WHY?

Why does a man ever love a woman?
You, I or some regular Joe?
I rack my brain but an answer –
No, doesn’t seem forthcoming.
Her looks?
Her body?
The vibrations of her inner sanctum
resonating with his throbs?
Their existences overlapping in trying to become one?
Her loving caresses or pouty rebukes?
The look of pain that clouds her eyes
when he hurts?
Her heart –
When it flutters in craving,
In the passion of a hot August night,
or
Rages as if
A swollen river ready to flood the banks
when his eyes waver to another?
Nah…..
An answer eludes me.
Some say looking for an answer is a folly-
That, that special feeling is a freak of nature.
But just then like a cartoon strip,
A light bulb strikes bright overhead
And I see in its bright glow,
The words that answer my query
And give meaning to existence:
Because nothing makes sense without her!

 

Dhaka
January 20, 2016

 

 

© S M Shahrukh and Traces of Orange, 2016

 

YOU

Your lips –
thin, beautiful
shaped more with a poetic bend than
the much adored petals of rose;
your lips –
with lipstick red
not the glaring vulgar
nor virginal matte sedate
but enough allure
to put a siren to shame
to entrap like in a spider’s web
but no spider are you
with flowing brown black tresses
down a neck of sensual splendor
with eyes
more blackened with kohl than
its natural blue –
an abyss are those eyes
for a man to be lost forever
and happily will he embrace his fate.

Your lips –
thin and beautiful
sensual and sensuous
with a hint of smile
mocking
yet maybe not
still an invite to doom
your luscious
not voluptuous but inviting lips,
alluring red but not vulgar
but the doom of me
just the same.

Your lips…….

 

 

Dhaka

3^rd December 2015

 

© S M Shahrukh and Traces of Orange, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Colors of pain

My heart breaks into a million pieces –
Like a mirror that comes crashing on the floor.
Every piece
A fragment of memories of the years gone by:
Some bright, some flickering
Some black as charcoal for all my heinousness,
Some reflect the nondescript from whence comes the light,
The mundane have no character.
On some glistens a teardrop
Reflecting all the colors of pain
From deep blue to midnight blackness
To an excruciating purple
A pained soul –
Squeezed to form those sparkling drops.

Dhaka
1st December 2015

© S M Shahrukh and Traces of Orange, 2015

The Last Day

The sun has set on the last evening –
Another one bites the dust.
I have not seen the setting sun
Whether it tepidly sank in the west
Or went out in a blaze of glory,
A burst of colors –
Red, blue, green,
A cheery yellow, a pained purple.
Sadness looms in the heart of the night:
The end is nigh, the end is nigh.
A new day with brilliant splendor awaits
For some, maybe, but
I fear the darkness of the long wintry night and
Try to die another day.

Dhaka
31.12.2015

© S M Shahrukh and Traces of Orange, 2015