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.
My little lippo lappy
has missed passwords
and emails again ,
I feel this computer business
is nothing but in vain.
Yearn those days of Camelot
when paper and pen were
still a thing…
Now the screen is all blink blink,
I guess my heart will sink.
Little lippo lappy hurts like a bee-sting.
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!
I wonder, what about this magical lore?
Of my face a sunshine that thou shall adore.
Me a fair bosomed countenance of heavenly sight!
Now hurry me a kiss and don’t be a bore.
( Your very own next-door Monalisa)
Old Betty went to the bakery shop,
but pre-meditated plan was cut-short;
when upon discovery, the shop was closed.
The old Betty dignified, always composed
hatched a plan and ordered stuff online,
while gazing at the gems of river Rhine.
She has-time, yes she can still shine,
now that all her chores are online.
I would do anything for love,
but I won’t pick trash,
or cook anything tonight.
Why do I feel?
I’m trying to catch,
But I’m left far-far behind?
It’s not a step but ,
a thousand miles
apart.
But some days I don’t
even try, I can’t make
up for the untrodden
paths or stride fast
to reach where I
shouldn’t.
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.”
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.
I recently watched, ‘The Disaster Artist’ by James Franco adapted on Tommy Wiseau critical catastrophe, ‘The Room’, hailed as the worst movie of all times. But despite the negative reviews the movie has earned a cult status. Since I’ve watched the movie I can’t stop thinking as to how we treat people who are different. I for once greatly admire Tommy Wesue who despite all the odds and Hollywood elitism decided to go ahead and make a movie out of his own pocket( spent 6 million dollars). After-all how many of us have the courage to go against the tide, the public opinion and the perseverance to make our dreams come true. I
I am not in for giving unsolicited advices ( I am too arrogant for that) nor my poetry is about hope( myself a hopeless) but if ever I’ve to offer my two cents, I’ll say follow your passion. Don’t give a damn to what your critics say, believe! There is no future, it’s just today now so make it happen. Why wait for a special moment? These trying times have made one thing clear that life is unpredictable, so let’s follow our passions before the pendulum slips out of our hands. Don’t be afraid to be different, embrace your quirkiness like Tommy Wiseau.
And yes do watch ‘ The Disaster Artist’ it’s on Netflix. If you happen to watch the movie do share with me what you feel.
