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,


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.

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


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


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.

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.

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.