On top of me life’s comedy- those jokers
in the deck that wreck our focus,
off my centre, miss the locus,
that’s the way they think they broke us,
propaganda from the POTUS,
all the things they think that ‘woke us
don’t mean shit to laid-back smokers.
Here’s Pongal, a festival that celebrates the Sun’s glory, might
Observed well by Indians, its epicentre sure being south
In mainly a state that bears those who employ an old tongue to mouth
Their praises and plaudits to yon great and mighty Sun giving light.
Soon enough we did notice some huntsmen with arrows, bows,
Who looked keen to put rollicking, glad deer yon day to death;
So like soldiers who safeguard the borders, we formed two rows
In hope we could stall each man that did tread with baited breath.
He does inhabit rooms that oft look like glooms,
Oh! But he prizes all he’s got, come what may.
He visits us with brooms, helps each man who dooms,
But I find it sad that he has got no say.
The few months that we were compelled to stay home,
He came, collected our dirt, greeted all in warm tone.
Why so special a man really is?
For his feelings, actions, power to pursue, learn and teach!
Feelings of love, a major chunk of human thought;
Eros instils such feelings mostly, modulates sperm to zygote!
Oh, the words to write of love
I think you must already know’em.
Deep desire, heart and soul
Would have to go into this poem
Where has the humanity gone?
Have looked everywhere but in vain!
Is it frosted by the winter’s snow
Or washed by the summer’s rain?
This year we worked from home, to our workplaces said ‘buh-bye!’
And then at home we joyed with our beloved ménage, kinsfolk.
When March bade to each of us that sad and alarming ‘Hi’,
we did confine ourselves to our homes, thus becoming broke.
You are not a poet if you know just to rhyme;
You are not a poet if you don’t know to chime.
You are not a poet if you just use dead words;
You are not a poet if you can’t deal with girds.
So next time that you see a soul struggle through the day,
Think of how your Santa would bring love to fill their day,
And every gift that you receive, be grateful and feel blessed,
Knowing Santa’s with you and that his love never rests.
Cyclical are storms of sadness
Starsheen parts the clouded skies
Eternal is the endless ocean
Fading are the tides
Winds the Lord sends in His anger at your folly and man’s; winds the Lord sends in return for your heathen sacrifice of His love for a man’s. And when those same men deem you shipshape no longer, too old and no longer fair in their eyes, they’ll replace you with another idol and cast you coldly to the sea once more.
I can’t feel bad if good you do;
I can’t rejoice when you so rue.
I can’t say lies and myself fool;
I can’t break that unspoken rule.
For in you I see the holy spark,
Which does guide me as well in the dark.
So, tell me, when you see the face of the governing body of this great land and all they uphold as true, this fairy tale they call democracy…do you see a faultless image, like a dream without any error at all or do you see it? Do you see the port-wine stain? Red and glaring? Signalling like the truth? May the spirit of my forefathers, the calloused over hands of the blue-collar workers, and the sackcloth covered corpses that line the front lines, as I…may you be the port-wine stain on this country now.
Fill our paper birds with love
And we’ll never truly grow old
And we’ll never truly fade
Write our names in the heavenly sky
Forever immortal are our pages
Paper birds fly
Forever lasting in black and white
In two eyes, we observe; in one eye we connect.
Two eyes make judgements that one eye rejects.
Two eyes show this one life, one eye shows the rest.
Two eyes watch the lesson; one eye takes the test.
Young Alex considers the goddess her only friend because she doesn’t have any. Her parents don’t allow her to play with the kids in their neighbourhood since they’re ill-mannered, but it’s okay with her because she thinks they’re too loud, and she doesn’t like loud. Her only playmates are her nephew and her two cousins, who live on the first floor; but they’re all boys, and they suck at conversations that aren’t about robots and toy guns, so when she’s not in the mood to play with them, she’ll be alone.
A woven purse of shot silk threads
covered in a glitter like hundreds-and-thousands,
a dust from semi-precious stones
so the purse is abrasive to touch
inside a black leather handbag…