Category: Poems

I find myself in cul-de-sacs
With buildings tall around my spot
Preventing data services
From reaching Maps, which doesn’t load.
I’ve lost my way to confidence,
Even to ask of those around
The route to get to somewhere safe
To somewhere with a WiFi strength
That stops the spinning wheel of life.
Though, was it not dependence on
Instructions from a trusted source,
Without the use of common sense,
Which got me to the cul-de-sacs?
And yet I seek the comfort still
Of answers at my fingertips,
Without discerning on my own
The merits of decisions mine?
And yet I ask a stranger’s voice
Encoded with the knowledge of
The masses pouring their insides
Into the brain decentralized
In service of the masters few
Who mine these private pourings to
Extract the excess wealth of all?
So, where am I, the actual I,
Beyond the bios, pics, and texts?
My Maps is not so helpful when
It points an arrow, “You are here.”

He climbed atop the Empire State
And looked below – the antsy gait
Of men and women fighting Fate.

And, like his hero Whitman, yawped
Before as thunderbolt he dropped
Upon their grounded conscience; stopped.

The street gathered around the rise of moon
Assuming the positions eagerly.
Erect with lotus legs and petal palms
That gently woke into a prayer trance:

Har Har Shivaaye, Har Har Shivaaye!
Har Har aah-choo, Har Har Shivaaye!
Har Har urgh-hoo, Har Har Shivaaye!
Har Har aakkh-thoo, Har Har Shivaaye!

The morning came – Har Har Shivaaye!
The street dissolved – Har Har Shivaaye!
The coughs and phlegm declared – Shivaaye!
The slurping noses sang – Shivaaye!

They hailed the Mrityunjaya, Shivaaye!
The Conqueror of Death, Shivaaye!

Do you see the sea of nauseating news
Waves of headlines are always breaking
On isolated island shores
Of individual sensitivities
Crippled and clawed by the fallout of
Weapons of mass distraction
Deployed from subliminal submarines
Fueled by grease of political hot potatoes
Cut and fried into bite-sized wedges

They tell the tale of Sisyphus
But tell it false from what I see.
For every morn I see him hurl
His cursëd load from Eastern peaks.
It catches fire in the air,
As meteors and spaceships do,
And after flying through the day,
It cools upon the Western seas.
But blasted curses of the Gods
Do not allow our Sisyphus
A wink of rest upon his brow:
No sooner he descends his peak
Than like a bowling ball it comes
A-railing through the underworld
And rests again as obstacle
Across his path to living free.

The more I learn the more I lose
My truths in pieces lie about
The meanings mined of storied lives
Unwholesome they may seem at first
But cuts of skill can make them shine
Though never whole and never all
A foolishness it is to claim
The sharper tool is not a fool

The strength in me is breaking down
With all the voices weighting me.
My head will soon be on the ground.
May short the time of waiting be.

I trudge on four iambic feet
By matching every other stride
With marching beats of heart’s retreat
Away, again, to suicide.

[I have removed the dark details
For none deserve to know my means,
Until the day my will prevails
To show my friends my brutal scenes.]

I choose today to die in verse
Because I cannot die in sooth
For there are those I need to nurse
And there is much to write, in truth.

Some days the only things that work
Are elements of style and craft.
A thought askew in meter true
Can still produce a decent draft.

A seasoning of mood and rhyme
With Shutterstock imagery
Can freshen up leftover fluff
From yestermorning’s poetry.

A line is all I need those days,
Reminding I can conjure verse,
Despite the voice that leaves no choice
Except for writing through the curse.

He gently filled the tub with milk
And brought the injured puppy close
To let it drink, to let it heal.
The puppy twitched its velvet nose.

He gently took it by the scruff
And plunged its head into the milk
To help it drink, to help it heal.
The puppy twitched its body silk.

He gently held its legs and tail
And smashed its head into the stone
To make it drink, to make it heal.
The puppy twitched its final moan.

Be warned: this is a toilet poem.
And a men’s public toilet at that.
Meaning, you should turn back now
Before you cross the next line,
For that’s when it will stink worse
Than that unflushed commode
With betel-juiced red velvet cakes
And open-mouthed tobacco sachets.
I didn’t have to go there, you say?
Holding it in wasn’t an option either.
I don’t like watering highway plants.
When I can find such a place, I generally
Prefer pointing pressurised parabolas
Playfully past pink perforated plastic
Mats in colgate-white urinal bowls
That wet themselves after the hosing
And get wiped clean by invisible men
In indigo uniforms and yellow masks.
Better, if I can juggle naphthalene balls.
Today was just not one of those days.
Today I could go anywhere. Desperate!
Why don’t I have this determined urgency
For other life-threatening situations?
Like relationships about to burst out.
I wasn’t angry at the toilet for the shit
I had to put up with for a moment’s peace.
I got to the point, direct and grateful.
Cursing would have only prolonged agony.
Like it always does with the people
Who aren’t shitty on their own generally
But are having a bad day, stuck with
Someone else’s unfinished business.
They don’t need me piling on them more.
The water tap inside just pffted at me.
But a faucet outside was forthcoming.
I filled a pail, upturned it on the bowl
And repeated thrice for good measure.
It still stank. I still retched. Still am.
But at least it took a load off the bowl.
You’re welcome, next guy!