NO SUPER MARKET JUNK
Seema Gill

I don’t want super market’s plastic junk
I wanna write poetry
My fingers are dipped in the blood
of memories and are twinkling stars

My language is an oar with which I sail into the
forbidden territories, absurd meanings and dig gold
of knowledge to share with others
When the light trickles down on my soul window
My inspiration turns into a fireball
Words role down the Grand Union Canal like ducklings
the fields of Punjab like showers
in a desert hope garden like flowers
This humble Sikh poetess lives in a lion’s den
Roaring gestures, razor blade intrigues and
survival of the fittest becomes her daily struggle

I don’t want to choke in the rat race for wealth
I wanna dance with my slithering desires
Hold hand with my soul mate
I wanna wear the bracelet of his shine on my arm
and together we’ll distribute wealth
to those who own nothing
Give light to those who are blind with selfishness
I wanna clothe myself with love and passion
and not diamonds and rubies
and make a bonfire of all the old values
I wanna rub the ointment of honesty
and not Elisabeth Arden on my face
I wanna gaze into the kaleidoscope of this universe
and watch the seasons as they roll into one another
I wanna sow enough food in my garden for all the hungry people
and reap the harvest of peace
I wanna collect seeds of change from the flowers
and grow verses and not despair
I wanna sharpen my mind with the tool of learning
I wanna empty my wardrobe
and dress up the down trodden
And when the time comes to revolt
I’ll join hands with the right cause