

(Calm and warmth that dusk brings

Is a privilege of the mighty rich, she knows)

She wades through the needs of the house

And the demands of mutual habitation

(Familial love and celebration is welcome

Only when the stomachs are full)

Into the four walls and the closed doors

She finally makes one desperate attempt

To seek peace and solace

(She still wonders whether she feels

Relief or fear when he does not return)

Sleep eludes her, so does life

Her heart dips, that sinking feeling

The night will not end her woes

It will not drown the aching pain

It will not promise a new morning

She must get up tomorrow

To roll the stone uphill, once more

This game must be His favorite to watch

She muses,

No wonder He makes us play it again and again.

Consolatory?

The state of sorrow is much complex;

Vivid, vibrant, and enigmatic,

Multi-layered, acute and profound;

If anything can be absolute,

It is anguish, distress and sadness.

Joy pales in comparison;

A superficial moment captured

With an agitated vulnerability;

Happiness is ephemeral, destructible.

Despair is eternal;

It enhances the charm

Of the subject it affects;

Adding strength to the character,

Are the tears held back

And not the smiles flashed.

No poet can do justice

To human emotion if he

Does not talk of

Aching hearts and bruised souls.

There is more to talk about

Dead winters and falling leaves

Than green summers and delightful springs.

What worth is the life that has not

Cried for love, nor lost a dear possession;

If you have not fallen off a swing,

Or been hurt by someone near;

If you have not failed a test that mattered

Nor cherished an unfulfilled dream

You still have miles to go…

In a perverse way, that joy does not,

Sorrow completes our existence.

It consummates the cycle of life -

Satiating the deep gorges

That beatitude leaves behind…