Godawful poems # 5

Daring Ole Women

They hide behind a veil
They stare at every male
Hey ho those daring ole
Women of Mumbai trains

On Face book they often come
And pretend they are very young
On video clip and u-tubes
They show their pink, pink tongue

They play all virtual games
Flash quizzes without any shame
Flooding every news feed
Wanting to be framed

They steal the password of folks
And send those painful pokes
Hey ho those daring ole
Women of Mumbai trains

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 4

Stupid Blogger

Why does he write when none will read?
Why does he send his links to me?
What do I care if his emotions touch the sky
And bring the stars at his feet

I am not humored by his rant, nor
His ceaseless comparison to the birds that sing
His staying awake to see the sun go down
To hear the melodious song of early spring

And what should I do if I knew the precise date
When he broke his front tooth at tender age
When he took his first step before he crawled
To grab his clumsy bite from his maiden plate

I am pulling strands of hair from roots
And focusing on his scrambled text
He knows not of my this god-awful mood
When the poets of such cadre interest me naught

I am standing on my head, upside down
To get the rhythm from my feet

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 3

Twitter

From link to link
I tweet, I tweet
With feathers ruffled
A friend I seek

They take me an unknown zone
Of contents that are sometimes bore

With limited letters, messages sent
Make nonsense words, they later repent

Grammar, spellings, phrases, words
Jumbled up for thrash dump cans

Oh. How I long for my offline friends
They became invisible
Because of these trends

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 2

Swine flu

Swine flu to my country it came
Unwelcomed, shameless, giving pain
By thousands people down they drop
Dead, no vaccine can stop this dread

Take back you, USA, Mexico
Your swine come here with much ego
We don’t need such illness any more
Have HIV, poverty at our store

The masks are fashionable on our streets
In every lane, crazy media bleats
Spreading stories of horror pigs
That frightens, weak hearted flicks

Tamiflu, we don’t even trust
We never ever taste anything first.
Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 1 A challenge

Godawful poems are back again Once more to be crazy and splutter nonsense verse Dabbled with humor if we can A challenge from nineteenth to thirty first Of August? Godawful Poetry Fortnight godawful poetry fortnight

Independence Day

Those tiny, little feet
Run, snaking through a busy traffic

Street urchin knocks
Awakening the love gurus
From their deep slumber
Pleading them
To lower their glass windows
And buy just one unit of
Tri-colored flag on
This Independence Day

His back drenched and soaked,
Clinging shirt against his skin
Droplets of sweat drips on
Feet coated with thick layer of dust,
Hair uncombed for days, maybe
His first meal of day is not yet earned
But holds the promise of freedom on
This Independence Day

Somewhere far away,
In an elite neighborhood,
Soft pair of feet runs up the shiny floor,
Through the spiral steps
To reach the open space
And sway the paper flag
Against the fierce winds
Innocent laughter fills the air on
This Independence Day

Tiny little feet pause, to hear
The murmurs of joy that dilute the
Thick air of pain

.Offline Wedding

Rahul looked at the clock on the wall that struck 9pm. It was time to shut the cash box, take the money, deposit the earning of the day into the bank and then head home and enjoy the bliss of meeting Karina online. His computer table was always cluttered with soft drinks, snacks and water bottles. The only time, he left the screen was when he got this urgent need to pee. She would giggle coyly into her webcam and ask him to hurry up. On the days when server was down, he was miserable. There was no cyber café closer to his house and on those days, all he would do was to fantasize and re-play the memories of their chat. And she had a way of turning him on. Her words jumped off the screen and strummed the chords of love into his heart and he was filled with ecstasy. They talked for hours, sharing links, photographs of their family, friends and their city’s favorite spots. She would show him the busy streets of Kowloon, the narrow street markets in the bye-lanes of Hong Kong, the pictures of the food markets that she visited regularly, she showed him the photographs of her room mate, the pictures of her family in India and also the pictures of her work place at her department store. He would share the pictures of cobbled streets of rural areas of Tenerife, those long, tree-lined promenades along the sea shore, the silver beaches and those exotic cultural festivals of the Canary Islands. He, too, like her, stayed alone in Tenerife, away from his family in India.

When he proposed to her, she was not surprised. Rahul called his parents in India and informed them about Karina and told them to meet her parents who lived in the same town.

“Are you sure, you have told her everything about you?” they asked repeatedly

“Yes Mom, we are very much in love, we really wish to get married.” He said

Rahul’s parents were still doubtful about their son’s honesty. They wanted to talk to Karina and tell her the truth that their son suffered from psoriasis, a skin disease which, although, not contagious, had made him suffer social exclusion and discrimination. They wanted to warn her that under stress, the skin burst into blisters that covered his whole body and his bed would be covered with white sand of dead cells.

“She wants to marry me against all odds, you don’t worry mom, everything is going to be fine.” He convinced them.

The wedding date was approved and arranged by their families. One week before the wedding, Rahul, from Tenerife, and Karina, from Hong Kong met for the first time on Indian soil. Their happiness brought smiles to strangers too. Both the families talked endlessly about the wedding plans and were happy that they had found a perfect match.

Many guests arrived on their wedding day. The couple stood smiling on the stage, greeting each guest, as their guests snaked through the queue to greet them with gifts, cash-envelops or flower bouquets. Rahul looked handsome in his branded suit that covered his flaky skin underneath his suit, only a small red patch on his face was visible. Karina would return her shy glance at him and smile when he whispered some funny comments. Suddenly, Rahul heard Karina mumble that she is feeling tired. The guest in the queue stared, aghast, as they saw Karina lose her balance and crumble down on the floor, with her eyes rolling and her body go stiff, then relax and go stiff again.

‘Oh no” whispered Karina’s mom as she watched her daughter getting her seizures. She quickly walked to the stage and rolled her over onto her side in the recovery position and let her sleep.

Rahul sat down on the floor next to her, shifting his gaze from Karina to the guests and back to Karina again.

Wiping the froth from the corner of her mouth, he wished Karina had warned him about her epilepsy fits.

Thick Wad of Notes....

My friend writes in face book status “A book, shut tight, is but a block of paper”.
And this I found it really philosophical and was inspired to add few lines...

The block of papers comes to life
When loosened off its strings
The knowledge overflows,
Wetting you from head to toe
With wisdom, u never knew
That it was possessed within you,
Your soul trapped
Under thick layers of doubt,
That had sent you wayward
To unknown zone,
As you thread through its grainy path,
The truth then
Slowly unfolds,
You enter into the gates of bliss,
Such powers lie within
Those thick wad of notes....

pic source: flickr

Mumbai Trains

People of Mumbai travel dangerously,
They just cannot wait,
For, empty train may not arrive,
You see their body protruded out,
Against the polluted air,
They reach home with a cake of dust,
Masking their body with dirt and sweat.

Many not sure
If they will arrive
In one piece when they will reach home,
So dangerously, travelling in this style,
Not afraid of banging on any pole...

Or sometimes,
Because of a ruthless killer,
The riots break loose and break the roof,
Of train, that throws many people around,
Their mangled bodies don't ever reach home.

Yes, this is Mumbai,
That we all know.....
It is made of people
Who just live each day,
Will they see one more day,
As a lone Mumbaite,
One never knows.....

Read My Script

Writers need just readers, my friend
Just read what I write with my blood
Don’t judge me, hammer me or kill my soul
It’s what I feel
Just so, my words flow

Happiness is not just success, my friend
I need the food for my lonely soul
I have burned the oils for many nights
To cook these words
And bring them life

Don’t compare me with other accomplished stars
I cannot ever even think like them
I tame my words and dress them up
Do read their performance
Just once more.

So, stand alert, hear them croon, applause,
Dear reader, applause once more

Twittering Muse

In a concrete jungle
Birds are silenced
But humans are happy
To steal their tweet
Fluttering, twittering
Exchanging ideas
Jumping from link to link
Savouring ideas, comments, suggestions
Learning songs
That birds would sing
While raven, crows, cuckoos, sparrows
Are lost
Into the maze of bricks
Internet yogis
Having field day
Twittering about
Their tweedy twits
They even share
their love notes in tweets
Now isn’t that not really tweet?

When Two Poets Whisper

When two poets whisper
In melodious verse
Lifting moods to
Cloud nine
The birds, the bees
And all human beings
Can taste flavors
Of sugar, sweet and brine

The verses sweep out
From under the skin
Flushing cheeks with
Color, shade and hue
The moment is paused
Turning senses divine
Under its sweet music
Eternity comes alive

Faded Tapestry

“What is that?” said the father to the son
“It's squirrel running down the tree”
“What is that?” asked father again
“It's squirrel running up the tree”
The day was warm, but the shade was cool
Under a tree sat father and his son
Father scratched his ivory head
His eyeballs moved from right to left
Son was deeply into a verse
No time he had for chatting or fun
One more squirrel passed under a bench
Father asked again “What is that?”
“Squirrel, squirrel, squirrel” screamed his son
“Don’t you understand this, you old man
It's a squirrel I say it for final time
Don’t cross me again, shut up for a while”

Father’s eyes then filled with tears
His memories flashed back to those lovely years
When son was raw and he was young
He had hugged his son for his every quest.
Patience was the order of day
Happily they had played every game

Not once had father yelled at his son
Who in his innocence
Had questioned every pun

Kisser Boy (Script Writing)

10.36 INT-NIBANA SOCIETY OFFICE CORRIDOR - DAY

WATCHMAN sits in the corridor, outside the society office on a low stool. He is watching from the door at the meeting session that is in progress inside the room. There are five committee members sitting in a circle. He can hear them all talking at once arguing amongst them selves. SECRETARY is examining the log book and accountant is making the bills. WATCHMAN sees EMRAAN HASHMI walk past him towards the room but he stops him from entering the office.

WATCHMAN
Hello! Where you going?

EMRAAN HASHMI
I need to talk to the secretary

WATCHMAN
You can’t, he is busy in the meeting, come back later

EMRAAN HASHMI
Don’t you know who I am?

WATCHMAN
(looks closely then blinks)
Oh yes I know who you are,
you are the serial kisser, right?
I have seen you in
Bollywood movies,
do you also give kissing lessons.

EMRAAN HASHMI
Yes I do, but I will give
kissing lessons only after I
move into this building

WATCHMAN
You mean to say that
you are buying an apartment
here, in this building?

EMRAAN HASHMI
Thats right, and that is why I want
to meet the secretary

WATCHMAN
(lets out a soft whistle)
Wow! I really want to learn kissing.
You wait here, I will tell the secretary.

He goes in excitedly inside the office and starts to speak loudly pointing his finger towards the door.

WATCHMAN
Saab, there is EMRAAN HASHMI
waiting outside, who wants to meet you,
its that same guy, you might know him.
The one who goes moochy moochy in all his films

SECRETARY
(irritably)
Yeah, yeah, we know him,
tell him to come later, we are busy now.

WATCHMAN
Saab. talk to him na,
it will be so nice if he is lives in this building,
imagine our meeting will start with new
kissing postures every month, *kitna maza ayega na*?

SECRETARY
Now, that is the reason we cannot give him
NOC certificate. We have *jawan choris* in the society,
there will be no morality left

WATCHMAN
Morality? You mean kissing is like losing one’s morality?

SECRETARY
(Nodding his head)
Exactly, the way he kisses, *Besharam!*

By this time EMRAAN HASHMI has already followed the watchman inside the office and is standing behind him

SECRETARY
(talking loudly)
Hey, you kisser boy, we told you na
that we cannot give you NOC certificate,
didn’t you understand?

EMRAAN HASHMI
Why? You are being very unfair.

SECRETARY
Unfair? arrey you will corrupt the *chokris*
in our building and then Shiv Sena will
make our life miserable

EMRAAN HASHMI
What has Shiv Sena got to do with this society?

SECRETARY
Don’t u know that Shiv Sena is very much
against foreign culture. In India, we don’t
kiss mouth to mouth in open public, *Bhaiyas*
on the road get very excited. In India, we only
hug, body to body, full length, but no kissing,
you understand, you kisser boy?

EMRAAN HASHMI
See mister there is nothing wrong with kissing,
it is only mouth to mouth, no body touching at all,
you don’t want body touching, I don’t touch,
if that is the way you like it. Come,
I will show you how harmless it is.

EMRAAN HASHMI walks towards the secretary and gives him a long kiss.

SECRETARY
(shrieks loudly)
Hey, move away, help, oh! you bloody gay

SECRETARY falls on the ground unconscious and the other committee members run out of the room. WATCHMAN looks at EMRAAN HASHMI hungrily, smiling ear to ear.

Poverty Line

Poverty line runs a curvy path
And finally fades away
With hard work
It normally
Crushes under its weight...

Pity Party

Will you come to my pity party?
I am having it on a rooftop today.

Together we will talk
About our imperfections, and
Pity those opportunist who failed.
We will honor and tame
One ‘Ms Perfect’, then
Snub hearts that are drained
Of trying too hard,
But reaching nowhere
On a crossroad
They die of shame
We will talk and chat
With perfect friends and
Play a dirty game
With egos boosted
By rich and famous
We will pity
Our poverty stakes.
For snacks we will serve
Some shrewd cruel words
Half baked by senseless brains
When you feel hurt
We will pity you then
With a sweet desert of pain

After attending my pity party
You will never ever feel the same

Script-writing - Auto Rickshaw

14.38 EXT – AUTO IN A CONGESTED AREA-DAY

SMITA looks worriedly at the auto driver (PAKIYA) as he drives through the congested roads of Mumbai. There is a big queue under the subway and there are lots of cars honking continuously.

SMITA
Why have you taken this route?
I told you that I was in hurry.

PAKIYA
This is the shortest route Ma’am
We will reach soon.

SMITA
Soon? You really think so? Huh?
Don’t you know that the traffic
Hardly ever moves here, we can
reach soon only if the traffic
moves. Here it only crawls.

PAKIYA
Have patience Ma’am, there is red
Signal there, as soon as the
light turns green, the traffic will ease.

SMITA
I had told you that I have to reach
Goregoan early and you are delaying
me by taking me through this congested
street.

PAKIYA
(IRRIATED)
Every darn street is crowded in
Mumbai Ma’am, What do I do?

SMITA
You should have taken the express highway

PAKIYA
(snorting)
Ha! And you think that express highway
is not crowded? It is more crowded
than the Link- roads. Ma’am?

Smita looks out of the auto and sees a big queue of traffic behind her. There is no space to make an U_turn. There are more cars double-parked in the lane ahead of her. People are crossing the streets and squeezing through the traffic; children are skipping and walking between the autos.

SMITA
You auto-drivers are all stupid.
I wish you guys had brains and
could make proper judgments and
knew which route would be easier
to follow.

The traffic begins to moves and PAKIYA rev up his auto to drive ahead. Soon, the traffic eases and he starts to drive faster and reaches the express highways.

SMITA
Look! Be careful, you are driving
too fast. Why cant you drive slowly,
you could cause an accident and then
you will be sorry.

PAKIYA
Okay, can you please shut up and
let me drive peacefully?

SMITA
Shut up? Did you say ‘Shut up’?
huh? Aren’t you supposed to be
polite to your passengers?

PAKIYA
(rudely)
Ha! Polite? You expect me to be
polite when you chew my brains
with your yakitti yak yak . If
you interfere and distract me
what do you expect me to do?

SMITA adjusted her purse and brings it close to her chest, staring at him through his mirror in front of his auto.

SMITA
Stop the auto now, I said stop
the auto now.

Pakiya continues to drive, revving up the speed even faster, looking straight at the road ahead and honking and driving on

SMITA
Are you deaf? I said stop the auto now

She looks out of auto and starts waving her hand to the passing traffic

SMITA
(screaming)
Help! Help! Somebody help, I am getting kidnapped!!!

Kophi with Mogri

Mogri puts away her pile of clothes into the cupboard. It has been six moons already since she arrived in Spain. Every evening, her cousin has been taking her out, sometimes to the sea shore to watch the sunset and sometimes to the market to check the freshness of the tomatoes. Last night, her cousin took her out for dinner to a typical Spanish restaurant. They order Paella, the traditional rice dish that contained assorted sea food like clams, octopus, shells, shrimps, fish and also meat like pork and chicken. She had loved it much except that it was too bland for her taste. The food was not all that spicy and she wished she had carried her pickle bottle in her purse.

Nevertheless, Mogri is enjoying her stay in Spain. She decides to go down alone and asks her cousin to join her later after he has finished his errands. She walks down the street to get a cup of coffee. There are chairs and tables spread outside the coffee shop. Mogri is amused because she has never seen tables and chairs out side the cafe on the foot paths. In her city of Mumbai, only beggars or street hawkers are allowed to use the footpaths, sometimes, the beggars are even allowed to cook for their families who come back to that footpath after their hard days work at begging, none of pedestrians in Mumbai ever use foot paths, they always walk on the middle of the road, Mumbaikars are always dodging and tricking the traffic. Things are so different here; European countries have tables and chairs to enjoy a meal on the footpath? This is something new for Mogri. She likes this arrangement very much and decides to sit down and call for a waiter.

Mogri does not notice that there are no waiters in this coffee shop. She does not see that the people go inside the café, read the graphic menu board that is displayed on the wall, place their order and bring it back to their tables. She sits relaxed, enjoying the cool weather of Spain. She watches people on the street who are dressed in stylish clothes and wishes that she could also dress up like those Spanish ladies in jeans and T-shirt, or even a long skirt would do, but this salvar-kameez is so darn cumbersome and it is attracting too much attention on her. When she had walked down the street, most of the people on the road had given her a second glance. Some of them had even stopped halfway, stepped aside to allow her to pass so that they could admire her ‘Arabic costume”. It was like walking on a ramp, only the applause was missing.

“Puedo sentar aqui?” says the white-skinned man as he stands by her table with a cup of coffee in one hand and croissant in other.

Mogri does not understand that this man is asking her permission to sit at her table. She looks at the coffee and croissant in his hands and wonders how a waiter can bring her order without consulting her but she does not want to argue with him because of her limitation of speaking the language fluently. Luckily she has memorized few phrases so she happily beams “Gracias, Si! Si” and takes the cup of coffee and croissant from his hand and keeps it on her side of the table.

The white-skinned man smiles and sits down next to her. She looks suspiciously at him. She is not used to sitting next to a stranger and never next to a waiter. She does not like it one bit. The man stretches his hand and pulls the cup of coffee and croissant plate toward him. Mogri does not understand how these waiters behave in such an odd manner in a foreign land. She stretches her hand and pulls back the coffee cup and croissant to her side.

The man smiles and says, “Vale, si tu quieres eso, voy comprar otro mas para me” he gets up and goes back into the coffee shop. Mogri does not understand when the man tells her that he was going to buy some more for himself, since she wanted to have his coffee and croissant. She just nods and says, “Si, Si, Vale.” She is so grateful that she can speak few words.

She likes the taste of the croissant and munches it slowly, savoring each bite and takes small sips of coffee between each bite. She has almost finished her share when she sees that man again with another cup of coffee and croissant.

“No! No, No!” she says shaking her head from left to right and then right to left again, several times, trying to send the message across that she is too full to have one more ration of the same stuff again.

The man sits down again, opposite her and starts to sip his coffee. Mogri wishes she knew Spanish fluently then she could have told him that in her country waiters don’t share their coffee break with their customers. They normally have it in the kitchen. Mogri is now getting used to a strange behavior of this man. She is thinking whether she should pay her bill now or wait for him to finish his coffee.

“Hola! Que tal Amigo?” she hears the familiar rumbling voice of her cousin. The loud voice of her cousin had the power of frightening a sleepy child, of defusing the traffic sounds and even for breaking the ear-drum of elite politicians. She could recognize his voice even if she were few miles away.

She looks up to see the white-skin man get up, shake hands and peck on her cousin’s both cheeks.

She knits her brow, bracing herself.

“Mogri, I am so glad to see you with my friend Pedro, did you ask him about the new schemes that his bank is offering this week?”

“New schemes at the bank? Er? This waiter? Do you know him?”

“Waiter? You mean to say that you don’t know him and you are having coffee with him? Don’t you know that he is the bank director of ‘Banko Santader.”

“Really? He is 'the' Bank Director of Banko Santader? Oh my God!!” she says stressing on the word 'the'.

She is glad that she does not know enough of Spanish, else she would have made a fool of herself.

Journey Of Life

Came into this world
Empty-handed
Weeping gallons of tears
In spite of being liberated
From dark confines of womb, that
I believed to be a secure place
Knowing not what freedom exists out here.

With careful steps, have trudged
This rough road of life,
Going through those dark tunnels
Of disappointments and misery
And yet, have wished to find bliss,
To earn a name of honor
Towards the end of the journey

A name, I need take it with me
Packed into my bundle of happiness
Along with the accessories
Of hope and joy
I don’t wish to go back empty-handed
For, it shall not be my turn
To weep any more tears.

Nothing is Worth Reading in Newspaper Today

From a ‘Favorite’ list of my web page
I scroll down, down the links
Selecting an oven-baked e-paper
To read the news of the day

Headlines pop up and scream
The bad news of the day
From the dais of the first page
Fresh news is in poor shape

Bandra-Worli Sea-link crowded,
Seven minutes was the game, but
The race is won by that old route again
Slow traffic blinks in shame.

Petrol prices hike, doubling
The bills of vegetables, fruits and rice
How will the common man survive?
Begging will be high on scale.

Andhara’s Mp slaps bank officer
For dragging feet in disbursing loans
Is violence a theme of the day?
Slapgate needs to be tamed

Three kids killed in bus mishap
Girls fall prey to Nigerian scam
College students held with nasty drugs
PC warns of strike again

Phew!

Nothing is worth reading in papers today
Better to listen to woes of angry rain
Who this year, is already late.
Because sun played its dirty game

img source:
http://nie.lancasteronline.com/