A. V. Koshy writes

Mom

"In spite of that, they call this Friday good." - TS Eliot
"Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you - Crowded House"

I still remember that black blouse you wore.

I still remember how your skin shone like the sun

In the sky, the black clouds gathered
You swore
It being Good Friday, it would rain
Everytime it did
& I, child that I was, believed
Now you are gone
But still I do
Remember
& still, believe
Against all odds
That it rains
Each 'Sad' Friday, now
In your absence
& do you know, mother, it still does.
In Thiruvananthapuram
or where'er I am.
Now the raindrops fall
on my upturned face
streak it like tears
no more just for Him
but for you, too
gone to your home -
the sky is still crying -
for you are to me
what His mother was, to Him.

 Pietà -- Michelangelo

A. V. Koshy writes

When your feet are dust-laden
And the evening's near
The road drags to your den
All alone, you meander

Not knowing what you search for
Far away, a strange song sounds
Enticing. Petrichor
Invades, on cue, your mind's bounds

Love is a dream
Desire's never fading
Rain cools your anguish, as if you're bathing
Your feet in some cold, nearby stream

You enter your room, sweat-wet
And look at the trees darkening
Outside, some lovers' undoing
But you are trapped by a frozen debt

As you once loved a woman
Who loved you, a dove
It was love, yet not love
So achingly human

 

Seated Figure, Feet in Harbour -- Euan Macleod

A. V. Koshy writes

Behind the smiling mask
is often a trickle, of tears
that have left their mark
on her cheeks that alone know
her difficulties