I’m feeling happier than I’ve felt in a long time. So, it seems almost auspicious to begin this “series” of sorts. As the title suggests, I have no clue why I’m writing this or what this is, for that matter. All I know is that writing has helped me cope with erm, “waves of melancholy” that wash over me from time to time. Man, that was poetic, and a tad bit cheesy. Yesterday, I watched this video where the famous Indian poet and author, Jeet Thayil, listed 15 reasons to not become a poet. It was particularly crushing for someone…
thin gin with wine, swig
from a glass full of rhymes of times past,
I looked prettier when hands held beer hands
held hope hands cupped a face that
haunts my dreams with what could have been
fifteen years of lovestruck poems over
fifteen with promiscuity.
I refuse to cede I
refuse to leave I
won’t stomach facts I
will tweet rest sans I
am the president of the United States.
Despite scandals of all sizes and shapes,
the Office shall have my butt-print on display.
Trump’s absolute rejection of the popular vote and subsequent refusal to leave office amazes me.
I was inspired by “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks to write about something that is as amusing as it is concerning.
Clammy palisades with smooth elliptical edges
line up like monochrome Arkquain. Grayscale culminates
in an orange lake, wide and circular. In it lies
a single black pearl flitting uneasily, vibrating
at pectoral fin frequency.
Click here if you’re just as intrigued about this fish as I am.
7 AM, the alarm rings. Sleepy-eyed I
attempt to snooze and instead choose
to silence the timorous timekeeper
as I wrap skinny bones around
my cotton-sponge pillow
and its sweaty pillow-cover.
My legs seem shackled, bedsheets wrap
their devilish covers as I struggle
to b r e a k free — instead reviewing
the list of failures planned for the day.
Stockholm syndrome symptoms arise,
tears from the night before
now dried add to the salty sweaty
seemingly endless sea
my pillow cover has become.
A sob story with no end or beginning.
8 AM, the family rises…
Mr. Brown-McBird, Birdie for short, decides to build his nest atop the tallest tree in the universe. He starts with a twig,
tiny and brittle, dark-brown
tips adorn the smoky-grey stem
delicately placed on brown soil
interspersed with green hue.
Gleefully, he places it in his beak and flies upward. The long journey is arduous —
treacherous snakes/pretentious poison
drip from toxic fangs
ready to strike unsuspecting proximity.
Sirens, seductive and friendly,
lure unwitting heroes with coy fantasies.
Bright, sweet-scented honeysuckle
dangle invitingly, daring
dreamers to settle on their branches.
Birdie is well-aware of these dangers. He will not be…
Round, brown little pip,
tiny scar marking its existence.
Sowed in the brownest of soils,
clayey, layered with fresh manure
and watered with the purest of water.
Ten days pass
and the little seed sprouts —
tiny, green shoot shyly emerging,
afraid and excited. And so begins
the journey of the seed
path paved by the gardener.
The gardener frets
and frets and frets
and frets and frets.
Will the tree
have large, green leaves?
Will the flower
satisfy hungry bees?
Will the fruit
Will the stalk
make good firewood?
Will this little seed
be the tree of…
a man smaller than an atom
struggling to make sense of himself.
a man with a smile neatly in place,
confident and self-assured.
a chick struggling to leave its nest,
too deeply rooted in insecurity.
a caged bird craving independence
scoffing at attachment.
a thousand jigsaw pieces scattered, pieces
that piece together
the puzzle of inner peace.
an iron suit rusting,
too heavy to remove.
and Mr. lawless-reign,
prime ministerial candidates.
Centre stage, podium
raised, panel of reporters
deficient microphones ready.
“So, Mr. Accountability, what plans do you have for the future of this country?”
to drive the country forward,
bridge wage gaps, reduce taxes
on the downtrodden, divide
wealth equally. Smooth roads shall
shore hordes of affordable
built by satisfied workers
earning healthy salaries.
Technology’s leaps and bounds
shall characterize my stay.
“Mr. lawless-reign, your esteemed opponent has spoken at length on how he
plans to improve the country. What is your take…