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)

 

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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)

 

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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

feminine, Humour, Love, Nature, poetry

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…

 

Humour, poetry, satire, Self-Help, wit,

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.)

Humour, poetry, satire, wit,

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!