The Love Chase

She walks in and out of my dreams

I wonder if she can hear my shouts and screams

She comes near and then walks away

Before I can even find the words to say

She laughs and I watch her helplessly

And I chase her around breathlessly

She runs ahead and I give up

Then she beckons me to carry on

And I believe I can go with her to the end of the world!

Moments # 2

A second flies by
and then another and another
but moments stand still.

Moments

Walking on leaves
I smile at the crunching sounds.
Moments of mute outcries.

Hatred Erupts

The mental abuse
inflicted
caused an emotional cramp;
excruciatingly real
as hatred bubbled out
from a once dormant volcano.

The Dance of Life

Isn't this life too good to be true

I hop all around feeling so free

I stumble and roll and stumble again

I spin in circles like on a merry-go-round

I step on the dance floor

Hold the hands of time

And together we create

The graceful harmony of life!

The Road To Her Dreams

The night was dark
not a star in sight
but her hair reflected the sliver
The sliver of silver
that hung in the sky
while the wind caused the grass to quiver
Her gown was torn
her feet were bare
but in a steady gait she carried on
On towards the hills
and the lakes and the vale
where all her dreams were born
She hurried her step
then broke into a run
then stopped dead in her tracks
Skin hitting gravel
Pain shooting through
blood seeping out of the cracks
She moved on again
egged on by her dreams
and happiness farther in sight
She smiled to herself
as she neared her goal
on that dark and starless night

The Highwayman - My Version

Galloping through the dusty road
Hooves kicking up grainy smoke
His had skewed at a rakish angle
His cape bellowing behind
He stopped at a barn, not far from the trail.
Got down from his horse, when the moonlight was pale.
He stepped to her window
Peeped in from the window
And so began the tale.
What went on between them
Is a secret untold.
It was love, oh so dark,
This the legends hold
He died for this love
She died for this love
They died for this love
But left a story behind
Of a love that was bold.

The Highwayman

One of my all-time favorite poems... The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes





The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Against All Odds, I Will Survive.

She lost her hair, she lost her confidence. She lost her husband, she lost her support. Yet she didn’t lose hope. ‘ I will survive’ was the mantra she kept on chanting, when all others who knew her knew she just had a few more weeks. Her doctors had stopped trying. To them, she was a lost cause. They thought it was wastage of valuable time and resources to carry on with her treatment, which wasn’t getting her any better. Her husband thought she was more trouble than she was worth and left her on her own. And yet she didn’t lose hope.

She was in the throes of the end stages of chronic lymphocytic leukemia. And she had less than a month to live. But she was putting up every form of resistance she could muster because she knew there was more to life than she had experienced. At twenty- seven, she was too young to die. There were lots of things she hadn’t experienced yet. Like the joys of motherhood, like living the life of an independent woman. But the doctors had already started counting her days. And with everyday she lived, she received a new blow on her consciousness, trying to arouse her from the false sense of well being she seemed to be in.

“I will survive”, she answered plainly to any one who asked her how she felt about her impending death. She still believed that, even when she contracted graft versus host disease after her bone marrow transplant. It was as if her body was rebelling against the very notion she was striving for. Her health was waning, but her spirit was not.

And then her body couldn’t take it anymore. It was battered and broken beyond repair, but her soul was as resilient as ever. Her friends told her she was being unjust to herself. She shouldn’t keep her hopes so high, ready to be dashed by the slightest miscalculation. And after going into relapse after relapse, she should know better than to pin her hopes on the unlikely. The doctors gave her a week. Maximum. They said anything beyond that would be a miracle.

She lived. For three more years. Long enough to prove her doctors, and her fellow patients and friends, wrong. And when she died she did so with a smile on her face and a gloating voice, proclaiming, “I told you I had more time. In the true sense of the word, I have survived.”

Late Night Thoughts

Dressed in silver, bathed in violet, the night seems so pure. I close my eyes, let the cool breeze rush through my veins. I muse over the hours gone by. A smile appears. A serene smile. Yes, once again I'm trusting fate. The fate that has brought me here today.

Losing Grip

He reached out in an attempt to grab her before she went too far out; out of his reach, out of his sight, out of his mind. He didn’t fully understand what was happening to him, he was losing memories, losing them faster with every passing moment, with every jump that the second hand took. But he didn’t want to lose her for she was the reason he was coping with this hectic life. She was the bait he was using to pull his life back to normalcy. And he wanted to get there before he became a victim of his own loss of identity.

Fishing To Kill

I jump upwards
from my
abyssopelagic habitat
to swallow
the magnetic bait
offered by
your alluring eyes
just to be added
to a line of victims
of your emotional massacre.

Save Me From Myself

Why do the days trudge on

and the hours seem to drag

Why does time rewind

when I'm trying to catch up

Why is happiness so short-lived

Why does this silence deafen my ears

Why does the heart not agree with the mind's reason,

when the existence of both makes us complete...

Life

red
crimson
vibrant shades
on the pure canvas
blank
leave for the splashes
that will forever
mark
its being
tainting its
white perfectness
with vibrant
colours
giving it
new life

Empty

Her hand closed over the pendant, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her fist. She stared into emptiness, willing her soul into oblivion. But it was not to be. She was destined to live, even when he was dead. She didn’t have it in her to move on, to pick up and stitch back together the tattered pieces of her being, the shattered remains of her life. It was unfair, her having to live without him. Shouldn’t her soul have been killed with that knife wound? After all they were, like everybody said, two bodies, one soul. Why then hadn’t life been sucked out of her the moment it left his body. She might be alive in technical terms, but after him, she was just an animate dead body. Empty. Void.

Masked Identity

vulgar thoughts

hidden by

a gentle face

mistakenly

praised

for feigned

innocence

Acid Rain

toxic war

of words-

spewing

acrid lines.

acidic-

as they turn

into

the bane

of my existence

raining on

my skin

sting for a while

but soon become

tepid

to the touch.

Gothic Encounter

Mia says: Im obsesed with blood. Its crazy. And weird. Seeing that the sight of it makes me cry. Bt its one of my fascinations. =/

Khadeeja says: K. Ahan, seein ur post, i cud tel. Yuck, id rather faint.

Mia says: Guess thats the goth in me =P

Khadeeja says: U wud be a vampire in ur second lyf.... *ponders* and id lyk to be a were-wolf.

Mia says: Eee we got a twilight thng goin here *groans* leave that for fiction girl.

Khadeeja says: Not fiction, but second lyf. N twilight does the least to influence me. Huh.

N m very scared of this goth in you. *hides face n runs away*

Mia says: I be gentle goth *puppy dog face*

Khadeeja says: Awwee, okay. *face lits up*

Mia says: *toothy smile**fangs slide out* bt i still love blood. Muhahaha

Khadeeja says: Mammaaaa! *eyes wide open*

Mia says: *eyes go red* be afraid. Be verry verry afraid

Khadeeja says: Bad, bad goth! *tears in eyes*

Mia says: I prefer male blood *winks*

Khadeeja says: Ohh. *deep sign of relief* lets be friends then goth, u can do me no harm.

*End Of Conversation*

Life's Like That

Total numbness

and then a sudden gush of excruciating pain.

Numb again, followed by searing pain.

One moment here, another there.

A sharp climax

and then there is the anticlimax

Life says expect constant change.

Randomness

text message:
from: maryam mirza
to: khadeeja zaman

Monsters among us, masquerading as real people - Its the oldest paranoia

text message:
from: khadeeja zaman
to: maryam mirza

kia?

text message:
from: maryam mirza
to: khadeeja zaman

Just somethng i read in a dean koontz novel...

text message:
from: khadeeja zaman
to: maryam mirza

ohhkaay

text message:
from: maryam mirza
to: khadeeja zaman

lol

Trust Me, I'm Psychic

I sleep with a battery-operated night light on
in case I should wake in the middle of the night
and get paralysed with fear of the dark.

I keep the windows open and the curtains drawn back
in case there would be suffocation in the room
the fresh air will come to my rescue.

I go to bed with a pillow on my side
in case I should wake from a nightmare
I could hold it tight for comfort
or a worse case, it would prevent me
from falling off the bed.

I put a jug of water at my bedside
should I wake up to a drought-like condition in the world
at least I wouldn't die of thirst.

I keep some lavender oil under my pillow
in case sleep escapes me
it's supposed to cure insomnia.

Yet these worries keep me so occupied
so instead I sit on the front stairs
and count the stars in the night sky.

Sadness Settling In

Ballack should quit: Matthaus

July 08, 2010 13:27 IST
Tags: Michael Ballack, Lothar Matthaus, South Africa, FIFA, Germany

German football legend Lothar Matthaus has said that injured skipper Michael Ballack should consider quitting international football.

Matthaus's comments comes after an 'inexperienced' German squad reached the semi-finals of this year's FIFA World Cup in South Africa before being eliminated by Spain.

"Germany have played better without Ballack and have had more success. Other players have taken the lead and there is a new hierarchy within the team," The Sun quoted Matthaus, as saying.

"I understand Ballack's ambition and desire to return but he should resign. Standing down would show true greatness, the realization the team is strong enough without him," he added.

He further said that Ballack's absence had helped the German team to reach the semi-finals of the World Cup.

"I don't mean that in a spiteful way, but he was holding up players who have now blossomed," he added.

Ballack was due to lead Germany in South Africa until he suffered damaged ankle ligaments while playing for Chelsea in May's FA Cup final.

Taken from: www.sports.rediff.com

Red is The Color of Sin

blood spilt

is sin

crimson splashes

stain the floor.

marks

of offense;

unerasable,

invisible,

but there.

guilty consciences

become part

of Lady Macbeth's

ordeal.

The Weatherman's Confusion

the sun is having fun today

playing hide and seek with the clouds

it comes

it goes

it comes out again

to leave again

sunny

cloudy

the weatherman's confused

he doesn't know what to say

to the masses

long awaiting

the monsoon shower.

Oh, Brother!

I have one amazing counterpart; my brother, Harry. We share this love-hate relationship, the typical between siblings. One moment he's sweet and another he's mean.

Like for instance, it's sweet of him to save half a can of peach juice for me in the fridge or a half-eaten lemon tart. He just says simply, "There's a surprise for you in the freezer". And sometimes I wonder if the thing had gone bad or something but I find out it hasn't. More, I offer him the thing once again when I'm enjoying it.

Yet there is something seriously wrong with him that he continues to oppose what I support, especially in sports. At the start of some huge fixture, he'd ask, "So what team are you supporting?" and then, "Oh they're going to lose for sure" and I nearly regret telling him.

Every time I get dressed up, he passes nasty comments like, "Is that what you're gonna wear? Oh God, well what can I say." But this time I don't let him get away with it, I do my job too. I tell him on his face that he has a pathetic dress sense. The cologne he has bathed himself in is just awful and where ever we're going he must absolutely keep safe distance from me because I completely disown having any relation with him. Out shopping we often rely on each others approval though. Sounds contrasting but then that's how it is!

When he comes home, he almost always greets me with a silly, "Hi, do I know you?" and a huge poke. Once home he likes to order around, being the "big" brother, while to some extent I like to do little things for him, but by refusing first.

His thoughtful and useful gifts occupy my dresser and every time I look at them, I remember that the condition he has put on me, I'll only get another gift after I have used up the previous ones.

After a pointless argument he tends to ask, with an innocent face, "And will you still love me tomorrow?" and i say, "I'll see" but then he wins me over and I end up saying "Of course". Yet if I try the same tactic and ask him this he says, "Like I did yesterday."

Until recently he lived in a different city and every Sunday Mum and Dad would take a trip to drop him off at the station. I'd always accompany them. I had mixed feelings then, a surge of sadness, a tinge of anger. And then I'd annoy him on the phone telling he has dialled a wrong number or that "my" mother is too busy to talk to him.

But whatever it is or it has been, its something I've always thought of with a smile and looked forward to with pleasure. And I can't wait till he reads this.

He calls me dumb, he calls me crazy but does he know his affection means the world to me...

*Even though we are a decade apart
But joined together in our hearts
Stay the same forever, brother
although sometimes you're such a bother!*

<3 <3 <3

Of Kaala Joras and Branded Jeans

The title gives a pretty major hint on what this post is about, but it doesn’t say all. Having been to quite a few weddings this season my mind has been reverberating with dholki songs and bhangra music. Pair the former with some ostentatiously dressed khalas and phuppos and a bevy of giggling cousins and you know what will come out on the other end of the equation. Total chaos. Pair the latter with an army of boys in loose kurtas and one or two ‘abhi toh main jawan hoon’ uncles and you get the same result.

Music reigns high on weddings. With countless dholkis preceding the mehndi function and then the mehndi function itself, not to mention all the ‘practice sessions’ for the mehndi, your mind seems to be dancing a jig the whole time on music provided by the cousin who loves pretending to be the desi Tiesto. It’s a lot of fun, but a headache comes with the package as a bonus.

You slip out of the room towards the source of loud thuds and periodical blasts of bass from the woofers. You open the door and are greeted by Imran Khan, the recent bhangra sensation, proclaiming in his auto-tuned voice about a ‘kaali kameez’ wearing girl. This girl, Imran Khan’s muse also has a fetish for branded jeans. Her attire might be the polar opposite of the kaala jora the uncles want the aunties to wear but the music does the same trick, it makes you smile at the absurdity of the lyrics nowadays.

But if it makes one happy, be it because of fond memories or the addictive, foot-tapping music, then who cares if the song wants you to wear a ‘kaala jora’ or a ‘diesel di jean’.

Sugar Surge

I am totally high on sugarrrr right now. High enough to touch the moon, high enough to get admitted to the ICU when I fall down. Ooookay, so I am sitting on the floor, looking out the window with glucose flooding my blood and random crap flooding my brain. Hmmm so let’s analyze the random crap:

I got a pocketful of sunshine, I got a love and I know that it’s all mine.

*(ahem ahem, sunshine? In my pocket? Puh-leeze! Natasha Beddingfield’s cheesy motivational song. I don’t know whether my love is all mine…. That’s because I don’t have a love. Go figure. And I’d rather have moonshine in my pocket, it’s more exciting =P)*

Parametric functions

*(AAAARRRGGHH!! Math! I. Hate. Math. Absolutely hate it! Enough said?)*

Sheep!

*(My sheep be so adorable =D. No, I’m not taking shepherding as a career choice, nor am I making a business out of selling wool. My sheep are the ones on my cell phone display. Yup, I got me a new wallpaper. Fluffy, white, dumb-looking sheep on a bright green patch of grass. Cuuuute!)*

Whataya want from me

*(Once upon a time I didn’t give a damn but now… here we are… so Whataya want from me…
This isn’t random and this isn’t crap. Adam Lambert plays pure magic on me. Voice, look, personality, man does he have everything. Just minus the kohl and being gay part. And the song is kind of situational right now. At least the title is…Whataya want from me? That’s a question I’d like to ask a few people at the moment.)*

Pink, Blue, Green, Blue, Repeat


*(I’m doing the embroidery stint these days and that’s the basic color scheme. It’s actually very pretty. The stitch is simple, the colors are fun and surprisingly I’m having fun doing it. Just thinking about the end result is getting me all revved up to finish it quickly.)*

Joe Bloggs

*(My new best friend. That’s on the advice of my SAT guidebook. Joe is an average student who gets the easy questions right and the hard ones wrong. I’m supposed to be his best friend so that I can cheat off his paper, and do exactly the opposite of what he does on the hard questions. Weird, huh? I know.)*
©

Passion's Promise

The aroma of passion

lifts me up to Heaven

rips through me, tears me apart

surges in my blood,

shoots up my nerves

intoxicating my being,

setting me free.

Contemporary At It's Best

The ultimate contemporary performed on So You Think You Can Dance by this season's winner Jeanine and her partner Jason. Absolutely Breathtaking.

Football Mania - Tensing Soaring High

Today Argentina will decide the fate of Germany in the Fifa World Cup. I'm keeping fingers crossed, hoping against hope that the Germans should be able to get an easy victory over Argentina and then sail through the semi finals and also win over the final, claiming the mighty title of the World Champions. This is Germany's only chance to show it to the world. Come on Germany, I have my whole faith in you!

Music That Tore In His Mind An Old Wound Open

Turning on the radio
He sat back to relax
But relaxation was one of the things
He wasn't meant to have.

The music didn't let him rest
instead it tore open
an old wound in his mind
about which he had never spoken.

The melodious tuneful music
was discordant to his ears,
Incurring terrible memories
of previous, by- gone years.

Every single word sung
made him remember the days
when their diminishing love
had led to parting o the ways.

She had told him that she loved him.
He told her, he loved her too.
But in his heart he knew it;
what she said was just not true.

There had been a time when they
couldn't live without each other.
But now the very thought of the past
made his body shudder.

The way the door had banged that day
was still ringing in his ears.
And even though he tried,
somehow he couldn't stop the tears.

Freedom Of Movement

I’ve always been drawn to movement, be it a gymnast practicing or the languid and then furious workings of an artist’s brush on canvas. But something that I rank number one on my list of fascinations is expression through movement. Dance.

Joy, grief, rage, hope, love, lust; there is no emotion that can’t be expressed through dance. The rhythmic movement of limbs is enthralling, enticing. Pair it up with music and it takes you into a completely different world. Dance is a medium used to say things that words cannot express; it takes you deep inside your persona and lets your soul tell its story with the help of your body.

My personal favorite form is contemporary. The freedom of movement this style offers is unsurpassed. The lifts and drops, tumbles and spins make it seem almost like an adventure, what will come next is always a surprise. And the best thing about it is that you can do it on any kind of music available. Rock, blues, metal, pop, soul, jazz, classic or maybe even no music at all, Modern dance is beautiful no matter what the soundtrack.


Maybe this would be the right time to mention that my very own brother, Hassan B. Mirza is good at dance too, the hip-hop kind. Having had absolutely no formal training of any sorts, he’s learnt everything on his own… why not see for yourself…

Hanging By a Thread

Lifeless

Powerless

Hanging by a thread

separating from its true origin

to meet its ultimate death

The connection withers

but does not break

The only thing that is giving it life

the only that can cause its death.

Flame Of Life

The flame of life

extinguishes

leaving behind

nothing

but wisps of smoke

slowly

blown away

into non-existence.

Once, But Not Twice

Once I built a house
made it safe and strong
put fire in the hearth
made it warm and secure
Then one fateful night
a ferocious storm blew
blew so hard it had no end
The house caught fire
from the blazing hearth
It all came down to ashes
right before my eyes
With strength and courage
I built my abode again
made it warm and secure
If another storm hurls towards me
I will not fight against it
I will accept my fate
and will let it all be remembered as
the house that burned in flame.