Crimson Gharara

and it took two people to write this poem? Jeez, What happens when these two people have to go to bathroom or eat food; they must hire a crew of 200 people.

Thanks. I should have posted on "When Will You Return"
Error corrected.

This story inspired me to write a fictitious viewpoint from the wife.


Sometimes I wonder if he regrets marrying me. Our lives have become so routine, and so bloody civil.
I knew when I married him that he wasn’t big on conversation, but lately it’s even worse. It’s practically non-existent. My day begins, and I wake up before him. I press his clothes for work and place them on the bed. I steep his morning tea, keeping it hot on the stove while he does his morning rituals. He joins me in the kitchen and I start preparing his breakfast. “Good morning”, I say to him. Without even looking up from his newspaper, he replies, “Morning”, and takes a sip of his tea. The morning silence is so sterile. He finishes his breakfast and I ask him, “Did you have enough”? “Yes”, he replies, pushing his chair away from the table. He walks out to the hall closet and puts on his sweater. I follow behind him carrying his packed lunch. Funny how he never asks what’s inside it. Does he not have a preference? Grabbing his car keys in one hand, and his briefcase in the other, he juggles the lunch I hand to him. “Have a good day”, I say to him, “Yep”, is his response. “Are you coming straight home from work?”, I ask him. My question seems to perturb him. He looks up at the ceiling and takes in a long deep breath. After a short, forced exhale, he retorts, “Yes”, and walks out the door. Once again, I watch as he drives off for the day. I have a sinking feeling inside of me. And I ask myself if he still loves me. But do I really want to know the answer? I shutter at the possibility, and shake it off. Are all men the same, or is it just him? Maybe it’s me, I don’t know… I busy myself performing the acts of a dutiful wife. Not that I resent any of it. I enjoy being a wife, and there was a time I enjoyed being HIS wife. But lately I feel so unappreciated. Sometimes I feel I must justify my mere existence to him. I clean the kitchen, make the bed, hand wash some soiled linen, and plan the supper menu. We live in a desolate place. I have no friends, no family, and no neighbors. We don’t have a television or radio. And my only outing is when he takes me to the market for food supplies. I have read the newspaper he left behind, and I escape into my books. They take me places that I can only dream about. The time has quickly passed, and I must start preparing for the evening meal. Really, it doesn’t matter what I cook, because he never comments either way. Still, I take pride in what I do, and I make his meal with love. As I wash the vegetables, I wonder how his day is going. I wonder what he talks about with people away from home. Do they talk about worldly matters. I wish he would share his experiences with me. It would make me feel a part of him and help me feel a part of the world. But when I ask him questions, he becomes agitated with me. So, I’ve learned not to say much and don’t ask many questions. I wish he would talk to me. I wish he would look at me, instead of looking past me. I wish he would compliment me sometimes. I wish he would show me some affection. Every night I sit and wait patiently for him, hoping to see a little change in him. Even just a smile. Perhaps tonight will be the night.

Errr sky? Wrong tree.

This story inspired me to write a fictitious viewpoint from the wife.


Sometimes I wonder if he regrets marrying me. Our lives have become so routine, and so bloody civil.
I knew when I married him that he wasn’t big on conversation, but lately it’s even worse. It’s practically non-existent. My day begins, and I wake up before him. I press his clothes for work and place them on the bed. I steep his morning tea, keeping it hot on the stove while he does his morning rituals. He joins me in the kitchen and I start preparing his breakfast. “Good morning”, I say to him. Without even looking up from his newspaper, he replies, “Morning”, and takes a sip of his tea. The morning silence is so sterile. He finishes his breakfast and I ask him, “Did you have enough”? “Yes”, he replies, pushing his chair away from the table. He walks out to the hall closet and puts on his sweater. I follow behind him carrying his packed lunch. Funny how he never asks what’s inside it. Does he not have a preference? Grabbing his car keys in one hand, and his briefcase in the other, he juggles the lunch I hand to him. “Have a good day”, I say to him, “Yep”, is his response. “Are you coming straight home from work?”, I ask him. My question seems to perturb him. He looks up at the ceiling and takes in a long deep breath. After a short, forced exhale, he retorts, “Yes”, and walks out the door. Once again, I watch as he drives off for the day. I have a sinking feeling inside of me. And I ask myself if he still loves me. But do I really want to know the answer? I shutter at the possibility, and shake it off. Are all men the same, or is it just him? Maybe it’s me, I don’t know… I busy myself performing the acts of a dutiful wife. Not that I resent any of it. I enjoy being a wife, and there was a time I enjoyed being HIS wife. But lately I feel so unappreciated. Sometimes I feel I must justify my mere existence to him. I clean the kitchen, make the bed, hand wash some soiled linen, and plan the supper menu. We live in a desolate place. I have no friends, no family, and no neighbors. We don’t have a television or radio. And my only outing is when he takes me to the market for food supplies. I have read the newspaper he left behind, and I escape into my books. They take me places that I can only dream about. The time has quickly passed, and I must start preparing for the evening meal. Really, it doesn’t matter what I cook, because he never comments either way. Still, I take pride in what I do, and I make his meal with love. As I wash the vegetables, I wonder how his day is going. I wonder what he talks about with people away from home. Do they talk about worldly matters. I wish he would share his experiences with me. It would make me feel a part of him and help me feel a part of the world. But when I ask him questions, he becomes agitated with me. So, I’ve learned not to say much and don’t ask many questions. I wish he would talk to me. I wish he would look at me, instead of looking past me. I wish he would compliment me sometimes. I wish he would show me some affection. Every night I sit and wait patiently for him, hoping to see a little change in him. Even just a smile. Perhaps tonight will be the night.

Now that's a nursery rhyme! I bet you've already made it a compulsion in your schools, with all this Pakistan hatred all of a sudden, that could be the only possible cause.

The Soviets came and invaded Afghanistan

Called on fighters from Punjab, Arabia and Inglistan

Then sent them to create terror and mayhem in neighboring Hindustan

Now they are showing the same and love affection to Pakistan

Re: # 6 i like ur rendition.

Just concentrate on the meter a little more, you really don't have to be too fancy to 'affect' Raiya, break it down into stanzas and try a re-run.

Don't be discouraged, poetry shouldn't be influenced by what other people have to say.

I would have written it like;

Queuing at the bank I was,
Waiting on my monthly pay.
The Goata on a Crimson Gharara,
Danced before my eyes away.

Sara was in my arms awake,
Four years old soon to be.
Pleasant sound of crisp notes,
The clerk counted for me...

But then.. I'm accused of being too 'rhymy' and have been told to write nursery rhymes instead.. :p

Thanks for the feedback raiya, I'll try to be better next time.

the concept is good but the execution runs more like prose than poetry...sorry to say bt this poem did NOT effect me at all

I know a better poem....

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
the terrorists you created,
are now killing you.....

Terrible and most unfortunate.

The dead are mere numbers. Ladies, kids and poor workers. Keep on counting and shamelessly argue on whose war is it !? Can there be any more insensitivity?

The poem is stirring.Thanx for bringing it up.

While we get to know the number of deads in an attack, we hardly ever get to know the details about the personality and life of the dead, or for that matter their dependents left behind.