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.

steak
life, Nature, poetry, satire, Self-Help, wit,

The Last Supper

Fat cellulite everywhere,

not an inch have I lost from

anywhere.

Keto-Sheeto Vegan-Keegan

Omni-Carni, Raw-Thaw

tried and tried!!

Tasted every waters of

hot springs from the

blue coasts of Sardinia to

the sulphuric lakes of India.

Left & skipped the ever-flowing

ruby wines from the promised

golden grail.

Slayed butchered every lean-

turkey and the farm fed chicken

that came in that way,

cruelly snatched with my

bare hands the last golden egg

that popped from the Mother Hen

just to lay my hands on

that holy protein.

While the scornful Angus

blocked and locked horns

in the ivory door.

Dejected I tried my luck just

one more time and fasted

till the sultry noon which turned into

The Last Supper of the day!

poetry, satire, Uncategorized, wit,

Dear Kitty

Kitty oh Kitty!

It’s your abode,

I don’t claim a right,

for I know I’ve no

chance against those

silver paws and

the conniving furs .

But if for today you let

me trod on once which

was your great aunt’s

abode, I shall close my

lid and step past your

peacock throne without

a hitch or a frown.

( the poem is dedicated the stray cat 🐈 named: Laila in my neighborhood who doesn’t let anyone pass through her territory. Laila is notorious for being lazy and arrogant )

Madam Giselle
feminine, Literature, poetry, satire

Madam Giselle’s Tragedy

“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!

countdown
poetry, satire

Daylight Saving

The days of grand Camelot are over,

dark ashen damp dew now hovers; 

The freshly baked pies are a hoax

At least that’s what we have been coaxed

Daylight saving is now fluctuating

Am I still hallucinating? 

When glorious God said let their be light 

he knew not over here it was still night.

Intellectuals and their thoughts

but  there are no causes to be fought

Wordsworth’s English daffodils are blooming 

once again my lazy brain is fuming.

I overslept thinking it was a raven night,

but weather channel said it’s all hyped

get up there is enough light!

Green goddess Springdales has arrived

Wait I don’t see a single twig in sight,

my neighbor’s garden is still white!

 

 

Gypsy
life, satire

Performance

Appearances kept to disguise

the gaunt silhouette 

inside, mindless words

uttered to subdue

million cacophonies of shrunken

brains, smiles and more smiles to

contain the pools of burgundy

pain, plastic tulips 

silver cutleries and the glorious 

dead shrimp lying in bed of frozen

sprouts while giving away

the performances 

of life-time. 

 

Mysterious melody
poetry, satire, sensual, woman

Madam Neverhurry’s Mysterious Malady

Madame Neverhurry cousin

of  Gustav Flaubert’s

Mrs Bovary,awoke at past 12

Suffering from a malady

Known as melancholy,

Casts her glance on the

Day’s chore, bored puts

The blinds back on, deciding

To have some high tea,

Summons, mischievous elves

On fire wings impatient

Yells “to get lost and bring

Forth aromatic mint tea with

Hazel nuts three or four”

On first command the elves

Disappeared, conjuring

A mysterious tea in glasses

Of crystal while the Madame

Put powders and billows,

adorning her buffet with

One Exquisite Ostrich feather

competing with the slopes

of Alps, all while thinking of

day’s chores and bitchy gossips

to be done which caviar to

be served with what exotic wine

at customary evening suppers

while discussing a mysterious

malady  possessing modern ladies

known  something as depression

so much work to do all 

in a day, madam fainted

at 1 while still in satin beds

Personal elves hurried worried

Bellowing some wind trying

to revive with peacock

fans, “oh poor madam,

suffering pangs of

melancholy once again”

 

( Dedicated to all my beautiful women who loves to get up past noon)

 

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.

Christmas, Legend, Love, satire

The First Coming

Adorning the scarlet crown of thorns

he graced the parched sands of 

ancient Bethlehem with legendary 

bounties of those infinite compassions.

A messiah took birth in the shanty

dwellings of the humblest shepherds,

A shooting star sighted somewhere,

It was the first tremors,those calm

                whispers and silent tears.

 He silently trudged on those impotent

lands leaving in every-footprint a gushing

fountain brimming with divine mercy

Brought down the mighty

Roman Empire  not with a saddle or sword 

but with a single drop of his blood

And when the lighting struck  

the barren lands, he humbly took upon

himself the sins of all those around,

resurrecting from his humanly abode 

It was the first coming, the most

anticipated one.

 

(Merry Christmas to all my Christian Friends, it’s my humble take on the spirit of Christmas and the legendary story Of Christ)