Rapture

a folly yet disfavored

even as skewed perceptions

drive her on unwavered

to claim what is rightfully hers

albeit a little tipsy

a tiger that gingerly purs

when gently stroked

plumb, he just lay there

and she, provoked

worked her magic

and turned what once was

a tale of love: tragic

the miasma then engulfed

veiled her consummation

while his shrieks

played a melody with her laughter

and the howling winds

drowned it all.

(Originally published on Mihir Vatsa's blog in response to Kichkinni.)

Bad Punnery

It's raining cats and dogs.

Well, as long as it doesn't reindeer.

When it comes to big arm chairs

I have a deep-seated fear.

Chairs are meant to be chairished

Royal chairs are rarely throne out

Those two duchesses arguing about their husbands?

They decided to duke it out.

Now, politicians have a talent

They double-cross each bridge

The plumber explained that the problem in my

kitchen was just water under the fridge.

But since we’ve reached the kitchen

I must dish out some advice

Do not believe what you hear

About fleas and ticks -- it's all lice

Never ask a boxer for a drink

Because they're tight fisted.

Poor sweep who tried was thrown down

A chimney, and was black-listed.

You’d be surprised to hear what

Really got this all started

‘Twas two peanuts who walked into a bar

And one of them was a-salted

I Write of Those Who Give Me Gold

“The destiny and history of nations -

Corroding, compromising

Raided, deranged, derailed;

The machines have churned out

Great two dimensional heroes.

The poet stands alone.”

Through blood he wades

Towards the crown

Dead and gone

Vanity of human wishes

Of silken cloth

Of laced up boots

Leading on doom

Disaster.

Unloved, unmissed, unremembered

No graves, no wood to burn

No vultures either

“Privileged, you want to live?

Project, what?

God – he dead;”

Epitaph –

‘Here lies a poet’

Accepting commitment,

Reasonable pride is motivation enough

That impetus is now gone

Clinging to dedications

Growing, revolving

Shrieking in the wilderness

No voice, no words

“Progress, then?

What about the land?

Did it sprout gold?

Elucidate -

Duly justified in terms of human content.”

Analysts, economists

They don’t know

The poet stands still

Talking about all you know and more

No break, no disjunction

“I do not write of the poet

Disillusioned, embittered, lost

I write of those who give me gold.”

Three Blind Mice

To S, M and A

Not necessarily in that order

***

Credit

One of them

Resolved to live with it

Because the roads in ‘Lore

Are unlike the Capital’s.

And now he’d rather shut up,

Unless interrogated.

He knows not what he looks for

Knows not what to do

He does know this –

That he is not to be known.

The other, meanwhile,

Puffed in cancer

Breathing out fear

Of failing to meet up

His preset paradigm

With the kid dead

And mother unaware

What yarn could he spin,

So Consciousness would let him live

Both his and William’s

The third, in the meantime,

Is living in his own sweet bubble

Speaking a language

He doesn’t understand.

The ghost of days gone by

Haunts him still;

So he just travels

From mountains to deserts

Lighting candles

Wherever he goes.