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)
Tag: satire
LOVE
I would do anything for love,
but I won’t pick trash,
or cook anything tonight.
Ms. Matilda’s Woes
Ms. Matilda woke past the noon,
swooning to the Beethoven’s sad tune.
A mysterious ailment swipes,
over the modern women of her types.
These curious cases of daddys’ princesses,
of colossal estates and multiple mates.
Are inflicted with malady of swinging moods,
making them shudder at matchless boots.
Ms. Matilda sitting still in her bedclothes,
howled remembering how at,
the party last night, enemy women clapped
secretly when her golden heels zapped,
and as her crimson lipstick chapped;
she knew her teddy heart is in for a snap.
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)
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.
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)
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.
A Man Of Interest
A dream that possessed
One frightful night as I slept
Heard faint echoes and whispers
Terrified hid my face
In the fleece
Astonished saw
Shadows of mermaids
Sitting on edge
Fallen in love
With the same man
Ensuing a complex dilemma
Who will win
him over and
Be the object of
his drunk glances and
Vanilla flavored kisses
Mermaids no less than other
In looks or virtue
put forward
One strategy to defeat
the other
summon chefs of Conficious
How about “atar” from Arabia
French Petitt Gâteau or
Pearls from the basin of deep ocean
As discussing the
Sauvé debonair walked in
Unceremoniously
Time just froze
Stupefied mermaids
Out of all the one most
spoilt and bratty
With a look of disinterest
Casually yawning
Off handish uttered
I yearn a delicate
Piece of Velvet Cake
Made from Swiss strawberries
Lots of French wine to gulp
It down my parched throat
Hearing her, all the damsels
Thought one less competitor
As for the Man of Interest
Resolute thought damsel for velvet cake
Is the only one for me
As she appears the least bothered
And the happiest of all…
So crux my fine ladies keep smiling
Don’t fret never frown, eat your cake
Any man will be at your feet.
Men of Interest are no mystery
Any more…
Exorcisim of Flue
Pray smiles to be infectious, not cruel flue
Sneezing coughing reeling be transformed
Into jumping, dancing merrymaking
Let smile spread its rays not the contagious virus
The agony and lamentation will strangulate you
Let in each house dwells a divine heater
Providing warmth and protection of mother’s lap
Aloud bang, a sneeze last week in the shower
A bad omen understood, I knew the second coming
It grabbed me last winters with its cruel beak
Poking, scratching, bruising gentle nose
Became untouchable in my own golden cage
Fear lingered midst mob of fraternity
A look of horror gripped the gentle husband
What ensued a sport of hide and seek
Seven thundering nights and days
The merciless devil possessed, howled
Hammered my innocent head, miracle concoctions
Holy waters stopped working, until on efforts
Of an ancient doctor’s exorcism, the spell was broken
Exquisite Zingiber Officinale, the herb from a valley
Far in basins of holy Ganges was brought
The divine sage burnt with chants the stubborn
The flue was chased, trapped in a lamp from
Arabian nights finally set afloat to distant lands
With words of caution, get your shots on time
Or escape the wrath of devil, whose terror ranges
from sinking sands of Sahara to impenetrable
forests of Amazonian terrain, till the mighty
Himalayas.
(I wrote this poem as I am suffering from the bad flu, I’ve been sneezing and coughing a lot. The poem is my take on this irritating ailment.)
No Dearth of Fools in This world
One Monsieur Tiramisu perplexed
Decided to hunt fools in the complex
Modesty was his robe which he wore
With unparalleled vanity and pride
Carried a machete with a daunting task
Wiping out fools before dusk
Stepped out of the house in the icy storm
Looking for a trace of any delinquent in the town
Not a soul on the slippery road, wondered
Where have my victims gone tonight
Saw a bearded homeless by the side
Have you seen any fool, for I’m on the
Mission to slay them all my friend
Then you must go home my foe
Make a near precision on your neck
For you are a fool yourself, Mr. Boskichov
How dare you spoke those words to me
You insolent bastard, I called you a friend
Don’t underestimate your foolishness Monsieur
For anyone to have an idea of hunting fools
Stepping out of house in the icy cold wind
Carrying a machete in the age of gun
Asking a homeless for people’s address
I am talking to someone like you, I am a fool myself
Tanya penning us in poem is bigger fool than us
Those reading carefully this gibberish text are,
Biggest fools so far yet, a tale of fools read by fools
There’s is no dearth of fools in this world my friend!
-Tanya Shukla