Tiny quiverings, cold
hands a realization
I ‘m not my best.
May be we don’t belong
here but there remains
a thin strand of humanity,
a hope small but a hope.
Category: woman
Trapped
Trapped in a fluid body,
tentacles of burgundy garbed
thoughts oozing out like
myriad snake heads. Sniffing
somberly, the dark melancholia
pervasive in the air and then
crawling back, melting again
with the red hues.
Hungry
I swayed and soared
in the clatter of pots
and pans, as the
sultry aromas of spices
aroused in me some
hidden desires.
Though I am the
cook and the Gardner,
such is my plight
that I am not offered
even a single bite.
Knowing there is no
respite, I scrapped the
waste morsels off
the site, you wished
a mild good night then
closed your eyes as
as I lay hungry on
your wild side with a
slight martyred pride.
Us
If I’am you,
you are me
and that’s all
than
we are us.
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)
No Land For Women
Yes my right boob is bigger than the left and
there is something going between my thighs
You see Mr. I breath from there…
But then don’t you breath from hole too?
I’ve been scared walking on the ancient silk
routes, always covered in dark veil stalked by
the hawk eyes, conscious of my timid moves.
But terrified to come home for I’ll pay the lofty
price of loitering after the dark…
In The Land for No Women I am known as a
harlot, well you see Mr. I am those women who
always wear matching sandals ,paint their lips
scarlet and plant kisses with ease while
matching steps with you.
But I am no bitter Mr. because I see no
difference between you and me…
you see we both breath from the holes
Transformation
I’ve lived multiple lives,
surviving to live
as a man,
Million little moments
sabotaged to feel as
grandiose as
a man.
Countless nights sacrificing
cotton fluff like yearnings to
please what became of
that man.
Marring those ardent desires
in whose rustic Earthen
wombs human hope
is conceived.
Patiently waiting, ogling at you
to live as me a woman
only for a passing
moment.
Swaying To Notes of Thousand
Swaying to the
notes of thousand
bagpipers…
dropping all shames
twirling round round,
like darvesh in
wild wild forest.
Whatever happens
will happen!
It’s all god’s will
why interfere
why despair?
Some days are bad
like today,
I am rollin rollin
going spiral down
free falling..
Thought to bounce
swaying just pounce
dropping shames…
Whatever happens
will happen.
It’s all God’s will
why interfere?
why despair?
All I can do
is to just brew
drink or flew
some champagne
bubbles …
You can hold
my hands behold
catch me when I am
free-falling..
kiss me or
miss me…
When swaying
with me swaying
to the notes of
thousand bagpipers
Behold darling & just look at my face
Behold darling and just look at my face,
do I need more ruby on the lips?
or need to walk alluring with sweeping hips?
Maybe I should too get bulbous bones fixed!
But love my darling is not a spectacle
No! Love is no rosy cheeks or her
dimpled face.
Poets of past who sighed deep and longed
for the fairer beings all turned blind!
Beauty doesn’t rest under your heels
Lures are not in bosoms but in depths of souls
I can arch my brows high if you feel
but you see you will again run up the hill
to find some jawbones are missing still!
Mistake not my tenderness for frailty
Or mark my words for random triviality!
Let’s not avoid me today as always in haste
Behold darling and just look at my face!
Not Every Floret Is A Rose
To tell you the truth my humble folks
No one ever sang melodies nor I evoke
sighs of love, nor were woven any aching
hymns, no blind poet was ever penning,
ballads of mine love, while young lovers
were busy making love under thick covers
I was simply trying to stand my ground
Only trying to nurse some old wound
I did have few dry kisses to my share
Enough to call them some sort of affair
To keep the sluggish heart-beating,
And the crimson thin blood gushing
For I knew that true love is a luxury
A privilege reserved for not the many
I had vowed my entire life to a service
And all I ever did was the same service
Knowing that not every floret is a rose
Some of us are condemned only to compose
Verses of love in the long endless nights
While thinking of kisses in our imaginary flights