While you were searching
my whereabouts,I was standing
next to an oak tree…
when all the leaves came out
of deep slumber and the wintery
dusk descended, it was about
time for me to lurk beneath
those ancient roots and search
in raven labyrinths, the meaning
of icy darkness that possesses
you and me and hibernate with
-in them till eternity…
Am I nostalgic?
For the sinful youthful
gone by, the momentary
bubbles of champagne
burs-ted vanished into thin
airs.
Am I nostalgic?
Of the elusive lovers
lost in the abysses of spiral
times.
Am I nostalgic?
Of the silent tears and
melancholia heart
of my youth!
Am I nostalgic?
Of my fleeting vanity
and the pride sunken deep in
rustic old mud
Fear is love
it lingers…
chases and
breaks, melting
away in veins
morphing into
pulsating
heart-beats,
strangulating
in narrow lungs
Fear is love!
Standing in the land of the great Apaches
Midst blooming wild poppies
and the mammoth elephant grasses,
thinking of the dream that once Martin Luther had.
May be the days of chivalric Camelot are over,
as I heaved reclining on the grand arm chair;
vicious winds from the North gushed
echoing footsteps of a massive feet
opening a narrow pass for the
grim shadow of Lincoln to flicker by,
leaving behind trails of the Fallen Soldiers
on the path once trodden by the
fierce Indian Tribes.
Weaved with a lot of skill and compassion
Oblivious stood erected in disdain
Persian turquoise, Indian indigo…
You name it, and I had flowers of different valleys
Bathed in egotism, adorning-robe of pride
Relishing my pristine appearance, while
Scorning others, self gloating was my sin
Sure of my fate, to be embellished at
reception decor Of heavenly virgin bride,
I Spoke meticulously the tongue of vanity,
My artisan a blind simpleton
Crafted me with great virtuosity
A connoisseur of colors, arranged
Silk flowers with tears filled with pity
But I basking in the glory of self adulation
Elated, high browned looked down on him.
On other customary bunches, turn after turn
Dates after dates, final day arrived wrapped in laced
White Upholstery, escorted in a black Lemo
to a town of a black widows, shrieking wailing
unwelcomed my arrival, roughly handled and bruised
was placed on a coffin of one senile old man, whose
only act of courage was a piece of land where he
was to buried.
“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?
But a little pride is not bad for a woman of my type!
When I was young, I believed in
emerald elves & golden goblins,
they lived in tranquilly behind
the tall elephant grasses, a glee
takes over my face when I see
vision of the whispering cloud
A raven grim hovering around
murmuring secrets of azure skies
I can overhear the gentle cries
of sullen crickets in intricate colonies
Unlike man there are no phonies
tremendous peace and calm
prevails amidst melody of nature’s
Scared Psalms !
Gentle translucent dew drops
brought along murky clouds
on grey chariots of northern winds
taking me in their mighty clutches
tossing, spinning me to the
dimensions of the other world,
as rays of amber Sun descended
on the eclipsed horizons, the
mighty chariots of Northern winds
froze in eternity and I once again
came back from the hell!
Having feasted past-midnight, PersianLaila 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 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”
