steak
food, History, Humour

Forbidden Steak

Enthroned regal on the chef’s handpicked

plate, adorned with the Grecian cutlery.

Crowned with a dash of lush-push

glistening glorious butter surrounded with 

the gleeful wild mushrooms, snobbish

handpicked Romas, and that indifferent

Sun-baked Potato King.

 

Juices of Youth overflowing through

edges, butchered  just this morning by

some sturdy Polish hands, around

The Madison Square Gardens…

 

If wars were fought for the Helen of Troy 

or Roman Empire was fallen who knows?

A sinful bite of those decadent juices from

luscious fats is worth all the battles taken

with the mighty Vegan empire.

 

Choirs of the Weight-Watchers might

conspire, The great David may 

not rescue this time…

 

Gods smile on beings who resist and

endure, I might never be under any

benevolence or in League-Extraordinaire

of Skinny and Thin

 

I’ll surrender to the horrors of every 

calorie-watcher or prying gaze of my

wise Aerobics master. I’ll sing my grace

and dig into the flesh of forbidden

Steak today..

 

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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, 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.

Eyes
Humour, Nature, poetry, satire

Raccoon- Eyes

Giant Mountains can be moved by the

sheer hands of a lone Hercules ,

Mighty rivers can change their course

of centuries out of just one prophecy

Tallest  Amazonian tree can be uprooted by

hammer blows of  tempests of the north

Yet my fellow folks there is one thing

harder than the all, for everything under

the Draculean Sun has been  smeared 

on the dark gaunt raccoon eyes from the

 holiest waters of mighty Ganges,

Zinger herb from the fertile

plateaus of Zanzibar, medicinal secrets 

from the ancient deltas of River Nile… 

Eaten forbidden apples from the gardens

of Eden to have crimson blood flowing

on purplish patches, had pulp of heavenly

Swiss cherries , took elaborate

baths in the silky waters of wines

from the fine regions of Normandy,

had stinky soap carved specially out

humble Mediterranean donkeys milk

enough to conceal  of late nights voyeurs,

even had the kilos of harrowing cheese

made out of one Arabian camel’s milk

but to no avail, all in vain…

My fair ladies and gentleman for when

a young woman in thirties suffers from the 

intense pangs  of Dark-Circles it’s hard

to cure, smooth virgin skins can not hold,

and the blue veins under eyes just

falls apart….

 

( This is my true story, tragic and painful as it sounds)

 

Lolita
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Humour, Literature, Love, poetry, satire, sensual

Another Loilta ( Revised)

Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs 
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lolly-pop euphorically 
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips 
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift 
Impoverished  bosoms like two sand dunes, 
adorning  emaciated slender waist, yet 
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame 
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising  heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece 
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion 
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to 
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous 
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils 
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to  burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for 
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snake-lings crawled back to the hood.  

seduction
feminine, Humour, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, satire, sensual, wit,

A Secret Culinary Seduction

Once again with a thought of being honest to the

marital vows taken in the bygone century I decided 

to lay down a gourmet meal for the darling husband.

 

Discovered an  ancient recipe from the archives of

the great Confucius and took out a vintage Indian

spice box chiseled out of great silver ivory tusks, handed

to me by the Roman goddess Edesia to tame wild husbands.

 

The box gilded with rows of turquoise peacocks mating

with peahens, embellished with golden petals of marigold,

with spice bowls placed like pawns on the board of chess.

 

Each spice trying to outshine the other in exotic flavors

and rich aromas. With a conniving  conspiracy to satiate

the belly and in the state of intoxication of thousand opiates.

 

To put forward a burning desire in my bosom since I put

my promiscuous gaze on one emerald green neck-piece in the

grand Promenade on route number five, one fine spring day.

 

For I resisted the entire spring and summer and carefully

weighed a hour in the fall when planets were to be aligned

in my favor as prophesied  by a Turkish soothsayer 

 

I took out my slender Moroccan tagine, and lined

it with a luscious dark pressed oil glistening like sparkles

on the earthen pot and smeared it with my scheming hands

to the farthest corners possible for the spell to work.

 

Sauted some mellowed sweet onions, craftily sprinkled the

topaz turmeric, with julienne of aphrodisiac garlic and

blew a long kiss of exotic scarlet peppers over the tagine

 

To prepare a curry of a freshly butchered young lamb

still warm, acquired specially from the northern highlands,

reared and slaughtered only for the special occasions like this.

 

Adorning the garb of a regal chef, I simmered and simmered

for hours till the juicy flesh fell of  the fragile white bones,

while engaging in brown study  of all that I can extract from the

hapless man in the state of profound ecstasy.

 

I laid my plan meticulously in the hibiscus laden English bowls while

weaving a devilish plot, wore a plunging lace blouse with the help

of pygmy elf of seduction to give a little sneak- peak of the cascading

waterfall between the two splendid alps, and clamped lips for a pout.

 

Threw an oomph in the curry along with the strands of aromatic  

Kashmiri saffron and laughed at the marvel of my own success,

 while patiently waiting for the door-bell to ring and my unarmed 

knight to arrive to begin with secret culinary seduction. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

wind's tale
Humour, Literature, Nature, poetry, satire, wit,

Storm of Lifetime

An endless saga for the princely Florencio

has just begun with trumpets and  horns 

Fox and CNN like love-lorn destitute women

are in the arena  to maneuver each other

in the valiant sport of storm-catching, in

the deep blue oceans of the mighty Atlantis

The senile weather channel has not stopped

humming an aching melody for days now,

like a heart missing a beat the Florencio has

just dropped from a category five to two

An empire taken over by frenzy of hoarding

We have more waters stocked in our homes

than in the magic wand  of Florencio itself

The prying eyes of the whole world is set on

the storm of lifetime, the bet is that the regal

dark Florencio will beat exotic havocs of

Katrina’s and Laila’s of the past of-course poor

Andrew was never a match nor in name

or in game, Czar Tutin and one Ching Kong

dreaming if  storm  can do the task ordained

to them,  it’s already a success for those seating 

in the ovals and squares, as for me I just want 

the boyish Florencio to pass and watch for the 

devastating charms of debonair Valentino next

year while my husband yearns it to be sultry

Señorita…

-Tanya Shukla 

( just a poem to lighten up the serious mood in the country. I pray for everyone’s safety and health)