Monday, 22 April 2013

Bed Tea-se

Monhegan's Schoolteacher, 2004 by Jamie Wyeth 

Moonlight spun strands veiled from dewy-eyed Sun
Or, the poetry book, open at the page you left unread
Bare pearl poised skin, with pristine angelic bosom
Or, an empty chair across the unpolished wooden table
My parting lips or, the hum of my warm-honey-tongue
Tousled bed-cover unraveling my modesty-much-siren
Or, the tranquil snow patiently kissing the naive-horizon
The precious sight from the gold-dust tainted glass
Or, the melting warmth that the blatant candle renders
Anything or,
To beseech your hushed heart
To offer to your matted thoughts…
Shall I wait for you?
On the late night dinner, of course…

I am sharing this poem with Mag 165


Monday morns, giving me blues
Specks of solitude nip my longing heart
Love revamped, passion chose to preen
Prancing to the lonely dark nooks
And, it feels novel - so new
All I wish is to have you
Come here, come near
Beauty lay veiled, so much to unfurl
Yearning for the moment...
Kisses and hugs,
Treasure unkempt in the Garden of Eden
Rob me of my full silver moon
I am impatient, 
Dying with every aching breath...

Friday, 19 April 2013


I didn't - no - never saw a Dead
Then I saw him lying there
HIS Brutal fist was again at work
Squashing ripe tomato must be tad fun
My drowning heart, lingering to beat – to throb
Inhumanity, ruthless word once heard,
Dancing with its dark dreadful eyes gaped
He lay there devoid of his brain and eyes
As if they never belonged to him, ever in real
And, so-called-humans found it cool to click and flaunt
Was that the right time to set your angle and flash?
A son, a brother, a husband, a lover
How many things he must have - wished to be
For now, so many things he - failed to be
Screams swarmed and bellowed in my clogged throat
I wanted to yell, snap at their cell phones
Then a whiff of stale - no, not stale
Cause blood was still oozing from his cold head
Freshly-blood-stained air gushed pass my hair
Hallucination must be, it'd whisper in my ear
And, might be to the half-dead conscience of all standing there
I heard, I felt or my mind's eye was again at play
HE scorned his creation, mumbling in disdain

“Thou a'rt human by my choice,
Thee shalt be Inhuman in thy ways,
Thy conscience is a warmer place,
For Shaitan seeks warmth to thrive,
It shalt suck away all that thee possess,
Churning it into as-cold-as-dead-breaths,
Take heed to that kind of Homecoming
For Malicious is the trait of thy guest”
Sluggish sultry smothering realism dawned 
Quiet as feather, savoring the wind's flow
Lulling my awakened conscience to sleep
Callousness, malice, egocentricity, apathy
That's the sieste’d humanity is in thrall to…

***Sieste'd- Enjoying an afternoon nap on a hot day ( World is at peaceful rest 
                         when its hot and burning everywhere)  

      Shaitan- Devil

      HE, HIS - GOD ***

I am sharing this poem with dverse Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

Friday, 12 April 2013

Blaming the Butterfly

“What is it that you are holding in your hand, baby?”
“Mamma, it’s a GAARRL pin”, my 3 years old couldn’t even say the word GIRL right
“And, where did you get it from, Baby?”
“I snatched from her, and now it’s mine” his voice sturdy and tight
“My baby would give this back to the girl tomorrow, won’t you Darling?”
“No..No..I won’t, It’s mine and only mine” came his daring reply
He ate, played and slept clutching the pin in his tiny but gritty fist
The beautiful pink coloured butterfly tucked on the pin is to be impugned
It must have grabbed my baby’s attention and made him filch
Nit-picking shall annoy me, fostering the heart of a loving mother
But, a woman’s instinct gets nickeled with palpable fear dainty as a feather
A knot in my gut got tied with the occurring thought of might-be repercussions
Is that it or will I be witnessing such instances more, am I being paranoid?
Nuance it may seem, but my quivering mind fathoms deep farther inside
His ‘claiming Habit’ gave me chills
He might do it to feel that ‘Manly thrill’
Trust me all flawlessly beautiful girls there
He shall be charming, natty, genes shall thrive
What clenches my throat is the Time tested fact
Vanity swaps sanity
Hence, dreadfulness stabs
He might clasp and claim the same girl’s honour, like the pin fancied him once
Oh, He is a nascent bud, three years old still savouring the bright shades of life
He being palette and me a palette-knife
Mixing, applying or scratching the erroneous colours is my craft
I shall not let him cherry-pick and paint the canvas of life with flaws
I am and shall be savoir faire
He shall revere the ‘Platonic Love’, not ‘Noxious lust’
Pin he yanked is broken with butterfly lying apart
He shall soon absorb the lessons of his life
And no butterfly or nubile would ever get hurt…