poetry

Blind Date

I was tricked and set on a blind date,

At first glance we began to spew hate.

Whilst praising each other for appearance

looked every reason for disappearance;

still mustered a poem without coherence.

With his buck teeth he looked a beaver,

for me was a teen, had break out all over.

Between us lay a dead shrimp martyred

especially for the occasion .

In the end we left the dead fish in the bin

shook hands, split the aching bill

promised a venue to meet again

for the thrill.

life, Love, poetry

Humble Humility

May be someday I’ll learn to

take a bow and kneel down,

but today is not the day.

Humility is not in town

and has gone astray.
****
And in my defiant defense

I wish to reign supreme, hence

it’s my aim is what I can say;

Word “sorry” is a pathetic misery,

it’s never my idea of luxury.

****
Humility is a humble virtue,

she preys on those innocent

most miserable kinds.

If you are in doubt she can sting

and really come at you.
****



Humour, life, poetry, wit,

Weight

This afternoon the judgment day arrived.

I stood on the weighing scale and sighed!

That limping broccoli chicken is no magic,

numbers on the silly machine was tragic.

Shoved a forbidden burger in bulging belly,

vowing to throw that sucker scale

down the high valley.

gloomy face on bones in dark
life, Literature, Love, poetry

Sweet Grief

Sweet grief, come sit with me

relax, recline and rejoice.

I was aghast when you left me

at the dawn for the Sun to clasp

and the hope to flutter.

Sweet grief lie down with me

now don’t stomp or be in hurry

or if you attempt to leave

this time, I’ll hold you by

by your narrow neck and

show you what suffering

looks like, when the daylight

comes and the elusive hope flies by.

missing
History, Literature, Nature, poetry, Uncategorized

Metamorphosis

I grew up beyond the grey walls….

Walls that changed hues under varied spells,

mama would strictly keep me inside.

 

The thick silver parapets adorned tiny holes,

black ashen specks from where I marveled

at the cruel oddity of the world.

 

A faded sepia of Papa hung at a crooked

angle-tilted towards outside,shadowing

other picture-frames.

 

The grim monsoons brought spree of life

stamping on foundations of boundless

hedge, spreading its tentacles…

 

Vile serpentine vines of bougainvillea invaded

sacred space, by keeping me in restraints

stealthily crawling into me.

 

I see scaly lizards licking the swollen damp

crusts of the walls, that now turned

purplish hue, squeaking hushly;

“papa zedes, papa zedes

papa zedes, papa zedes”

 

Terrified of clicking sounds,every monsoon

I meticulously filled up fissures with 

Papa’s old black and whites.

 

Once smacked across the sugar face smiling,

I always beamed when I sobbed inside,

tongue at loss of words….

I covered the last fissure with the only picture 

I had of Papa.

 

Forever barricading myself with-in walls, I

metamorphosed into silver, a mass of

cemented blood in concrete limbs.

Fortifying myself of the lingering echoes…

“papa zedes, papa zedes

papa zedes, papa zedes”

 

 

countdown
Literature, Nature, poetry

Countdown For The Day

Morning sun shone
in its full glory. 
Coffee quarrels 
and stiff body.

Artificial catnap, 
guess sleep-aid pills;
again did it’s wonder.

Neighbor’s black poodle, 
Vanity lazing on mosaic porch
Lusting a blooming orchid
licking edges of master’s fingers…

Spray roses with no
fragrance hung neatly 
in cheap Edwardian vase
on a yellowish marble mantle

Incoherent gibberish bla bla
of quirky Morning shows 
incredulous laughter
delinquent  sarcasms

Countdown begins 
midst sips of sooty coffee.
Quality of life measured by
barrage  of human folly…

life, Literature, Love, poetry

The Black Art by Anne Saxton

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

Madam Giselle
feminine, Literature, poetry, satire

Madam Giselle’s Pride

“Makeupum Divina lipstickum 

Hail Oh, scentum , perfumee lios

Goddess Stilettum que sara sara”

Madam Giselle woke up to one glorious afternoon,

and damn those long-long lashes stretching little

over than the river Nile. Sparkling stilettos towering 

way above the heights of the leaning Towers of Pisa!

Having Insight 24 inches waist Madam stretched her back,

skillfully squeezed her belly to adorn golden Victorian 

corset, but it wasn’t to be easy for Gods have conspired and

were hell bent to bring down the penniless heiress from the

25 floor Ivory Castle.

As madam painted her face white with crushed powders of

corals from the far-off Gulfs in the fashions of Japanese Geisha

Fluttered fake lashes, ostentatious snobbish smiles extending

little more than her chiseled jaws, heavily armored with

 French powder and perfumes.

All the effort to slay any man who dare to passed by, hurriedly made

her way through the narrow allies of apartment suit in a

perpendicular fashion to avoid crushing her precious creases.

Oh so much pride, such high vanity, but she is indeed a beauty!

Tragedy fell upon! A loud thunder as heavens roared

heels cracked the sparkling Stilettos fell apart before her careful

gaze giving way to the bare ankles. It was to be the

first omen,

Acrimonious beings floating  fluttering in air laughing,

giggling; a loud thunder & descended million unwelcome

tiny crystal droplets, soaking the kohl smudged eyes

cascading into pools of black waters….

“Why it had to happen to me” ,cried Madam Giselle

Was my crime to be in vain or was it just a naive disdain?

For tell me folks is
little pride bad for a woman of my type? 

Tragedy of Oedipus
History, Legend, Literature, poetry

The Greater Tragedy Than Oedipus

Tragic Oedipus  wandered blind
In the bazaars of colorful Athens
crimson blood oozing out
from hollowed eyes. 
Cursing gods
for his fate so harsh 
carrying shame of
copulation with mother.
Strong guilt  sits heavy 
for slaying, his own father. 
Roaming from street to street
Asking same question,
“Why was I the chosen one”
Begotten out of the cursed
Womb of Jocasta 
Doomed by abhorrent 
act of Laius
In  self pity and gloating
had he forgotten of the
little boy sodomized 
Shame horror
subsequent death
Chrysippus condemned  
for acts of evil that men commit 
for which naive boys
and girls pay heavy price 
In his misfortune did he
think of young  Chrisypuss
dishonored , violated. 
Did he not ponder upon
wickedness that men carry
atrocities  for which many
Young ones are robbed
Of single drop of dignity.
Fear of woman in window
life, Love, poetry

Mad Man

Sorcerer he imagined days of virtuosity

those hours of maniac creativity.

Ladies and only ladies objected to his mighty chicken;

but never a ladies man, he was a bloke

Now as his mind became flat with hay

and ethered breaths as he lay.

Pancing back and forth in strange darkness,

gazed at the sky full of moons in naked starkness.

Mother stood in embellished wedding frock,

a chalky dream, it was never to be a cakewalk.

Midst cat droppings, and shattered dreams

he wished to defile a flower again.

But he was nothing but a Mad Man

women wearing white and brown swimsuit standing on seashore
Love, Nature, poetry

Las California

” And therefore I’ve sailed the seas and come

to the holy city of Byzantium’

-William Butler Yeats

Drifting towards las California

surfing coast to coast,

in a state of frenzied hysteria.

In the city of cock-tail

baby it’s gonna be all hearty and hail.

Now don’t you believe those blind poets;

who proclaim surrender and succumb,

and miserable kindness is all the worth.

Truth is in youth, tanned body is all the mirth.

Ember sun, droplets of sweet-sweet wine

that cerulean azure sky-line.

The low hanging palm palanquins,

and the glorious home coming queens.

Before the golden Aprils begins,

sun-city is the new Byzantium;

and beams of warmth my holy mausoleum.

Sinful Dips
Love, Nature, poetry, sensual, woman

Sinful Dips

I took sinful dips in vast seas of love embracing

you tightly, with a terror of drowning in the

deep waters of desires. Wines from your

lips did wonders, for I went and came back

from the hell fires, taking sinful dips

in the waters of love.

 

Shedding all vestiges of shame, clothed only

in translucent moon-light while holding

you tightly, trying to sooth the amber

of my flesh with your cigar breaths.

 

I performed holy ablutions to wash off any

lingering doubts of cravings, let raven

hair loose to sway in directions unknown,

only to clasp a caress in my nets in the

deepest pits of desires.

 

While softly twirling on the rubenesque flutes

of thirsts, closed my eyes and swam to the

farthest corners of desire to discover a

dated relic of yours resting in the

sea-beds of my whims.

 

Knowing that magical things might happen,

I allowed myself to completely penetrate

in the realms of darkest fantasies to,

accomplish once a flawless rapture of bodies.

While you played your wicked games

I let lose more shames just to capture a

whiff of your perfume, to break an ancient

spell of absence while taking sinful

dips in vast seas of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harp's Nylon Strings
Books, Love, poetry

Words Never Fail

I’ve filled the voids of my soul with

slants of words, the curvatures of

alphabets to gratify the endless

nights of effervescent

passions.

 

In the deepest abyss of malevolent

nights, I’ve implored the meanings

of your desertion through the

arches of letters.

 

The denied kisses through the

strokes of symbols, the dearth

of touch with caresses of

half-formed letters on crisp

blank papers.

 

At times I am riding on scripts

while others overwhelmed

under their weighty connotations,

you see my love words 

never fail!

 

For they can fill up empty papers,

hinge together differing

borders, like the elastic  

ropes you can stretch

them to suit bleak

realities of life.

 

 

food, poetry, Travel

The Land of Food Lovers

“Mac-Donaldus Tacum, 

Infurnus Divina Steakum

Panem nostrum daily

coffeum withum summum

donoughtus”

 

At every turn a Mac-Donald’s

at every curve a Wendy’s,

there across the road lay

a live breathing hot-dog

under the careful gaze of

cozy Connecticut Sun.

 

The lush garden free flows

with aroma of Dunkin

-Doughnut’s coffee, all I need

is a fabled pitcher of Greeks to

gulp it all down in one go,

such an aphrodisiac for my

fragile senses…

 

Now that I’m in land of free

I must uphold and behold

in my sight almost the mythical

Popeye’s Fried Chicken at the

corners of which rests the

pleasures of many virgins

 

 That legendary Roadhouse  

steak 🥩 the valor of which

echoes in my ears and the

glistening fat that will linger

in my veins for many years

to come…

 

The proud French can always

proclaim their victories when

it comes to their luxurious wines

from the regions of Normandy, 

but the Californian vineyards

are always a step ahead for their

perennial sun-shine and the

voluptuous grape-vines.  

 

May be it was not the vision

Martin Luther had in mind

or was never to be Lincoln’s

dream in hindsight but as

I smell the rich flavors of

decadent fries somewhere

I can tell you for sure, this

land is every food lovers

paradise !

 

As for me humble folks, some

say I’m a traveler while some

a migrant, but I know I am only

here to take few bites more &

will return to my land carrying

some flavors more, as I still have

to taste one last morsel from my

aging mom’s hands…

 

 

 

 

 

holding hands
Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, life, Love, poetry

Let us

Let us leave the hand of misery,

and pledge to never gloat in self-pity.

Life is tough, its hard,

but lets just never judge.

We all are victims of both hate and lust.

And this is life nothing more that that,

it is stiff for those who always doubt.

Whatever happens, happens….

So why fret let us love and hold

hands of those who are left behind.

Smile and for once just be kind.

feminine, Humour, life, Love, Nature

Miss That Girl

I miss that girl who,

would run wild, and

was always ready to

smile without  breaks.

She loved without care

When the things 

got tougher simply

cried her heart out.

and life would get 

straight again, ideals

were lofty , heels

higher and memories

ran sharper, food

was always warm 

and drinks forever

bubbling…

Now many springs

later that girl

seek reasons to 

laugh, tears don’t

descend to heart’s

desire, lovers have

gone senile, running

requires plastic knee-

caps and heels are

trimmed to two inches

mark ,forgetfulness is

the way of busy life,

while food requires

a careful watch, the

bubbling drinks be

better left off…

Life might never be

straight again ….

I miss that girl!

desire mightier
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, Self-Help, woman

No Desire Is Mightier

I know not…

Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?

As I stood on a tortured sea-shore

and cast my eye on the swollen waves

passionately  kissing my naked feet

making love to me with a brutish force

taking me in its azure vinyl embrace

slowly grasping my flaming flesh with

a fiery I’ve never known before,

an uproar a stir in my fragile body

exhausted since centuries of decay

the foamy saline waters entering in me

through all nook and corners, fissures and holes

mixing in all the violent blues with the

crimson reds, crawling stealthily like million

serpents, wriggling gushing upwards

Oh! a sensation a loud roar within

a rapture somewhere, an euphoric elation

an electric jolt worth thousands bolts!

My enslaved body in an act of consummation

so strong, my heart-ached, soul-shuddered

at the violation so brutal, like a hapless bird

caught in a nib of a savage Falcon from the

far-east, I let it happen without any contest

Why? Because I possessed it too and let loose

the cinders of  ancient fire burning in me

for I didn’t surrender, and let it go on without

a single doubt or shame nor did I curse

the gods above, knowing that no desire is

mightier than the other, for yearnings

have the same frenzy everywhere.

But I know not…

Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?

life, Love, Nature, poetry

Cheap Bars

In cheap bars,

few words are exchanged.

Men and women are

lip-locked, desiring

a quickie and

some cheap booze.

Few roadside poets

aroused and induced

by blue gin and tonic,

pretend to dabble in

classical sonnets.

There are no

masterpieces here,

nor heroic tales.

Words are concieved

on the rough edges of

burnt joints.

Midst rivers of woes

and poetic verses

lingers a stench

of dead fish.

Everyone comes

here….

Poets have homes ,

Men and women

have homes but

nothing is going on

in those empty walls.

Legend, life, Literature, Love, poetry

XANADU

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-

dome decree: Where Alph, the

sacred river, ran Through caverns

measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

–Samuel Taylor Coleridge

As, I count my hours

with the endless jars’s

of poor man’s coffee,

I hallucinated about

Coleridge’s Xanadu.

May be it’s just

one meal a day or

is the opium that

Keats snorted.

As I lay bare

in grim winter

afternoon,

I see around me

a wasteland,

but I am dreaming of

Khan’s Xanadu.

photo of tiger
life, Nature, poetry

An Encounter

( A Narrative Poem based on a true encounter in the Himalayan Mountains)

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

-William Blake

As it happened one cold winter night,

I bleakly remember the air was of fright.

I trudged on a road tired and weary,

watching my steps turn heavy and dreary.





The air transformed into grim and cold,

trilling’s and chirpings came to an end.

Everything was clasped, by an eerie hold; .

A strange rustling, was it a fiend to slay?





Did I see a ghost in sight?

It pounced and perched from a shadowy bark,

as it tapped , I glanced at its speckled back;

A beastly creature, it has no match.





What are thou? I shivered at it’s types,

with speckled yellow and black stripes.

A terror took over my heart, which was beating fast.

As it fixated the gaze with ember eyes,

I knew, the ghostly spell has been cast.

Madam Giselle
feminine, Love, poetry, satire, wit,, woman

Ms. Matilda’s Woes

Ms. Matilda woke past the noon,

swooning to the Beethoven’s sad tune.

A mysterious ailment swipes,

over the modern women of her types.

These curious cases of daddys’ princesses,

of colossal estates and multiple mates.

Are inflicted with malady of swinging moods,

making them shudder at matchless boots.

Ms. Matilda sitting still in her bedclothes,

howled remembering how at,

the party last night, enemy women clapped

secretly when her golden heels zapped,

and as her crimson lipstick chapped;

she knew her teddy heart is in for a snap.

black wooden fence on snow field at a distance of black bare trees
Nature, poetry, satire

Dear Connecticut

Connecticum Dunkum,

Walmartum Eta Sigma”

Oh! Sweet Connecticut, tell me what,

implore others to inquire where I dwell?

To which I proudly declare, well

it’s the greater hemisphere that rests,

between New York and the Massachusetts.

Touted as the deep south of New England, ‘

often in desperate times, it is the Walmart which

is our Hyde park, where spectacles are

staged and a tongue is lashed at every Isle.

A brow is twictched, a lash fluttering;

in a pursuit of that fairest toilet paper.

In the frigid colds locals turn inwards,

snugging their priveldge and old charms.

And when odious winter hours become unbearable,

journeys are embarked on the pilgrimage;

to the nearest station, to maintain a visage.

Lord is the witness, for the stock exchange

farmers toil hard, to extract wine out of the;

unripe blueberries and gaze with snobbery,

and the exalted pride.

Every big man, you once encountered has moved,

while earthly nymphs in their fair bosoms;

are secretly hatching a conspiracy to fly out.

For humble folks, rising tempers and taxation

has turned friends into foes. But don’t

get me wrong, when the springs abound;

everything once again turns into mirth and merry.

Highest praise is due to our well-bred dame,

lady Martha Stewart whose mansion is not that

far away, and now you know why;

everyone’s future look so down and trodden.

But behold, don’t fret or fume, both beer

and bear has been on a steady incline.

A matchless diversity we often look with disdain

at those, who are neither old nor affluent and

frown upon those whose appearances

don’t match with our very own.

Despite the hardships abead, both

natives and the migrants bask in it’s glory alike,

while secretly dreaming about the

sun-shine city of Florida.

For all you lovely folks out there,

I intend no harm here,

so repair your charms,

and after reading simply move on!

Flower Wreath
poetry

Meatloaf, A Tribute

A wonderful ballad,

once written with the

crimson hues, all in

middle of a raven night.

The most perfect composition

ever. A-sorcery of words,

forever sealed, in the

beats of my youthful heart.

Tune ebbs and flows,

echoing the magical words

“ I would do anything for

love but I won’t do that….”

( R.I.P Meatloaf, this poem is a tribute to most beautiful song ever written by a very special artist)

Humour, life, Nature, poetry, satire, wit,

Mr. Fly

Mr. Fly I know you have a story too,

but forgive I’ve some things to pursue.

For once raven nights are no time my

friend to buzz and tell me why?

So Mr. Fly flutter , flap and fly away

go suck the nectar of a flower,

request you to never hover;

mistaking whiff of attar, for a floret.

I can’t tolerate and ignore it anymore.

Reminds of the Nash who spoke the

truth ,“ God in his wisdom made the

fly and then forgot to tell us why.”

Persian Laila
Humour, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, satire, wit,

The Persian Laila

Having feasted past-midnight, Persian Laila got up lazily at the stroke of twelve. Wearing her sparkling tiara, she rose with a numbing headache resultant of a hangover,

Caused by the left-over French champagne that she drank greedily from the China glass of her Benevolent master.

Her master’s darling she occupied a special place in his cozy lap and abhorred the site of her pot-bellied mistress,

For Laila considered her as a staunch-competitor and purred when ever she dared come near especially at long intervals of midnight drinks .

She would adorn herself on the left thigh of master and lick heavenly nectar only from the corner his pinkish wrinkled hands.

A site to behold midst bubblingchampagne and the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars. Her blue eyes drunk with envy and rage, she fought hard and with everyone for her master’s attention.

On rare occasions of evening strolls, she would walk with snobbish air and displeased countenance on the cobbled streets of rustic New York.

Looking down with disdain on all other pussies in the town, as she deemed them to be too causal and boring in the appearance,

For Laila came from the Persian peninsula from the house of the grand pasha of Azerbaijan, her great-grandmother the dark-eyed Hoorie was a favorite of the sultan-Suleiman.

And what a cherished presence on all matters important of every concern but was slain on one moonless night by the jealous ladies of Sultan’s Harem.

All were fine, till troubles started to brew, for master was a man of excess and one Persian damsel was not enough and yearned for another beauty to occupy the vacant right thigh!

So brought a petite French this time, Annabella who had a legacy of her own, for she came-from the family of Master pastry chef, Monsuier Jean Paul employed in the house of King Louis XII.

Both pussycats couldn’t look each other in the eye for both was endowed with looks and style to charm any.

One fine day while the master was away, in a brawl with each other both got their tails entangled, the mistress had enough and decided to sail one of them away…

And who better than the Persian Laila, for she was never in her good books. Hence a plan was hatched and poor Laila was swiftly hurried off to live with an old woman in quite a corner

Of the town and master was told a tale of how she eloped with neighbor’s Valentino who had-no history to boast of. 

Annabella now the reigning queen while Laila spent her time remembering the days of glory gone by.

Wedding Carpet
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Love, Nature, poetry

THE WEDDING CARPET

In the dark corner of the house adorned a crimson hued Tabrizi rug,

gifted to me as the wedding present, imported from the mountains;

of Hindu-Kush, embellished with poppy flowers and lovers’ passionate hugs

Violet borders bejeweled with a fine needlework of embroidered springs.

 

Especially handcrafted from the hands of a virgin maid with lofty desires

Intricately woven with the woolly knits and exquisite twisted golden wires

So how it became a constant companion in my otherwise blissful nuptial voyage

taking the shape and creases of my body in its crimson folds, so clairvoyant

 

We both grew to confide and embrace each other on moonless nights

During the dark nights I would hear vague cries and faint sighs

And would awoke by the silent sobbing and consistent choking sounds

The tormenting shrills one makes when inflicted with a fresh wound

 

After long desperate searches in the eerie neighborhoods in vain

I decided to hunt down the sniveling offender on a night when it rain

As I searched and rifled, discovered it came from the joints of the rug

Deep with in the sews of silverfish anklets and bangles, felt as if on high drug

 

Veiled and shackled a gaunt silhouette appeared in the woolen cracks

Thickened clots of cherry blood from bruised hands left its tracks

The sobbing sounds grew louder and a known voice pierced through

“My virgin hands intricately weaved the wires of gold and silver to woe

 

 I dared to dance with my heart’s desire with men of different tribe

A misconduct for which I was to be buried-alive in sews and imbibe

Frozen embalmed in the embroidered joints I came back from death

When your warm saline tear cascaded in my mouth I finally took a breath”

 

We  became  lovers of sorts, embracing on moonless nights,

Fasted and prayed on our Tabrizi rug, shed tears, took gentle sighs

 It became a seminary a refuge when her or mine master was around!

 Until the inauspicious day of a long lunar month when we both were found

Castrated for our naked sins, she was burnt while I was forever hound!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspiration, life, poetry

Trials

Time has witnessed the many trials
of your life, you often felt a little more than what you saw. It’s about time you kneel down to your self, give yourself a little pat on the back, smile and move on. When you find yourself lost in the raven hours, remember the Tolstoyian words often rings true; God watches everything but waits for his turn
.


grey eyed sadness
History, life, Love, Nature, poetry

Wise Clown

Some exist a wise clown,

dwelling peacefully in

the grim garbs of a jester.

Sprouting often exquisite pearls,

of wisdom here and there;

somewhere in between the

words that men consider banal.

While few exist intellectual

suffering peevishly in the

golden robe of a wise man.

Shackled enslaved by their

pretentiousness, declined and despised

by their intellect. Banished and

forever cursed to measure each word

with someone’s rhyme and meter.

Persian Laila
Humour, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, satire, wit,

The Persian Laila

Having feasted past-midnight, Persian Laila got up lazily at the stroke of twelve. Wearing her sparkling tiara, she rose with a numbing headache resultant of a hangover,

Caused by the left-over French champagne that she drank greedily from the China glass of her Benevolent master.

Her master’s darling she occupied a special place in his cozy lap and abhorred the site of her pot-bellied mistress,

For Laila considered her as a staunch-competitor and purred when ever she dared come near especially at long intervals of midnight drinks .

She would adorn herself on the left thigh of master and lick heavenly nectar only from the corner his pinkish wrinkled hands.

A site to behold midst bubblingchampagne and the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars. Her blue eyes drunk with envy and rage, she fought hard and with everyone for her master’s attention.

On rare occasions of evening strolls, she would walk with snobbish air and displeased countenance on the cobbled streets of rustic New York.

Looking down with disdain on all other pussies in the town, as she deemed them to be too causal and boring in the appearance,

For Laila came from the Persian peninsula from the house of the grand pasha of Azerbaijan, her great-grandmother the dark-eyed Hoorie was a favorite of the sultan-Suleiman.

And what a cherished presence on all matters important of every concern but was slain on one moonless night by the jealous ladies of Sultan’s Harem.

All were fine, till troubles started to brew, for master was a man of excess and one Persian damsel was not enough and yearned for another beauty to occupy the vacant right thigh!

So brought a petite French this time, Annabella who had a legacy of her own, for she came-from the family of Master pastry chef, Monsuier Jean Paul employed in the house of King Louis XII.

Both pussycats couldn’t look each other in the eye for both was endowed with looks and style to charm any.

One fine day while the master was away, in a brawl with each other both got their tails entangled, the mistress had enough and decided to sail one of them away…

And who better than the Persian Laila, for she was never in her good books. Hence a plan was hatched and poor Laila was swiftly hurried off to live with an old woman in quite a corner

Of the town and master was told a tale of how she eloped with neighbor’s Valentino who had-no history to boast of. 

Annabella now the reigning queen while Laila spent her time remembering the days of glory gone by.

Lolita
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Humour, Literature, Love, poetry, satire, sensual

Another Loilta ( Revised)

Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs 
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lolly-pop euphorically 
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips 
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift 
Impoverished  bosoms like two sand dunes, 
adorning  emaciated slender waist, yet 
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame 
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising  heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece 
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion 
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to 
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous 
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils 
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to  burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for 
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snake-lings crawled back to the hood.  

ancient armor black and white chivalry
life, Literature, Nature, poetry

War

With war came the throngs of men

frowning in their military uniforms.

A putrid stench fills the air

whispers and some silent prayers.

Wise village men tittle-tattle

mothers snuggle their calves,

preparing for their next battle.

Haughty men split themselves halves

to usurp the honor that is left.

black and white abstract painting
feminine, life, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry

Dawn

You my dear love, like a sceptic shock

entered my limbs and gave me a

a wasted kiss.


A lazy embrace which lay stretched

like hollow streets, hyper, hypnotic I ran

towards those sepia streets.


Time didn’t freeze, as it never does,

Yes! Sun will be the Moon tomorrow;

never doubt what the blind women say.


Wind withers on letting her raven hairs

down, making way for that barefooted

dreary dawn.


To descend coyly in the wedding gown

and embrace the Sun and the Sewage;

You and me in it’s sandy shroud.