The Cock Crows

The Cock Crows

Is like the crunch time -
there's desolation.

Judas would've stayed, his loyalty true,
but the same song was not being sung;
so no harmony.

Strength to go on after the cock crows - 
where shall it come from?
Only the blood flowing and the spittle oozing and the water
running down the side may be the only way.
The thorns and the hammered nails pumps adrenalin.
But its not enough.

There's the need to know and accept that someone precious,
is waiting and awaiting great possibilities.

The cock is dead, a meal in the pot.
There's no more warnings and prophecies of doom.
Its purpose for life ended with tongue sticking out.
The smell of spices linger in the air -
from the pot and through the shroud.

Who can I lean on here?
I was invited as a brother but the shoulder is weak.
The earth tilts at an angle by design and winter follows fall.

The hungry unsated mouth is ever open,
to eat and eat and eat.

Even that precious and rare gem is ...
running away.
Solitude.

Who will come back?
The hurt, the pain the turmoil,
lingers.

For Zahra and the babies

FOR ZAHRA

The life of a fighter snuffed out,
like a candle half-burned.
The radiant smile like a 'Mexican Wave'
plucked at my heart and echoed a tune,
that endeared me to you.

Children are the heritage yet so hated,
'twill leave us all with nothing,
for tomorrow.
Women too, with fruit - have appointments
to slice and dice and pay.
But, whose choice?
The scales, the judgement - GUILTY!

A life lived in pain; hair loss, leg lost.
But greatest pain was 'Et tu?'
reaching up to silence the vibrance
with mens rea convinced.

Animal, beast - you're the fittest...
for now, and time will come when the shoe...
is on the other foot.
Your soul's lost as judgement's sealed,
for murder of the innocents.

Mom, dad... Why?

My bones are rolling in the gravel
and uniting with the dust.
My blood is crying out from the soil.
Whose choice?  Whose choice?

My voice speaks out, louder than ever...
from beyond the grave.
Can anyone hear me singing, gurgling happily?
They once closed their minds and
battened their ears like hatches.

My laughter echoes through the walls.
Hands now cannot be washed,
ever.


Jason Dhanapalan
03H20 EST
11/15/10

Abused Woman

Abused Woman

Abused woman, seems an euphemism -
She runs up the stairs fraught with terror,
from the husband who's quick as a gazelle
and thinks he's as young -
the father of two sons, an airforce pilot and an engineer.

He's been having entrees on the side when the opportunity
presented - there's ever and always 'wins' like the lottery;
which is never but for one or two.
The sated lion now roars and goes in for the kill,
only not knowing what to do but show demented rage
on his face.

No words spoken as time passes in a blur.
The paralysing fear that overcomes her as she hears,
the pounding heart and the rushing blood in her ears.
Her face is red and clammy, like after a good work-out
but this was exertion beyond her age and it wore on her
like a New Yorkers' winter coat.

Instinctively, she picks up a gun - knowing...
its unloaded and points it in defense, hoping
his terror of dying would make him go away.
Somehow he knew that it was not - being the
'dot your i's and cross your t's person.'

He grabbed it and rammed her jaw with the butt as
down to the floor she crumpled in a heap.
Consciousness gained, she was 'read' her rights.
"I beat her in self-defence, as I feared for my life,"
was his defence as off to prison and a life of misery for her,
that awaited.

Who could stand up for her,
but the poet?
In his writings is a tribute to the one needing most love,
but unloved.
Who can love her, this 'poor, pathetic victim?'
Her inner strength is her refuge now.
Coward!  Retribution is coming.

She did everything right but in your eyes,
EVERYTHING was WRONG.

For him, a new mistress 'younger' and 'willing',
promising but a life of uncertainty.


Jason Dhanapalan
9:41 EST
For Abused and hurting women all around the world for I have heard one story too many.