Remembering Rawalpindi Medical College (RMC)


Slowly, I leaf through the pages of

“Prof. Latif’s retirement special”;

With best wishes says the autograph

The year 1987.


His professional life, his achievements’ height

He’s long gone, like many others but memories

Are still fresh as the forest’s night


I feel the tug of 'that' invisible line,

That runs from my past,

From a place called RMC.


Extending way back through the corridors,

Looking past lecture doors

Brushing, the anatomy and physiology posters,

I drew then

Now hung on the walls.


I trace it round the dissecting hall.

Its desiccated bodies and formalin soaked specimens.

Bunked lectures and youthful shenanigans


Hanging out at the corner kiosk

Or playing cool in the college canteen


The line has never been forgotten.


But it gets covered, with day-to-day routines

Now, we have taken different roads,

Moving in different directions.


We read Facebook conversations,

Click through nostalgic pictures,

Yearning that youth, that young face:

That young feeling


The line has gaps in between, when we have been,

On several other journeys;

Operated in foreign theatres

Run clinics away from home...

Laughed and shed a tear, held a hand,

Solaced some one’s sad and untold fear.

Thinking do we need the line


Nostalgia has its own specific charm,

Smiles, unspoken words, tears,

All gather to form a new sphere,


40 years on it connects us

Extending from that old building

Connecting its countless souls

Synchronised with our heartbeats



It becomes visible


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Our 40th Reunion, I am planning to read it to my colleagues. I hope it stirs the same emotion I have experienced writing it.


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December Sky

When the bitter December air blows and the girl

screams on the street corner, a Christmas list of dreams and demands

in her unrelenting grip, a bit homesick, though she is young,

wishing her poppa hadn't drifted so far

from who he was when she was born.


When at school the boy had day dreamed of staying home

and keeping the door closed--

now amidst his mother's disillusioned cries to be understood

and the solace of the radio in his room,

he imagines himself singing "Blue Christmas" like Elvis

and impressing all the kids at school.


When the young woman pulls a tray of chocolate chip cookies

from the oven and turns on the television,

wishing there was someone there to share them

and so she opens the window and smells the night,

the snow approaching with the wind from beyond the moonlight.


And the young man strikes the guitar strings with fingers

cold to the bone, a tragic tale sung in every note

but his heart beats warmly and echoes up the street

along the cool walls of every home

in search of something kind


underneath the December sky.  


A new day, another

just like all the rest

except that as I lay my eyes upon it

I can see the sunrise with clouds just so,

hues that never quite existed before,

and I breathe a breeze

as new as the skin in which I stand,

although it still feels just like it always has


as far back as I can remember.  

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"Smoke Stacks"

The first rays of morning

awoke the churches and hills

as the smoke stacks expelled

their vapor as aviators of the skies.


Our footsteps along the tracks

sent echoes through the forests,

calling the oak and sycamore

to rise from their patient rest.


Paradigms of steel and wood,

Shake the earth beneath our feet,

calling my name as they

did so many years ago.


As the sun rose above forests,

Above mountains, above nations,

I turned to watch the smoke stacks

As they exhaled for a final time.

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Poking Around

Do you remember when we would get drunk, and I would feel your naked body

All the parts that I like

And you would be open allwhere and I'd be there

Poking around?


Then in the day I would talk about beautiful things with the people who offered a rip in themselves

Or talk beautifully about things

Or talk about things

Or talk.


And I would walk for awhile and imagine myself wherever I please

Pretending here and there

With honor melting from the world and into me and only me

So when we met again we were strange and new

And it would be time to drink again

So you and I could be open allwhere

And poke around.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There was a time in my early 20s when I was so full and so empty at the same time, living in cold water apartments, sleeping in bathtubs, fucking and pretending, and going to college.  I've lived at sea now for a few years and sex and seduction are more and more becoming distant memories.  This poem is about a strange time when one could be naturalistic without being ineloquent, and heartfelt yet unsentimental, and get away with the grandest prize.  Looking back on it now and writing this, it seems very sad and beautiful and alien and a little evil, and I miss it late at night and early in the morning.

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"Dreaming Autumn"

An autumn from a dream, it walked in pure diamond,

The meadows, the prairies, incinerated with orange.

The breeze, a hint of lavender, kissed the mountain tops,

A ground of scattered leaves under the sleeping oak.


A velvet complexion was given to the waves of ocean,

Their steel outlining beckoning the quiet sun and gentle moon.

Drowning the shores with infinite acquaintance of roaring waves,

We dance in fields of marigolds, enveloped with an October shimmer.


Your eyes match the blue Iris petals as we fall beneath a silent evergreen,

The western sunset a distant torch on an orange-reflected skyline.

A sunset to melt nations, we lay upon this night,

The stars prepared to shine like ignited magnolias.


Silence so still, a stillness, but soft,

This autumn from a dream, I wish not wake up.

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Sakura Fall

Diagon Ellie

Have you ever been in love? It feels like ya high above the towers/Then you place no one above/You swear if you could only get an hour/To do some convincing without simpin or saying bullshit/Just gotta show ya pimpin and get her to the whip and drive slow to ease tension into a full flip/Birds come surround you/whenever she's around you/And when you take her out, niggas lookin they can't clown you/When it comes to her it's something/She's soft spoken, but she's like a cigarette, she keeps it Marlboro 100/Gets all in ya lungs/ it feels so good when blackens them up and you can't tell if they're lies or do they really mean something/But you stumble in

Now you'll never feel alone/You pray that she is somewhere close or near her phone/You call her bitch and hoe, it's kind of joke/But it's all good to her because you know that she's yo's/Cuddle in paintings on her bedroom wall/Shower her in the towers just hoping that she'll drop a towel/Her ass fat, her hair's curly and long/You make a joke saying she's the sexiest fur ball/And she slaps you playfully and goes to put on a song/That'll get any woman to give it and get it all/You watch her bite her lip as you ease ya hips/When the bass drops in Bria's Interlude, ya speed ya dip/And after ya done you step out and smoke a cig/And reflect on the connection and you kinda dig/Slipping away to a vacation where relaxation begins
You think about it and its all gone/You run outta ideas and just play ya favorite songs/Seems the only feeling as great as her is hearing a NERD song stoned/You say fuck her she ain't shit, lie to yourself/The money you get is cool but you despise the wealth/The situation crazy a bitch made you despise ya self/Seems baby girl was actually good for ya health/She left because she had better things for herself/Her needs for attention grew as the Cherry blossoms fell/And she swears she still loves you but it's not the season to be under you/And when she comes around again it feels like she's uncomfortable/To get her love again, you promise it'll be an unfair fight/She'll say it's hard and swear on everything the time isn't right/You'll say it is because you finally got ya mind right/And joke and say you pretty good with a butterfly knife/Man fuck the third person, CeCe I need somebody in my life/I've had my fun amongst the brothels and bright nights/But that's all in the past, in the hind site/Yeah, I look good in public, but I wanna share the lime light
Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just playing the field. 

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Fool that is ourself~

high expectations are not my cup of tea, people need to stop tryin' to suck the life out of me..

do we return to the memories..? or do they come back to us?

the only person I really want to talk to right now is my father.. but why bother thinking about it.. 

I just want to question him on everything that seems to of passed us by... like the time.. 

or what we will become after wasting away.. after we've deteriorated & our skin is past grey..


slowly paralyzed, fingers first.. trying to figure this out, tying up loose threads.. 

I need to feel alive.. have I been living a lie within my head..?

or am I trapped inside, knowing outside is the reality in which you've been dead.


I could spend the rest of my life in bed, until i've cried enough tears to flood the entire house, both stories.

but wouldn't that just be a waste of potential..? to let the pain push me down, further each day.. 

the weight of nostalgia get's heavier, despite it's dismay..

memories are like an impenetrable fog, & everyone else gets the sunshine on their face.. 

do we all pity the fool, that is ourself..?


Rose petals on my dash

The wind blows gone in a flash

There goes our youth

Our version of carefree

The you before the me

What happened to freedom?

To all the silly fun times

Throw inhibition to the wind

Run away from comfortable

Make mistakes but own them

And make amends with old friends

For who knows you best

Before the suit and tie

Before the grown up critical eye

Life goes on but we live in nostalgia

Don’t cry for yesterday

Back then tomorrow never comes

After all today is your present

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