Month: April 2022

It’s getting difficulter now.
I’m losing all the different strands
Of stories in my itchy head.
I find them broken, fallen out,
At times among the tiny flecks
Of paper shreddings on my scalp.
I find them on my pillowcase.
I find them on my washroom floor.
I find them in the spines of books
Like errant bookmarks on their own.
Perhaps the stress, the age, the soap
Conspire in the dead of day
To tell me time is running fast.
That stories left unnourished long
Do dry up where they once were strong.

It’s tough to write on happy days
With not a thing to rant about.
No cry for help to guise as smack.
No hole inside the soul to fill.
Thank God my happy days are rare.

Replace your eight unhindered hours
Of sleep with shredded wakefulness
Afloat in soupy sleepiness,
Which floods throughout your twenty-four.

Then take your day and place it on
The simmered flames of urgency,
Until your pressured self esteam
Erupts with whistled cries for help.

Then add your seasonings of choice:
Some pestled corns of peppered fear,
Some punctured pods of pungent pain,
Some thickened sauce of blackened shame,
And daily grind of saltiness.

Remember, serve it piping hot.
Or else the burn won’t grip your throat.
No runny eyes, no runny nose
Will ever come of chilled out slurps.

My lesson from that Shelley rhyme,
That sonnet warning us of Time,
The one called “Ozymandias”
Is not the one that’s obvious.

Though King of Kings has lost his neck,
His Works decayed, become a Wreck,
Though not a thing beside remains,
One thing’s escaped Temporal chains.

It’s travelled with the travellers
Into the art of sonneteers.
Erased from stone, it still survives,
Reborn through many readers’ eyes:

Though empty of its pompous air,
The Written Word’s still written there.

I find it hard to be okay.
The need to prove myself is strong.
To prove I’m smart. To prove I’m right.
To prove I have some deep insight.

I find it hard to be content.
The need to hoard some more is strong.
To hoard more books. To hoard more cash.
To hoard so much it looks like trash.

I find it hard to give with love.
The need to charge a price is strong.
To charge for time. To charge for trust.
To charge for fear of going bust.

My soul is Tom & Jerry cheese.
Too many holes to fill, to please.

They all are from a broken home.
Their parents had it even worse.
Their parents’ parents had the wealth.
The wealth that broke them, left them broke.
The only thing they have with them:
A name that drums of warrior kings.

The one who bought their palace lands
Allowed the boys to work the scrubs,
Allowed the girls to work the stoves,
Allowed the old to work the shrubs.
The men and wives of working age
Were sent on different working ways.

The one who bought their palace lands
Arranged the weddings of the boys
And kept their dowries for himself.
The girls were bedded off to men
Without a wedding document,
Returned with bellies full of kids.
The old were left alone to watch.

The one who bought their palace lands
Upon attaining elder age,
‘Decided’ with a scribbled note
To stuff a piece of scrubbing cloth
Into his betel-reddened mouth,
Inhale the smoke of garden leaves,
Arranged upon an ancient stove
Inside a kitchen fully shut.

He said he did it on his own.
He said so in his scribbled note.
He signed it too. With trembling hands.
The boys (now, men), the girls (now, wives),
The old (now, dead) and looking down,
They all admitted he was mad.
They said he told them many times:
Their debt to him was still unpaid.
And so, in death, again he’ll take
The dignity they still have left.
They said he was a vengeful man.
A vengeful man consumed in rage.

They pointed out the room was locked.
The room was bolted from inside.
So, how would killers bolt outside?
Their fingerprints are everywhere
Because they work there night and day.
They all together said the same:
It wasn’t us. It wasn’t us.

They all are held together in
The lock-ups at the local jail.
The jail their family had built
Before the British called them kings.
Before the kings became their pets.
Before the pets became their wolves.
And broke the people in their stead.

The orphanage is not too pleased.
They find it hard to keep the kids
Of parents rotting for their crimes.
They say the kids will follow suit.
They say that crime is in their blood.
They say the kids will break more homes.

They say throughout the Pandemic,
There was a man who came and sat
A little distance off a mart
With packs and packs of playing cards.

He’d lay the packs in Solitaire,
And raise his foggy glasses up
To rest them on his frowning brow
To concentrate on moving cards.

He put the sevens over eights,
He put the aces over twos,
And when he had a column flush,
He’d set that suit of cards aside.

And when he solved the Solitaire,
He’d stand and stretch and breathe a bit,
Before he sat again to lay
Another mat of Solitaire.

The customers who parked their bikes
Would stay awhile to watch him there.
They clapped and cheered his speed of play.
They left him money for his day.

Police would kindly talk to him
Upon the cut-off curfew hour.
He’d always bow and leave in peace
Without a single nasty word.

He never said a single word.
He only smiled with wrinkled eyes.
He’d neither nod nor shake his head.
Nor stretch an empty hand at you.

They say he laid his Solitaire
Upon the bed he was assigned.
They say the others watched him play
Amidst their coughs and heavy breaths.

They say he passed with cards in hand.
A king of clubs, a jack of hearts.
They were the only next-of-kin
Who came to claim his custody.

According to the internet,
Especially communities
Which help you overcome your fear –
Your fear of being a nobody,
Your fear of failing everyone,
Your fear of being exposed as fraud,
Your fear of being always afraid –
You can expand your view of fear
Into a hundred different forms.

Begin with fear that twists your mind:
False Expectations About Reality,
False Evidence Appearing Real,
Failure Expected And Received,
Future Events Already Ruined.

And then the things it makes you do:
Frantic Effort to Avoid Reality,
Frantic Effort to Appear Real,
Finding Excuses and Rationalizations,
Feeling Exiled and Rejected,
Forgetting Everything And Retiring,
Faking Emotions and Running,
Fleeing Every Active Responsibility.

And lastly, how to deal with it:
Fear Expressed Allows Relief.
Free Emotions Already Repressed.
Focus Efforts, Accept Results.
Fail Early And Recover.
Face Everything And Rise.

The second cup of coffee black
Is what unlocks my tired mind.
Ideas for my latest rhyme
Volcano from my chaired behind.

My fingers tremor with the flow,
The muse complains I’m way too slow,
“Oh, snap out! We’ve got work to do.”
I close my eyes and type on cue.

An hour’s worth of flinting thoughts
Combust into a second’s spark,
And calloused skin on plastic keys
Defines the beat, the punch, the arc.

Endorphins, hormones, pressured blood
Tsunami, hurricane, and flood.
The poem marches to their beat.
Before I know, it is complete.

I celebrate. I send it out.
I stand before the mirror tall.
My yellowed teeth deflate the grin:
“You’re just an addict. That is all.”

We often called him Postponer.
We went to him to help delay
The deadlines higher-ups had set
Without a thought for what we’d say.

He simply called the higher-ups
And asked them for a better view
Of where things stood and why we should
Attempt to meet the deadlines new.

He somehow spoke with such finesse,
Such mastery of voice and tone,
The higher-ups would push the date
And think they did it on their own.

I heard today he’d lost his touch.
He couldn’t charm the Highest-up.