Benazir Bhutto Assassinated

The world is sobbing
Oh! Such a disgrace
They end the life of a
Woman of grace
In exile she lived
For many years
She returned to give back
The freedom to her world
But blood thirsty, cruel
Senseless gents
Knew not how to handle her verse
They slit her throat
And now are cursed.
Will they be able to celebrate this awful bloodshed?
Or will they escape with another cover-up?

Is it right? Should we fight?
I feel miserable as I write.

I wish to be free

I would like to compress my dreams
To match my needs
My dreams are too large to fit
On my shelf of reality
Their enormous size overflows my budget
Larger than life, they fill the space,
Clutter my emotions in an unfulfilled stakes
Bury me under their heavy weight
Stamping me down
With wild expectations
Leaving me shattered
With disappointments
I cannot cash
The desires of my dreams


I wish to be free
From expectations,
From disappointments,
From illusions
I wish to compress my dreams
to just to match my needs
I wish to be free.

Street Urchin

No!
My heart does not move
Not any more!

Not even when I see a street urchin,
His hands, soiled, outstretched
Beneath my neck,
His eyes meeting mine
Imploring for help for one more time

Will he hobble and cross the street to
buy a bread that are sold for a dime?
Or will he stagger across the road,
to his boss, who owns him now
Who had chopped off his feet
Clipped off his wings
and send him here to beg?.

No!
My heart does not move!
Not any more!

How can it move?
It is stoned and lifeless,
peeled off its feel.

Dedicated to my cousin, Baby,(Alias Meena)

Sixty today, should I call you by your name‘Baby’?
But believe me you are NO ole baby

Wrapped with a heart of gold
Your words are soft but still quite bold

Untouched by world’s cruel life style
Living always with a big broad smile

Having touched many weak, low minds
You helped them bloom in flowers upright

How do you curse, those abusive verse?
That is still coated with buttery words?

Your laughter is heard across the ocean
It rings with love and true affection

At sixty, hope you will grow more bold
Remember, you are not that old

Your inspiration is contagious, maybe
Although you are still called ‘Baby’

Facebook Poetry Competition number 1

The rules were simple: we had to post a poem no more than 8 lines, and must begin with the word "Face" and end with the word "book".

My take: six entries

Take 1:Face the truth

I am good
Starched are my collars
Now part with your dollars
‘Eight lines’ was the size
I deserve a prize
You collected enough clichés, look,
Now you can publish a book

Take2:

“Face it”,
You had said many times
Holding on to my trembling thighs
On those cold, clattering nights
Your precious words, a soothing balm
Could always mend my fissured heart
But now, look at you, a wrecked fool
I see you crumpled behind that book

take3:

Face above sand
caught in a blizzard
unprotected, helpless
trapped like a lizard
A joke turned sour
his friends, all gone
if by miracle ,he survives
he may write a book

Take 4:

Face of a baby, soft to a touch
Touch on a delicate petals of a rose
Rose, its fragrance hide the pain of the hurt
Hurt from a spike of a thorn beneath its bud
Bud, unfolded mystery, overlapping layer by layer
Layers hidden in the labyrinth of words
Words that come alive and dance on being off the hook
Hooked and trapped, they were, between the pages of a book

Take5:

Face the fact
Fact is no fiction that can be churned
Into a whirlpool of thoughts and feelings,
Fact is a simple truth
A virgin truth that cannot be altered
Not even in a book

Take6:

Face is potholed by too many pokes
Of friends and families in every nook
Vampires fights, somersaulting werewolf
Frightening shadows of their crazy look

Playing Scrabulous, and other virtual games,
Enjoying cold coffee by the brook
Many summers ago, on a rainy day like this
All I would do, was to just gape at a book


But the winners were with much better verses and the dollars went to
Facebook Poetry Competion 1.0

Here are the winners:

#1 Tolu Ogunlesi (Nigeria)

Instructions

Face the future.
Pick the moon off

the dark, cold floor
of night. Slot it gently
into the earth, and wait.

Nothing might happen.
Just like in an empty book.


#2 Janet Vickers (Vancouver, BC)

Face: what do you mean?
That nose gets larger each time
I see it. What can it smell?
Those lids become heavier
over bloodshot eyes and the mouth
droops so naturally. Your image
is intimate and your language foreign.
You are a heavy book.



#3 Dominic O’Rourke (London)

Face left the A Team
Around the end of the Eighties
having had enough
of Hannibal's cigars
and Mr T's golden chains
and Murdock being Murdock
He retired to a cabin,
in the woods and wrote a book

Recipe for friendship

On the fire of warm passion
Heat a spoonful of love
Add in a pinch of compassion
And let your friendship grow

Stir it with emotions of love
Mix it in glassful of imagination
Simmer a while for cooking
A friendship of long duration

Strain out the hatred and disillusion
Churn out the degrees of suspicions
Grind the molecules of corruption
Pound away cloves of rough commotion

The emotions, pure and true, can be
Served with a salad of cheer
On those days of celebrations
When you feeling blue, my dear

Just say it

Not a shirt, on your back
On your knee like that
Know not what, do I do for you?

But darling I love you,
My roses for you are not blue
Don’t you see my profound feeling for you?

Oh, look around this place
All in suits and full of grace
None are bare backed and tanned like you

Don’t you worry, my Dear
I am crouched down here
Just soaking under sweet glances of you

Shoo! Go away right now
You will embarrass me, in this town
I think not, that I have ever spoken to you

You know me, my dear
You reside in my heart, up here
You may hear my love ballet for you

Not now, barebacked
Go home, I mean that
Or you will see, this big car, crush you

Crush me, sweet love
Crush me tight, with your words
But just say that you do, love me too.

World is Round

World is huge but still is round
Your smile can never meet a frown
Post-tiring day, its worth, you will see
Your love and care, always come around.

So pick your neck above the sand
And breathe the fragrance of love abound
Share your wealth of word and song
Let ego, hatred, filth be drowned

Walk with pride through streets of fame
Uplift souls that are weak or lame
Expect not a grain of thanks
Just do your bit and move along

Fruits of smile one day will reap
The flowers will bloom in your happy mind
World is huge but still you will see
Your compassion sure will come around.

-Pushpa

The Keh-Mukarni

The "Say-and-Deny" Riddles

Keh (say) Mukarni (denial) is an interesting genre of riddles played between two people, where one of them describes something in a way that it is mistaken by the other as a reference to the first one's beloved, but which finally turns out to be something completely different.

For what it's worth, here's my keh-Mukarni,

Shaft is bent, hands so sweaty
Whacked like a sucker, I can hardly walk
To be desired, a follow-through leaves a lot
Hold on, I need to wash my balls
Ahhh! That lovely game of Golf

My Silence

I wrap my silence around me like a scarf
Concealing my emotions beneath its flap
For if I speak , I might explode
Shattering my silence in bits and shreds.

-Pushpa

A kitchen (English Ghazal)

Clutching my sweaty hands, he plugs me inside my kitchen
Lost I am, flabbergast, I look at wall around this hi-fi kitchen

Glossy cabinets clothe surrounding walls, under
My bare feet, a soft carpet feels good in this dry kitchen

News scream from walls, cool air floods this room, there is
Even an attached wash room close by kitchen

I cannot squat down and serve, I am confused, how
do I cook? I keep standing on my toes in this high kitchen.

The families serve their own meals, emptying big tumblers of food
Village home is better, Munni wish she could say “goodbye kitchen”

Party at Village Fair

Sun had set, but none arrived
Those party veterans, always late
The troopers practiced again and again
With same beat and rhythm to excel in game
With drums, trumpets, music of trinklets
All dipped in exhausions and in pains.

First guest entered, it was past mid-night
The dancers gyrated with a slower gait.
Music was slow, Ah! Such a bore!
None were interested in any folk lore

They plugged the wires to the boxes
The stereo resonated, vibrating the air,
Soon the fields were filled with crowd
All dancing, twisting to the beat
Of rock music, disco and retro
While ethnic music went to sleep.

Who am I?

Who am I? It matters not
Just a piece of clay with a soul
Feeling, thinking, reason, thought
Attributed it to make a mold

Could dance on a toe upright
When smile was woven under light
Hurt by a simple poke of
Restlessness of my fickle mind

Squirming, wriggling in a fight
Like a decayed robot with a tool
Attaching ‘I’ to the game
I had become just an another fool

Sleeping, dreaming, walking-on
Divinity I could attain not
Walking hand-in hand with soul
Might help me discover who I am

Ssshh

Ssshh!

Screams the picture on a wall
A cute kid smiles through a frame
Her index finger clips her lips
Looking shyly through crinkled eyes
Her silky hair, glow in light
Behind her chubby cheeks, they hide

Ssshh!

I read the threatening print again
Pain in my molars, a trick it plays
I try to smother my unbearable strain
Noise is loud, mind is drained
With folded fist, I contemplate,
In silence, I suppress the wait

Cyber Group Attends an Off-line Party

Jealous I was
Of missing the feast
Of village fair
Without a lease

They teased us with their
Virtual pics
Of puppets, drinks
And physique twists
I tried to squeeze in
Into their game
By associating face
With their names
Oh! So that’s XYZ I said
As I slid covetously
Through those frames
They smiled broadly
Through those slots
Those online veterans
Smoking pot

One event I missed that day
Because it was planned
Too far away

A worm called silence

Silence is comforting
If it is but for a pause
Too long a silence
Can break the heart apart

You store your cabinet of mind
And clutter with all the negative thoughts
There will be worms of suspicions
That will eat up all the stock
Of cheerful, happy memories
That you so lovingly hoarded each day
And you will leave with only silence
That might haunt you everyday.

My Canvas

Blue, no red, let me fill this space
The brush, a mini mop,
Sweeps on my canvas tray

I dip my mini mop
In five-holed plate
And splash the canvas
With a grace

The picture comes live
Staring at me
I can hear it sing
Dance and breathe
The colors join hand
And make merry
Reds, and blues,
Grey and greens
All the colored moods
Intermingled
Into a design
Together they smile
On a newly framed face

Unusual Marriage

Girl with girl
Now that’s a game
No issues about sex
No work loads divide
Who mows the lawn?
Who cooks the grains?
No ego mentioned
Nor a question of sex
No rights to stretch
No equalities refreshed
No interfering third person
In choices or crush

Tones are same
on a colored canvas
differences handled
without a fuss

It is a free decision
Of two equal minds
When girl marries girl
And both are brides.

A slip of your tongue....

I told you several times
Don’t say
Don’t say it at all
Let it be
It will pass
People will forget
No need to remind
Let bygones be bygones
Make peace
Cook harmony
Serve compassion

But you pierced the silence
With your sharp words
Chopping the sentiments
Into tiny pieces of pain

You wasted it all
And flushed the friendship
Down the drain

Moma! Please!!

I slurp up the milk, didn’t you hear me burp?
Another diaper, oh no, was there sales again?

Why do you always smile at your reflected self?
Is that the new dress, one more addition?

Must you decorate my pram with funny, showy bells?
I am very embarrassed by your kitty party friends

Is that your new hairstyle?
Are you going partying again tonight?

Please! Your nail polish smells so yuck!
I don’t feel too bright

Just leave the door ajar,
And finish off your chores
Whew! Can somebody put OFF the AC
Need some fresh air outside