Wednesday, November 9, 2011

What won't wait.

My skin's collagen reserves will deplete,
it will sag,
it will wrinkle.

My hair will start to run out of melanin,
it will gray,
it will fall.

My brace-corrected teeth won't always be,
they will fall out of place,
they will fall.

And in matters of libido, needless to say,
the bigger they are,
the harder they fall.

And that famous metabolism will fail one day,
I'll bloat with each morsel,
just like everyone else.

No matter how long it takes you to find me,
I can wait, but,
time won't.

This is poem 4 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt: "A what won't wait" poem.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Not in the least, Normal.

Being the same hue, in a mass of blue.

Resplendent in pink, as sleek as a mink.

Crowd please-r, creative miser.

Hopeless eccentric, a clever trick.

Toes the line, pays the fine.

Breaks the rules, calls them fools.

Lost in the crowd's swell, identity hard to tell.

A stickler for sticking out, paranoia never in doubt.

All that is easy, everything else is termed sleazy.

Life is in those little moments, for the rest is torment.

This is poem number 3 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt is a "Normal/Abnormal" poem.

This is my signature poetic form. (should get it copyrighted!) This is my statement against the labels this world finds so easy to throw at you and me. Normal is something, I never want to be.

Thursday, November 3, 2011


"Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
every wise man's son doth know."
- William Shakespeare

They started to arrive years two or three ago,postbox-ed,
and inbox-ed, first in a trickle, and then in showers steady,
some in casings of embellished hard paper, some in Google bits;
bearers of news, that the next one, had taken the plunge.

Marital communiques signaled progression and joyous union, once,
of kith and kin, a day of forgotten vices, and innocent fun.
Oft now, these days of late, what but a stark reminder,
of moments too fleeting to hold, and a tyrannical ticking clock.

Endless nights unspent in an un-embrace with oneself,
Uncertainty festers best on a cold, rainy monsoon night,
in a room with no soul but one,and a singular wish to have someone;
a fervent prayer, to walk past quo of status, to that one.

However, the gregarious solar being, marches back to the horizon,
promiscuities of the night before with his dark, buxom damsels, leading to
endless ejaculations that caused the said festering, and the resultant
emotion, or lack thereof; he brings along his friend, hope.

This is poem number 2 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt is "Poem inspired by an Epigraph/Quotation".

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

When the time is just right.

I know his name and the streets he will walk on;
the city he will be born in, and the one he'll call home;
the mother he will adore, the father he will look up to.
the sister he will love, the friend he'll count on.

I can see him dance to his silent tune in the monsoon rain,
See him hold a heavy secret, that would soon exact its price.
I can see him savour a stolen kiss, cherish a forbidden love.
See him cry when all he ever knew, vanished in a moment.

He'll embrace an alien world, and make it his home.
He'll find validation in the eyes of the one who knows.
He'll carry wounds too deep to heal, too raw to hide.
Yet hope will stay afloat, in those eyes, in that smile.

I can see him run, oh, I can see him run,
Hell, I even know the song that plays as he runs,
I know where he's going and why he's in a rush,
And best of all, I know how it all ends.

He awaits the pressing of each key, of each letter,
that would fill his sinew with blood, of the literary type.
The words that would form, and together tell his story,
when my fingers finally think the time is just right.

November PAD, ahoy! This is poem number 1 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt is "Procrastination Poem".

There's a month's time to explore the meters and the rhyming schemes. To start with, I just typed, as the words flowed.

Hello November PAD!

I might have a trying date with an Asian jin,
that wily one from the land of the rising sun,
That might justify the need to rest my verse.

Words and I, are however, thick as kith and kin,
It's impossible to deny myself all this fun.
There will be poeming, even if it's terse.

To stay away from you would be a literary sin,
Time to dive in, and start this breathless run.
November PAD, it's time for us, to converse.

This one's for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Challenge that starts tomorrow. This is my first November PAD. Stay with me through this month, reader! I can sure use the support and appreciation.

Here's to 30 days of poeming!

Sunday, October 23, 2011

A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words

I hope it was a calm, balmy night,
one drenched with that yellow light.
There's you two, close enough to bite;
to sore eyes like mine, what a sight!

Perched daintily atop one shiny metal beam,
your invisible eyes, reflect his gleam.
A scene so perfect, straight out of a dream,
oblivious to the world around, you two seem.

Arms resting on the beam, legs in a stationary dance,
a back bent towards him, eyes drinking him in with a glance.
Two shiny heads of darkest brown, yellow-gold halo, in a trance,
in the streets of of bang and bucks, an irreverent romance.

The green traffic signal in the background, says GO.
The palpable fire red passion, bounds does it know?
A signboard "WEAR HELMET", warns you of the foe;
And the all encompassing yellow, frames you, just so.

Felt like a not so gentle reminder, from up above,
that no matter what, men like me, can still love.

A picture can truly speak a thousand words, and sometimes, inspire a poem. This poem was born out of a facebook profile picture of my friend, Laishram Romal Michael Singh. And so, it is dedicated to him. The rhyme scheme here is AAAA-BBBB-CCCC-DDDD-EE.

Friday, October 7, 2011

A letter.

Dear you-know-who-you are,

It's been a long time since I wrote to you,
scratch that out, for I never did write.
It seems so long now, doesn't it,
when I was in a forest, and you were hiring headcounts.

Midnight on a rickety old terrace,
and even later on the inky seashore;
sitting cross-legged, sharing stories,
boxes of Ferro-rocher;
long scooter rides;
veshti-clad Chennai Sangamam visits;
and chat conversations,
hundreds of lines long.

Why do I write now, when I was the one that went away?
When all that was, is not, and will never be?

It's just something that I've felt for very long,
but could never say, never could find the words.

Though I could never give you what you wanted,
I wish I had been man enough to tell you,
I wanted you, nonetheless.

A smile that I never knew I had.

Funny that when we first met,
I didn't want you to see my crooked teeth.
That I stretched my thin lips tight,
in to what you hopefully thought was a smile.

That I now kiss you with my metal-wrapped teeth,
And laugh out loud at the slightest excuse,
That camera flashes lock on with a vengeance,
to confident teeth behind shiny trainers of steel.

A smile that I never knew I had,
Until you came along and proved me wrong.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Going for water on a train.

A short train journey,
Usually my music and me;
But this time there was he,
and his, they were three.

Clothed in fluorescent shades,
dirty from hours of play,
tired little limbs of theirs,
safe under his protective glance.

Number one, a brown angel's face,
Head firmly on the paternal lap,
a strong arm for him to hold on to,
as he slept, daddy's pet.

Number two, was a little away,
dozing on a bench all to himself,
stealing sleepy glances at his siblings,
an unspoken language, tied the three.

Number three, right next to me.
Droopy of eye, but sure of finger;
Took the words of Frost to heart,
and wrote them down, "Going for water".

Never did I know Number one's lap;
Nor will I comprehend Number two's lingo.
But Number three and I, we had Frost.
And we shared him thus - an unspoken agreement.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Happy Birthday, Cham!!!!

As you step into a new year,
dreams tethered by sinewy hope;
the imminent horizon will clear,
no more mess for you to cope.

Your troubles belong in the past,
today the universe hears your call.
those that doubted, stare aghast,
as you climb higher, standing tall.

You bear bullshit with a smile,
your tears' audience, a private few;
How many in your shoes, can walk, even a mile?
But you stand and fight, as if on cue.

The world is now your playground,
never doubt what you will make of yourself.
raucous laughter, the only legitimate sound,
that will surround, your sunny self.

I am glad that I call you my friend,
survivors belong together, holding hands;
It is the choicest of wishes that I send,
blaze your own path, on time's sands.

This poem is a birthday wish to my dearest friend, Cham! Happy Birthday, Cham! Have the most wonderful year ahead!

Friday, July 8, 2011

YOU in my rear-view mirror.

I once felt that dread, those huge fingers,
dwarfing mine, across the asphalt,
sweaty warmth.

Never thought we would cease to be;
YOU and I
cease to be

Like the nasty feeling of a creepy crawling
down my sweaty neck, my arm raises,
a sticky splotch.

Nasty squishy was never you;
never meant to be

The heat exists no more, extinguished,
by a sudden afternoon downpour, lukewarm,
an icy blue hue.

Hot was how I knew you;
icy blue hue
is not

This is a crazy form poem. I should start filing patents for crazy forms. LOL!
The three word prompt (they are italicized in the poem) is from Three Word Wednesday.
Stumbled upon this site on Dheepikaa's blog.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Run the world.

When they say that men are the stronger sex,
I think of you.
I have a belly laugh.

When you cried your way through difficult times,
I thought it was weakness.
I now know better.

When they ask me what's it to not have a father,
I say I don't know.
I have my mother.

When every life decision has to take you into account,
I feel empowered.
To be responsible for you.

When I answered a quiz about my greatest fear,
I hesitated to type the words.
Your mortality.

When I want the best words to end this ode,
I quote Beyonce,
Ladies, you run the world.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

An unfinished poem...

Iridescent dreams, technicolor on a blue black stage...
Soaring heights, endless depths and miles of nothingness,
a billion beautiful images, flash past, excite and engage,
Morphined away from what's real, the mess....

Wake up to what you face, a struggle and a bag of lies,
a daily sickening rigmarole, a hypocrite's paradise,
A mind numbing, breath choking closet of ice;
Curse the day fate rolled that decisive dice.

Written on sunday, may 10, 2009.

An incoherent whine of an incompetent existence.

From the angst driven recesses of a much troubled mind,
fire red passions mangled to an ice blue hue,
ill-formed emotions peek out in search of expression,
to escape the bars of a comfortably numb heart.

Solo strings of an unaccompanied violin,
eke out a tune to pierce the eternal silence,
of a love never found, hope never lost,
orchestrating its symphonic fantasies.

A stab straight to the center of the heart,
the gushing blood, the blinding pain,
evidence at last that life still lingers,
a chance to scream out a billion unsaid emotions.

Written on saturday, may 2, 2009.

To H


the recluse, the shy one, the one with a lot unsaid,
the one deserving of love of the right kind;
an online human connection, that neither ever fathomed,
a long walk at night, a night spent on a mountain;
through streets narrow and wide, we walked,
savoring the sights, sounds and tastes of a place we hold dear;
an oriental adventure took you far, to a land of wonder,
thousands of words traveled cyber highways to bridge the gap;
and we held hands long-distance.
the weight of a grown man sits on your shoulder so lightly,
And it is my wish for you, never may worry crinkle that forehead,
and never may that dignified and soft spoken demeanor, flounder.
hope love walks with you, and diffuses its charm at every step.
And I be a spectator, to the story of your life.

Written on Monday, November 15, 2010.


A day in the A-Z, fresh in my memory,
too early to be up, for you, that was life for me though,
a half-sleepy, half-unsure look, is he a good mentor, or devil incarnate, maybe;
that was my introduction to you.
soon you were sandwiched between my long term neighbor and me,
and we were to be the three not-so-little “performers”!
we worked till our asses shone and laughed till it hurt at all the right places;
understood it was “forever and always”, and was never “too late to apologize”;
drank spoilt slim milk, thrived on green tea, and asked for our extra jalapenos and olives,
slept too little, worked too much, and reached out to our literary oxygen masks;
exchanged intimate secrets on a winding beach pathway,
having come to investigate a lone individual’s sexcapade;
the things a strong drink can make one do!
no more rambling mails to a man we both loved,
no more endless hours of working hard, having fun; me being history;
every little word, every little song, every little moment of wonder,
will keep us entangled, forever.

Written on Monday, November 15, 2010.

To C (or rather, S)


my carnatic connection,

my German blitzkrieg,

my SUNY selfish gene,

my trainee, in times of excel and ASINs;

my pantry partner, in the times of A to Z;

my movie mate, from curious cases to revolutionary roads,

my telephonic link to mankind.

my strong, independent woman,

my inspiration to laugh at the face of difficulty;

my FRIEND, forever to come.

Written on Monday, November 15, 2010.

To S or M or C?


my unique wildflower,

my cloud in the sky,

my dance in the rain,

my hand-holder,

my spirit-hugger,

my irritant imbecile,

my two-wheeled charioteer,

my door that’s always open,

my partner in crime,

my nagging inner voice,

my blood-less family,

my love with no lust.

Written on Monday, November 15, 2010.

A Silent Death

Buried six feet under, alive;
no one to hear my screams,
as my nails scratch the coffin's door,
and cry their red tears,
I woke up with a start;
It was a dream, after all; or was it?
Real life doesn't seem very different.

Written on Friday, November 19, 2010.

The Serial Liker

The posts on my wall,
fear their shady stalker,
for nothing misses his eye,
he is the serial liker!

From fortune cookies, to every new status,
and with a poetic note thrown in-between,
he is there every-time, to make that crucial click,
he is the serial liker!

They may call it like-fixing,
or compete with his endless clicking,
to me he is a cherished presence,
he is the serial liker!

Dedicated to Arindom Mitra, who makes it a point to *like* every post on my FB wall. Written on Wednesday, November 24, 2010.


The person that has never been, or will,
the one I was not allowed to shed tears over,
a being of mystery, motives unfathomable,
the one that is there, but never was.

The one who I wanted and needed,
but could not find around,
who led me to probably,
seek it elsewhere.

And you bring around this new being,
a silent, brutal replacement of what never was,
what I had learnt to live without,
and I never get the chance to protest.

If all people are equal
and all emotions worth expressing,
why do mine get so little notice?
I wonder.

I cry to myself at night,
I type furiously;
For what I wrote before,
I had to flush down the toilet.

You are full of your pain,
you have your source of solace;
I have all that you didn’t,
how ungrateful; to complain.

And so I compress it all in,
deep down where you can’t see,
unvoiced words, unexpressed emotions,
devoid of validation.

And no I can’t tell,
I can’t reach out to a shoulder,
and wet it with my warm tears,
unknown is as unknown does.

A poem born out of depression. Written on Thursday, November 25, 2010.

Farewell, Mothership!

The year was 2008,
With hopes afloat in my heart,
and eyes filled with wonderment,
I walked into you,
to work, play and be history at the A-Z.

For the next 15.5 months,
Too early in the day, eyes groggy in protest,
or late in the night, after my favorite shift,
I drove in and out, under your steady gaze;
working too hard, but having too much fun, nonetheless.

Unbreakable bonds of friendship were formed,
Fiery feuds were staged;
Misunderstandings and making up added spice,
In the cosy cocoon of your embrace,
we lived in you, our second home.

Maybe I took time for granted,
Maybe it was meant to be;
It was soon time to spread my wings,
and fly from the safe nest you were.
A teary mess, I left, that day.

Life sped away and took me along,
Every door I knocked opened,
Everything I wanted, was mine to have,
And yet in times of solitude and deep thought,
I always came back to you, in spirit.

Who was I to know,
that this umbilical cord was intact,
and you would pull me back to you,
when the time was right,
and when I was ready;

A 9 month polka dance, it took,
for me to cross a Lion's bridge,
and stray back into your fold,
Home is, after all, where the heart is.
But it was not to be.

I walked back into your arms,
Knowing separation was imminent,
That though I could always come back,
I had somewhere else to go,
something else to do.

Three long weeks I had,
to savour every brick you hold,
and imprint those memories deep inside;
From culinary chutzpah, to long walks along your veins,
and many a solitary moment spent sitting on a stone bench.

I have had the time of my life,
And have never felt this way before,
And yes, I owe it all to you,
And this is no long goodbye,
It is a promise to be back.

Farewell, Mothership!

A poem dedicated to ASCENDAS IT PARK, Taramani, Chennai. Written on Wednesday, December 22, 2010.

Aborted Innocence

A teenage virgin, her first kiss, eyes pregnant with hope.
a bright red bite, gift of last night's passion on the bed.
a beautiful bulge, harder to hide with each passing day.
an inch-long scar, the last remnant of a long-gone child.

Written on Monday, December 27, 2010.

Time Travel in a Hospital's Physiotherapy Ward

He tottered past me,
down that long corridor,
lined with metallic green chairs.
A book titled "Freedom from helplessness",
A walking stick; his only two companions.
In a white veshti, with a whiter head of hair,
Frail of health, but sure of eye.

As I waited in a gleaming metallic green chair,
for my painful date with the physiotherapist,
He appeared again.
Too impatient to wait for the lift,
he went for the stairs.
the respect his age commands,
made those around,
request him to sit.

As the elevator doors closed,
and I caught my last glimpse of him,
I couldn't help feeling,
that I had seen through a mirror,
forty years on.

This post and the next ones to follow are an attempt to collate all my poetry written in notebooks, in FB notes and other blogs in to one single place.

This poem literally came to mind while I was waiting for my physiotherapy session this evening at a hospital, and I just typed it out on my phone. I love spontaneous poetry.

Written on Tuesday, March 8, 2011.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

What got me here.

It started with a trip to the garden city,
And a solemn resolve to never look back;
A glimpse of a world without me, which it almost was,
And narcissistic praise heaped upon literary brethren.

A cinquain to glorify carnal pleasure,
A time poem to chronicle a walk and beyond.
A testament to being different, always,
and an old friend, fondly remembered.

The crowning glory of it all, my own sonnet,
and a four line tribute to two strong women;
This wall brought Frost and Facebook together,
I also unveiled my grand scheme to the world.

Love bites got their spot in the sunlight,
And a plea went the way of love yet to be found,
A monstrous sestina that didn't make much sense,
And I had to care, this one brought an award.

A tribute to the indefatigable Nihonese spirit,
And my first tryst with comic poetry, with a fart;
My furry feline's purring found mention,
And a racy fling titillated before disappearing forever.

An honest and fair prayer, a shadorma this time,
And a fall, that was not so mighty, after all,
The story of a child sex worker thanks to the great O,
And to lead or to follow, that was the question.

A profound marital realization, a little too late,
And I got better at comic sense, went from fart too poop.
What a terrible thing to write, about a world sans words;
And a tale of how I dissolve in a special someone's warm embrace.

And a teaser of what is to come, after I leave here.
Thirty days of poeming got me here.

YES. I AM FINALLY DONE. 15 minutes are left for midnight to strike on April the 30th and for NaPoWriMo to draw to a close. This is my 30th and final poem for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt is ironically the very first prompt that kick-started this challenge - "A what got you here poem". I saved it for last, for I wanted a prompt that would let me sum up 30 days worth of poeming.

Thanks to Dheepikaa without whom this wouldn't have happened. Thanks to Robert Lee Brewer, whose 30 incredible prompts kept me challenged and inspired. Thanks to Jingle and Thursday Poets Rally for the support and recognition. And thanks to every single person, known and unknown, who had something nice to say about my poems.

Jya Mata!

After the 30th one is done.

I'll go back to a 9-5 job,
slightly more interesting,
than the ones before.

I'll spend some time each day,
struggling with a script,
borrowed from the Chinese.

It is also a solemn resolve,
to hold tight to each oxygen mask,
from books to random walks.

And I leave with new-found confidence,
that my poetry has its audience,
and so, this is no farewell, just another beginning.

This is poem 29 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "After leaving here poem".

In the warmth of your embrace

I forget to be cynical and spiteful;
I remember to smile, and take a deep breath.
I let the big picture wait for a while;
And count the beats of your heart.
I have no time for my billion complaints,
for just this while, am glad to be alive.
I feel no need to close my eyes,
Reality is better than any dream.

This is poem 28 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "In the (blank) of (blank) poem".

A world without words

There would be no books,
no literary yarns to spin.
No tool to express love,
or spit out hate and loathing.

A mouth's function will be limited,
to being an inlet for consumption,
and an outlet for rejection, and
passion's only outlet, endless French kissing.

We writers would beg on streets,
with defunct shrunken right brains,
Unless we are the first ever,
to master wordless communication!

There would be no scripts to master,
no sounds to wrap your tongue around,
No songs, just sounds to belt out aloud,
and movies would never be talkies.

At times it's better to keep your mouth shut,
but then there are just too many other times,
when words make the world go around,
and words are all we have, sometimes.

This is poem 27 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "A world without something else poem".

Friday, April 29, 2011

An ode to poop.

O you stinky devil,
that dwells in dark passages,
and rides down lubed tubes,
to a hol'e'y release.

O you being of many a form,
slithering down, a slippery mass,
or a sudden shower of muddy goo,
with bursts of wind in tow.

O you cheeky brownie,
forgot to set your alarm?
The poor thing popped a pill,
and is yet to hear that plop.

O be he a king or a pauper,
if nature doesn't come calling,
or calls much too often,
faecal peace is not to be his.

O as I relax my anal muscles,
and grant thee your freedom,
I can't help being grateful,
for your smooth passage yonder.

This is poem 26 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "An ode poem".

From the couch.

When she spends half your month's earnings
on that glittering red dress, that's
nothing like what her sisters will wear,
or her friends will wear, a woman's got
am image to keep, you see, and her hair's
instantly long, "extensions, honey!", and curled,
and breakfast is a bowl of fruit and lunch's
a granola bar, for three whole weeks, don't even
say the word dinner, and she's got new red pumps,
too, and a rhinestone bag to match her earrings,
and she wakes up at four, waxes her legs, and her
hands too, and its noon before she puts on that dress,
and pulls her shoes on, and you drive her along,
and you are at the venue, she takes one last look
in the mirror, to adjust that lipstick,and turns
to look at you and asks, "Do I look fat in this dress,
baby?", you shouldn't have said, "Not really!".

This is poem 25 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Second thoughts poem". The form is a Narrative poem.

Our Journey

When you are weak, and need my hand to hold.

When your love knows best, I'll walk along.

When the man sleeps, and the child awakens.

When I look into those eyes, and know, you know.

When they hate, and all you have is rage.

When your frail ego, needs that little boost.

When in times of strife, I see doubt in those eyes.

When you are the teacher, and I, thirsty to learn.

All that matters, is that we walk, hand in hand.

This is poem 24 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Leader/Follower poem". The form is what my dear friend and poetess Dheepikaa has come to call as my trademark form.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

From a little hospital room in Cambodia.

What if:

The night they tied me up and took me away,
had never happened.

What if:

I had never known what it was to bed a man,
before my first period.

What if:

I hadn't been electrocuted every time I said no,
to the in and out game.

What if:

Every man who paid to have me, looked at me as
the child I am.

What if:

I hadn't been stitched up again and again, to be,
a virgin again.

What if:

The blood and unformed flesh didn't ooze out of me;
my aborted offspring.

What if:

I hadn't been mauled, and had my eye torn apart, ceasing to be
a sale-able commodity.

Would I be able to go back and be a child again?

This is poem 23 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "A what if poem".

As I count down to the last few poems in the last few days of NaPoWriMo, inspiration was running low. Oprah came to my rescue, and showed me the story of a little girl in Cambodia, whose story this poem narrates. This was a very difficult poem to write, as I am still trying to digest what I just saw.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

My Mighty Fall

The ground beneath me shook,
the earth gave way, I slipped,
And started to fall.

It was dark all around
I reached out but found nothing,
I continued to fall.

Is this how it's all to end?
Oh! My airless grave of soil,
Melodramatic overload while falling.

I've been at it for so long,
am I near the molten center?
Scientific thought while falling.

A faint voice from somewhere,
"Oh no not again, you poor thing!"
Was I still falling?

I opened my eyes with a groan,
not on the bed, but on the floor.
I had finished falling.

This is poem 22 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "A falling poem". Form - A modified chant.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Award time.

My poem "Couldn't care less" was submitted for Jingle's Thursday Poets Rally Week 42.

Thanks for this award, Jingle!

Recognition -
An artist's drugless high.

I nominate Dheepikaa.

Please do listen.

If I am
to not have that which
I so want
let me have
a chance at the wisdom of
living without it.

This is poem 21 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Prayer poem". Form - Shadorma.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Never see you again.

That balmy evening,
felt your eyes on me,
and turned right around,
you didn't flinch.

That inviting smile,
I was in no mood to resist,
I let myself return it,
and walk toward.

Deep, gentle voice,
made shameless love to my ear;
pupils dilated, lips parted,
you read the signs.

A couple of drinks,
your hands found mine,
our bodies moved as one,
an easy romance.

"It's late, gotta go.
Had a great time".
"Did you have a great time,
or are you having one?"

Every single time,
you almost hit the ring.
A few notes well placed,
the stuffed panda was mine.

Gentle black waves,
buried your toes with mine,
The moon showed the way,
your hand held mine.

Your lips met mine,
it was time; we both knew,
this is where we were headed,
when I first turned.

Little beads of sweat,
breathless bodies, glowing faces,
your tender kisses, and my head,
resting on your arm.

The cab drew away,
With your taste still on my lips,
I felt quite certain that I'll
never see you again.

This is poem 20 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Never again poem". This one is inspired by the movie "Remember me" that I watched this evening. No form, no rhyme.. felt good to let the words flow, after a while.


My child with fur,
demon in disguise.
Love's lingo is a purr;
and a gaze, worldly wise.

This is poem 19 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Only one in the world poem". This one's for my only feline child. Form: Quatrain; Rhyme Scheme: ABAB

Quit farting in bed.

Just so you know, my sweet honey,
It ain't funny.

I know you have to let out that methane,
I can't complain.

But why dost thou always pass at nigh,
I just sigh!

On most occasions there is no noise,
such flatulent poise.

If there is, you mask it with a cough;
I silently laugh.

When I said I prefer a strong scent,
Mint, I meant.

Baby, on nights you have a bean-y meal,
Imagine how I feel.

This is poem 18 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Quit doing what you are doing poem". I am a bit tired of writing emo. Wanted to make the reader laugh. Hope you did. Form: Couplets; Rhyme Scheme: AABBCC

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Like the Nihonjin.

Let's try to see the kami in everything;
from a resplendent sakura to a lonely ki.

Let's hold on to honor like the samurai,
cultivate the gaman that glues nihon together.

Let's learn grace in the time of terror,
hold minasan's welfare above watashi.

Let's learn to go out of our way to help,
make every gaikokujin feel at home, yokoso!

Let's imbibe the power of hardwork and sheer perfection,
that made possible the jidoshas and the shinkansen.

Let's learn to eat food as nature gives it,
sushi, sashimi, and just a dash of wasabi.

Let's never forget true human grit and strength,
salute the gojunin or so nihonjin that braved Fukushima.

It is with pride that I speak of the nihonjin,
this Indojin is smitten, there will be no sayonara.

This is poem 17 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. Prompt: "Like (blank) poem". This one is dedicated to Nihon and its brave people. I couldn't love them more.

Vocabulary Lesson:

Nihon - Japan
Kami - Spiritual essence
Sakura - Cherry blossom
Ki - Tree
Samurai - Japanese warrior
Gaman - Perseverance, Stoicism.
Minasan - Everyone
Watashi - I
Gaikokujin - Foreign national
Yokoso - Welcome!
Jidosha - Automobile
Shinkhansen - Bullet train
Sushi/Sashimi - Dishes made from raw fish
Wasabi - Horse radish
Gojunin - 50 (people)
Nihonjin - Japanese national
Indojin - Indian national
Sayonara - Farewell

Couldn't care less

like a cackling of birds

root of all pretension

will never know heed

Existence is suspect

in measures lavish

for you never will mend

none of my business

This is poem 16 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Ain't none of my business poem". Form: A modified sort of Couplet. Rhyme Scheme: AABBCC....

Love Right Hate Heart Life Light

Everyone yearns for this thing called love,
Someone to meet, who they know is just right.
It needs an offset, this world of potent hate,
a clarion call of hope, for every aching heart.
Does one walk about, just leading their life,
Hoping to meet someone, to fill them with light?

A lover's gaze as soft as a feather, as light,
Two kindred souls entwined in the web of love,
Two beings fused together, living one life.
To know that, to have that, is everyone's right.
No science can compute the matters of a heart,
No medicine can heal those ridden with hate.

It never takes much effort to spew out hate.
Darkness is the norm in the absence of light.
Fist-sized holder of conflicting emotion, that heart,
A container fit to be filled with bursting love;
In one fleeting moment, when things aren't right,
can forget that warmth, the nourisher of life.

In the chaos of it all, it's people that make a life,
People that bring us forth, ones we desire, even hate.
We sometimes chance upon someone, who makes it all right.
Whose eyes are kind, and as bright as a beam of sun light.
It is said that the best of us is reflected in those we love,
Those that dare to persevere, and find the key to our heart.

In some tiny nook, hidden inside every single beating heart,
hides a thirst for a soul to call their own; for a life,
whose missing pieces are filled in by the deft hand of love.
And when love deals his hand, he leaves no room for hate.
Amidst unforgiving minutes and uncertain seconds, a beacon of light.
Whenever it comes, it is worth the wait, and will feel right.

It might not work, it might fail, but is no fault for you to right.
sometimes it just makes sense to not think, just go with the heart.
We all travel, on roads of time, searching for the elusive light.
It is the search, the journey, the experience of it all, that's life.
And every time you take a turn, a road that leads down to hate,
Turn right around, take your time, you are never far from love.

Love is your right.
Hate hurts your heart.
Life's best viewed in light.

This is poem 15 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Love Poem". I have kept the language and message simple. The form was hard enough a challenge. Form: Sestina

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Will you understand?

Will do good for you to remember,
that though I look put-together;
I am most of the time, weak,
unraveling as we speak.

Guilty of repeating a mistake,
even with so much at stake;
It is like each little lesson,
evaporates after a session.

I sometimes forget to hope,
find it all hard to cope;
Give up without a thought,
something for which, I fought.

I seem to have so much to say,
yet keep everyone at bay;
even with the best of intent,
I find it hard to be, content.

I wonder what you'll think,
If we'll ever be in sync;
When you hold my hand,
will you understand?

This is poem 14 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Message in a bottle poem". This one is me wondering aloud, and forewarning the one that is meant to hold my hand through life. Form: Quatrains; Rhyme Scheme: AABB.

Don't play with fate,
that text can wait.
Take the NO PHONE ZONE pledge.


Yellow-brown skin,
smooth, soft canvas
for your masterpiece -
an angry red splash;
affirmation of love,
or unleashing of lust?
Fireworks, last night.

This is poem 13 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Celebration Poem". I have chosen to step out of the ordinary interpretation, and poem about the celebration of two bodies together - sex. No form, no rhyme, not needed here.

Take the NO PHONE ZONE pledge on the right. NOW.

Monday, April 18, 2011

My Grand Scheme

Am off to the Uni.
A linguistics lecture.

To all my gakusei.
Nihongo, part time.

By this evening, fellow!
Freelancer, as ever.

This D-iva doesn't fit any cage.
Amateur theater dabbler.

Every little budding flower;
Give, and share what you have.

without being alarmist;
some voices need to be heard.

Margazhi season in all its might.
Permanent Canadian resident.

With Oprah, such chances are few.
Published author/poet, and more?

Leaves me in a befuddle.
Monogamy is its own reward.

My own grand scheme.
One day, it'll all be mine.

This is poem 12 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Big Picture Poem". This poem is all about me and my big picture. Form: Triplets, with a modified rhyme scheme, AAB, instead of AAA.

Please take the NO PHONE ZONE pledge by clicking on the Oprah widget to the right side of this poem. THE CONVERSATION CAN WAIT.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Befriending Wall.

He lives out his life on this online wall,
420 characters define his life's stories.

Friends from everywhere, some made right here,
his solemn duty is to post, comment and update.

Family he has almost forgotten to take into account,
remind him of their existence with a relationship request.

Here, it is all about the glee in his life,
and the gakusei takes over sometimes, to gloat.

sometimes this wall requires immediate attention,
then he better not forget to tag, those concerned.

He has loved here, fought here, lost here, found here,
been poked, hugged, kissed, courted, and even thwarted.

And in the tradition of what a wise poetic man once said,
he says to himself, "Good walls make good friends".

This is poem 11 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Profile Poem".

The form is couplets, a set of 7 in all.


Frozen in that smile, so bright,
eyes filled with your kind light,
the ones that fought each fight,
and knew moments darker than night.

This is poem 10 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "Snapshot Poem".

This one is for my mother and her sister (my chitti) who are true champions, and is inspired by a recent pic that the three of us took together. The form is a Quatrain, with the rhyme scheme AAAA.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

SI's Sonnet.

Thou art the glorious scent of first rain,
when maketh it love to a grain of sand,
Thy sweet lips to touch mine I wait in vain,
Oh, how I yearn for the touch of thy hand!

I long for the love that fills thy bosom,
The eternal spring of thy wondrous gaze,
Life sans thee is an endless dark chasm,
Oh, how strange and wily are life's ways!

Sleepless nights are filled with thy moonlit face,
Stars lose their light to the gleam in thy eye,
Weeks and months pass in wait of thy embrace,
Oh, how I roll over in bed and sigh!

And for long I shall play this game of thine,
For one day, thy heart is sure to be mine.

THIS IS A SONNET. MY SONNET. In the tradition of the Bard's sonnets:
It has three quatrains and a couplet.
It follows the rhyme scheme abab-cdcd-efef-gg.
It follows the iambic pentameter - exactly 10 syllables per line, 5 stressed, 5 not stressed.
It is about love, as most of the bard's sonnets were.
It introduces a problem in the first three quatrains (that of unreciprocated love) and proposes a solution in the end ( that the poet will wait and win).

It has been a cherished goal to pen a sonnet this NaPoWriMo. And I finally did. I AM CRAZY PROUD OF MYSELF RIGHT NOW. I ROCK!!!

This is poem 9 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "A form poem".

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Every time I jump a wall.

I still remember that moment,
when you hugged me tight from behind,
and her shocked stare, with mouth wide open;
But you were blissfully unaware.

In moments of pain, even now,
I wish I was back on that bike with you,
burying my head into your back, reassured,
by the tilt of your head, towards mine.

I had your attention, all the time,
I wore that like a badge, like a medal,
you were the most interesting being, on earth,
and my world revolved around you.

You were my boy-to-man transformation,
You opened the forbidden door to pornography,
And instructed me on the sacred art of auto-eroticism.
We opened the gates of sexual exploration, together.

I looked into a mirror, and tried to see me, as you did,
Attractive was a word I used with others, never me.
From a haircut, to a shirt tuck, I did with care,
and yes you were right, they did notice.

I loved that you waited every evening,
to have me on your bike, and drive me home,
I felt like a king, flying in his chariot,
your questionable driving skills, notwithstanding.

And then I jumped a wall, to come to you again,
We held hands, had long walks, and huge talks;
It was never enough, one could never tire of those times;
you walked me home, and it was your turn to jump that wall.

You taught me to free myself, to let myself go,
made me aware of my own sexuality, of the beauty in my being,
and what it means to be desired, admired, and loved.
Every time I jump a wall, I think of only you.

This is poem 8 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD Challenge 2011. The prompt: "a poem that remembers an old relationship". Remembered here is my best friend from school, my sex-ed teacher, my innocent boy-crush, my constant companion, the shoulder for all my teenage angst, rolled into one.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Maybe they are right.

They say am uptight,
to turn a deaf ear to norm;
to their rules, I don't conform,
Maybe they are right.

They say it's a futile fight,
God never meant for man to live,
this way, us, he won't forgive,
Maybe they are right.

They say I need to think straight,
for every sickness, there is a cure;
They just seem so very sure,
Maybe they are right.

How will I ever see the light,
lament they, in this abominable path;
their way of life, is my holy bath.
Maybe they are right.

Theirs is a world of fight,
of division, difference and hate;
their thirst for blood will never abate.
What do they know about right?

I will try with all my might,
To be me, to love like I was meant to do;
The beauty of it all, they have no clue,
In their eyes, I never want to be right.

This is poem 7 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD 2011 Challenge. This poem is dedicated to everyone who is different in any way, who choose not to follow a stupid norm and be themselves, and are proud to be so. The world is a better place because such people exist. Prompt: "Maybe (blank)" poem. I had quite an easy time following a rhyming scheme here, ABBA. :)

Sunday, April 10, 2011

9:20 am


Two hours ago:

Trains: one missed, one boarded
a race against time
to reach the land of maamis and music.

An hour ago:

People: one dignified, one childlike
two silver haired old men
each with a story to share with me.


Roads: one traversed, one to be taken
time to bid adieu to a reporter’s beat
farewell my literary kith and photographic kin.

An hour from now:

Scripts: two mastered, one devilish
the characters borrowed from the Chinese
leave me bedazzled, the kids win again.

This is poem 6 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD 2011, my way of celebrating NaPoWriMo. Prompt: "Time of day" poem.

Friday, April 8, 2011



sweaty, steamy

Writhing, thrusting, moaning

fleeting ladder to the milky way


This is poem 5 for Robert Lee Brewer's April 2011 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "A goofy poem". The form is "Cinquain".

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

The Writer

Sun-burnt faces, sweaty little beings,
screaming at the top of their voices.
a confusing array of little legs, hands and balls.

Lying on that wire hammock between those citron trees,
On an adventure with the secret five, tinned fruit,
tongue sandwiches and orangeade - that's you.

A nervous silence, a flutter runs through the class,
marked sheets of math and science reach each hand.
A sigh of relief from the future geeks.

She walks in in her crisp cotton saree,
her oh-so-perfect diction tags along.
She reads out your essay, and gives you an A - that's you.

Nubile images of sexual revelry, bits from cyber space;
an all new world of excitement for the newly pimpled.
Excesses of all kinds find release.

He touched her there, he felt him there, she fondled her there;
words of erotic passion create orgasmic imagery;
have to wait for the next literotic chapter - that's you.

They process thousands of lines of 0s and 1s
stitch up wounds, treat every illness and pain.
and build underground tunnels to see it all begin.

What do you do for a living - I write.
What do you do for fun - I write.
What will you always do - write; that's me.

This is poem 4 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD 2011 Challenge.

Prompt: "Type of Person" Poem

If those pills had worked..

Wouldn’t have had that nine month ordeal.

Wouldn’t have breathed, screamed, thrashed, kicked, and lived.

Wouldn’t have had another reason to hate, to run away.

Wouldn’t have bothered, just the way they are now.

The world:
Wouldn’t have been so unforgiving; you would have had another chance.

Am glad they didn’t work, and that I came to be, to live the life,

gave me; the world you showed me; the man I am today, because of you.

Will never know what he missed; what we could have been; his loss.

Have no power over what we are, or will be; bless them.

The world:
Will see us walk, hand in hand, till the very end.

This is my third poem for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD 2011 Challenge. Prompt: Day 3 - "Imagine a world without you" poem.

I don't know what to call this form, but it is a form. :P

Don't look back.

That black, bottomless ocean,
Still craves you in suicidal fashion.
Those fair weather folks,
remain the same fetid, uncooked yolks.
That void of nothingness,
would love to see you again as a mess.
Sleep would cherish making you its slave,
if you dare venture, into its lightless cave.
Those years of undead pantomime,
are best frozen back in time.

This is my second poem for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD. The prompt: Day 6:"Dont (blank) (blank)" poem. Simple meter here, AABBCC... This is what my poems born out of depression would look like, years ago.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Garden City

This is a place,
where with a twist of his hand,
the auto-wala turns the meter on;
unfamiliar sight in my land.

This is a city,
where the sun seems shy.
He seems hesitant to make me sweat;
Humidity here, is a lie.

This is a place,
with people speaking a tongue,
that seems familiar, yet distant;
like a word, by a strong hand, wrung.

This is a city,
that plays host to folks of every kind.
its own, ironically, seem forgotten; invisible;
one wonders why they've been left behind.

This is a place,
with the malls, the restaurants and the watering holes.
the young-uns cups for sure runneth over;
a city that transformed for these foals.

This is a city,
where you can truly shop till you drop.
Retail therapy is its own reward;
just know when it's time to stop.

This is a place,
with a cool evening breeze,
one that soothes and fondles your being,
more such simple pleasures, please.

This is a city,
that has embraced the wonder of concrete and steel.
and sent its old worldly charm out the door;
was it worth making, this deal?

This is a place,
that embraced me, calmed my mind;
but couldn't keep home-sickness at bay.
Thanks for this time, for being kind.

This is a city,
that's close to home, but never will be.
There's everything you want, here.
But then, there's something about me.

This poem is the first of a set of 30, one written every day in April as part of Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD (Poem A Day) 2011. April also happens to be National Poetry Writing Month. This is the prompt for Day 2 - Postcard poem. A fitting start to my poeming for this month, as I am away from home on a short vacation. Have tried a meter here, ABCB.

Thursday, March 31, 2011


Hug me and never let go
Bones crush and fuse together
Nerve endings rush forward
to meet and mate;
memories marry and multiply
Your blood flows in our veins
Our heart beats as one
Yes, you complete me.

No prompt. A poem that formed as I walked home from work. To the love I might never have. I drink to my incompleteness and to the month that dawns tomorrow, that expects me to dig deep into my literary loins every single day, 30 days in a row.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

A Promise

That when my palm encircles that tiny finger,
we form a bond, for life.

That I'll crawl with you,
and wait for those pink toes to take their first step.

but when the tables turn,
I will let you walk ahead, and try to catch up.

That my eyes will light up,
every time you walk into a room I am in.

That I'll tell it like it is,
but fight hard to not let the world's prejudice blight your innocence.

That I'll prove by example,
that a real man is unafraid of his emotions; he cries, he hugs and he loves.

That I'll let you choose your own passion,
but be sure to stack your shelves with Blyton, Rowling and when the time comes, Frost.

That I'll be happy with whatever you choose to do with life,
but fervently hope some of that literary passion passed down the genes.

That there will be no unpleasant silence; no void to fill,
we will talk, we will scream, we will cry, we will laugh out loud.

That I'll teach to you stand,and stare and never take for granted the small joys;
to never slight a woman, to never pass on a righteous fight, to never lose your voice.

To lose yourself in music and words, to always make time for yourself,
to never let the weight of the world make you forget the wonder that you are.

To love with all your heart, and forgive just as easily;
that hate is high maintenance; a toxic cocktail you can do without.

To be wise with money and a career,
but to remember that people are the only real assets you'll gather.

To prop you up on the kitchen counter, and let you discover the world of smells and tastes,
and get your hands dirty, to see your first flower bloom.

That when the time comes when you find my company embarrassing,
I'll take a step back or two, and let you walk into adulthood, on your own.

That I'll always believe that after those wonder years of rebellion,
you will come back, to this bond we have, and we'll start over.

To leave in you, all that is good about me, all that is worth passing on,
and work hard to not let my character flaws cloud your persona.

To be glad each day, to be thankful, to be grateful,
for this little life, that is all mine to nurture, sculpt and make a beautiful being out of.

I promise all this, to you, and more, my child...
even if you never are to be mine.

The only prompt for this poem is the need to get this out of my system. I am a person who still doesn't know if he'll ever subscribe to the concept of marriage; it is strange for me to want to write a poem to a child I might never have. But, I just did. :P

The form is the one in which I am at my most unbridled - Free Verse.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Don't rain on my parade - (Funny Girl - Barbra Streisand)

An undulating mass of unending charade,
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
I request thou to not rain on my parade.

What is a lie but a truth half said, or not at all,
What is a secret if not this life of perverse indulgence.
An undulating mass of unending charade.

Each strum a soothing upheaval, a musical salve;
an acknowledgement, or a call for help from the depths.
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.

Blinded by the light, comforted by the hand,
as the dark gives way to a rapidly contracting pupil,
I request thou to not rain on my parade.

The prompt for this one is "take the title of a song and make that the title of your poem".

The prompt doesn't really require you to pay homage to the song. And I haven't. The song is symbolic of Barbra throwing caution to the winds and running after her dreams, and love. Hidden in these words are my attempts to do the same.

The form is a cascade poem.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


Walk away.
Like I care.
I have Glee tonight.
Heard that movie sucked, anyway.
I will cook that pasta, alone.
I found that cheese and cherry tomatoes.
Your favorite chocolate is in my coat pocket.
I picked up that organic strawberry scented shower gel.
And the blackcurrant gelato we always eat in bed, after.
Anyway, one of those twin bone china bowls broke; good riddance.

And then you turned.

This is my feeble attempt at a progressive format of poem - each line has one word more than the previous one. The prompt for this one is a "turn around poem".


Alighting from the train,
lost in the milling crowd,
staring at the sea of faces.
one of which,
is attached to a hand,
attached to a palm,
contoured to fit like a glove,
into the palm,
attached to the hand,
attached to me.