My Father-

My Father-


My father…
What isn’t there to say,
About the man, whose voice
Carried a coldness, akin to the
December weather.

His footsteps-
you could swear left
imprints, on the cold hard
Impenetrable ground.

And his eyes,
had a constantly hovering
Guard of beetle black hair
Furrowed above them. Like a
Permanent tattoo.

He stood ramrod straight,
And spoke in an untremulous way.
He was the dictionary definition of
“Head of the household”.

Then- mama found a place
Amongst the soil,
Six feet under- enshrouded
In white.

His shoulders slopped,
His eyes sacked,
His voice lost the arid detachment
It was famous for… His footsteps,
Barely audible.

And I learnt,
Even a mountain requires
A solid ground to build up on.
Without it- it’d crumble.
My father lost his solid ground.


Oh Father-

Oh Father-


A story that she never told;
A burden she roamed with for long;
The yells and the screams,
The screeching of boxes,
A little girl- left what was “home”.

A story that she never told;
Of a young man who drunk himself stone cold;
With a little girl the brute that she bore;
Like a tornado, spiraling-
He always came attacking-
Till he passed out exhausted for words.

But oh father, the past is now gone
If I could turn back the time-
I’m not sure I would leave you-
I would try to restore what you had;
But a 12 year old knows only so much,
I’m sorry I let you destroy your life.

A story that she never told;
Was the reason she cried herself to sleep,
Every night till the sound of the crows;
And they thought she was ill-
And prescribed loads of pills-
But she was just reminiscing her home;
At a time it was filled with,
Voices sounding cheery,
And a father- a hero he was.

A story that she never told;
Unravels itself after a decade of running,
As a letter addressed to her from-
A drunkard who’s passed on,
With a letter in hand meant for,
A little girl who long left her home.
On his way to a meeting,
Getting rid of alcoholism,
He met his end- hit by a truck.

A little girl who long left her home
Smiles at the thought of-
her father getting clean-

For the love of the daughter he had;
And though he’s now gone,
To the place up above,
She forgives him and hopes he’s at peace.
The little girl never could let him go.

image credit. This post is in response to Writing201 poetry assignment: write a poem the form of a ballad using anaphora/ epistrophe as a device. This is also a (sort of) part two to a poem I wrote a long time ago, For The love of a daughter.

For The Love Of A Daughter

For The Love Of A Daughter


Twelve years old-
Depressed, insecure;
All I can remember-
Your fights, your wars;
You made me feel,
I was inferior to all;
Tried so hard to break me,
Like I was, some charity ward.

Trying hard to forget
All the things, you have done;
But they keep coming back to me,
Like waves rushing towards shore;
And though it’s been five years,
Since I left the house for good;
You still choose the booze,
Over the lost girl of yours.

You’ve made lots of mistake,
I hope someday you’ll regret;
But the hollowed heart of yours,
Keeps getting deeper with each breath;
And though I can’t change the past,
Only hope for a better future-
Where you’ll do anything,
For the love of a daughter.

Oh father ,
If you put the bottle down
This world, it won’t leave you behind;
But you will gain one thing at last-
The love of your daughter;
I’d love to leave you alone,
But I still cant let you go;
Please put the bottle down,
For the love of a daughter.

Not Yet Time To Worry-

Not Yet Time To Worry-


It’s not yet time to worry-
he said,
You’ll know when it arrives;
It’s different, takes us up by storm-
and shatters every glass.

So don’t you fret my dear-
he said,
we’re way too far from worry;
Can’t feel the clouds announcing here,
storms not yet approaching.

And worry not did I,
At winds that blew wild at me;
Some glasses still remain intact,
so its not time to worry.
Not yet… anyway