Wednesday, December 07, 2005

2. Ghazals: After Her Passing:

(In Memory of Peggy Kaur, died Dec 3 1993)
How to comprehend? Her raspy breathing stopped.
A fever penned her frail end, then stopped.

Her small, steel wristwatch is still ticking on the table.
The clock does not pretend her heart has stopped.

Her visa bill is back, it snooped here late last month.
This cruel computer-trend – it must be stopped.

The house-keys on her chain, rest here inside the drawer.
She tied up each loose end, coughed dry, then stopped.

Her embroidered button-box, a needle and red silk
can’t mend her threadbare gasp that broke, then stopped.

The shelf, my sweeping hand, her photo’s shattered frame;
the face of my best friend has crashed and stopped.

If the body is fuse wire, does electricity live on,
did she ascend before the power stopped?

This ghazal is a letter, a prayer torn from the book.
Send it, Bonehead, before your hand is stopped.


Grief leads to faith and tries to start again -
make plunging in your saving art again.

The frangipani flowers had to fall -
how mad to think we'd never part again.

Prize an empty house, despite the pain,
let numbness be a wound to smart again.

Beware the gang of sorrows in the dark -
you need not pull her rose apart again.

Bite the lemon, wake the loser mouth,
let days and nights taste sharp and tart again.

Her curve’s no longer climbing up your chart -
run free and find your athlete heart again.

Why hunt, Bonehead, among the phantom trees?
Her heart stopped. Yours must start again.

2005 revision of earlier pub work.

© 2003
Chris Mooney-Singh
Publ: 2003, Ghazal Page


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