My little lippo lappy
has missed passwords
and emails again ,
I feel this computer business
is nothing but in vain.
Yearn those days of Camelot
when paper and pen were
still a thing…
Now the screen is all blink blink,
I guess my heart will sink.
Little lippo lappy hurts like a bee-sting.
I wonder, what about this magical lore?
Of my face a sunshine that thou shall adore.
Me a fair bosomed countenance of heavenly sight!
Now hurry me a kiss and don’t be a bore.
( Your very own next-door Monalisa)
Old Betty went to the bakery shop,
but pre-meditated plan was cut-short;
when upon discovery, the shop was closed.
The old Betty dignified, always composed
hatched a plan and ordered stuff online,
while gazing at the gems of river Rhine.
She has-time, yes she can still shine,
now that all her chores are online.
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..
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)
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.
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)
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.
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.
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)
