Category: Poems

1.

Even dustpan poems
Don’t scoop these up.
I brush them under listicles.

2.

I’m an Einstein cat
In a Schrödinger pig.
I may have nine shitty lives
But I need a hole of my own.

3.

Pride chokes me
When I swallow it.
I’ll chew myself out now.

My diary is using me
To fill her emptiness inside.
…
…

My Chinese pen opens her ends
But only if I press her down.
…
…

My ink is always wet for me
And makes me screw her up the pen.
…
…

My schedule is a needy one,
Who makes me look at her a lot.
…
…

They start with promises of rhyme,
But always leave me halfway through.

Inside a highway bar-and-inn
A Perfumer and Poet met.
With purses sad, the artists had
To share the one mosquito net.

The Perfumer had heard the bard
And wondered how this gifted man
Was penniless and loverless,
For he deserved a caravan.

The Poet took his turn to muse
About the fate of fragrant flowers:
The ones who please the honey bees
Lie pollenless come after-hours.

That night the two did hardly sleep,
Nor once a word was ever said,
And come the morn, they carried on
To share the one remaining bread.

The bed and bread were hardened stiff,
The men had softened over them.
And so they talked, along they walked,
And let a friendship slowly stem.

The Perfumer was first to cry
About his jasmine-scented dew,
Which he was sure held much allure
For women courting suitors new.

“The jasmine is moonlight condensed,”
The Perfumer relayed with pride.
“But all they see is just a tree,
And not the potency inside.

“The scent can make our men docile.
And steer them from the ways of force
That they employ and so enjoy
Without regret, without remorse.”

“You sell the plant,” the Poet said.
“And that is why they all ignore.
You need to tell a story well
And show the moon you have in store.

“Your scent is not a liquid, friend.
Your scent is more hypnotic charm
That makes a man do all he can
To bring her love without the harm.

“Your perfume needs a name,” he said.
And took the bottle in his hand.
“A feeling true, a virtue too,
That plucks at a divine strand.

“The name should tug the lover’s rein:
Behave with proper reverence.
To want to touch, but not too much.
I dub thee: _Eden Temperance!_ “

The Perfumer lit up in joy.
It was indeed a name to sell.
And so implored, “O Poet Lord!
“Do name my other scents as well.”

And so were named the perfumes nine
Of fats and flowers and barks of trees,
Which grew around and could be found,
Or came in ships from overseas.

The Perfumer, in his delight,
Again implored his Poet friend
To think not twice, and name a price,
Or name a trouble he could mend.

“I have no troubles, dearest friend,
With poetry from land to sea.”
He shook his head, and smiled instead,
“My only want is legacy.

“For when it hears me sing a verse
My prowess the whole world extols,
From plutocrats to ziggurats,
But no one reads my written scrolls.

“My singing falters as I age
And soon I will lose all my voice,
With readers none, my days are done:
My verses drowned in history’s noise.”

The Perfumer said, “Worry not.
For I can remedy your grief.
To read with zeal, they need to feel
The music on a written leaf.

“The mind is where attention is.
Attention wanders everywhere.
The senses rule the wise and fool,
The common people and the rare.

“If we can rein a dogged sense
It will restrain the monkey mind:
If we can hook the nose to book,
The eyes will not be far behind.”

The Perfumer got down to work:
He mixed some oils with some mud.
They felt it swell, that rising smell
Of poems blooming in the bud.

He rolled a scroll out in his hands
And rubbed the vellum with the cream.
And on it wrote, a little note:
The recipe called _Morning Dream_

“The scrolls will smell of wisdom fresh,
Which deepens as the vellums age.
With each inhale, the scent will sail
And lift your poems off the page.”

The Poet hugged the Perfumer.
The friends together danced and laughed.
Each friend then wept at how adept
His friend was at his chosen craft.

The time then came to bid adieu.
With hopes to see some better days,
With many sighs, with many byes,
They went along their different ways.

The perfume names became a hit.
The Perfumer a millionaire.
From lovely lips to belted hips
The Poet’s scrolls were everywhere.

The bottles sold by carts and ships.
The copy scribes were booked for years.
At times they failed, but still prevailed
Against all fortunes and all fears.

The Perfumer went overseas
To forests full of flowers and fats.
The Poet found commissions sound
In courts and holy ziggurats.

It was therefore so strange a sight:
Despite their many gains and wins,
They dressed in grime from time to time
For sharing nets in highway inns.

It mattered not how hard the bed,
Or how the loaf would hardly bend,
They took the chance, for happenstance,
To find another lucky friend.

They knock before they come in.
All of them but one.
They wait for me to say, “Yes?”
All of them but one.

They are never too angry,
Never too loud.
They never tell me what is right
Or what is allowed.
They never say how to look
Or what others see.
They never tell me how to live
Or how to be.

They are well-mannered voices.
All of them but one.
They are good at giving choices.
All of them but one.

When he wants to say No,
To deny you permission
To do what you really want to do,
He just says, “I won’t advise it.”
When you ask him why, he glares.
“I don’t have to explain myself.
You can do what you want.”
But if you really do what you want,
He acts like you’ve taken his tea,
Snatched it from his trembling hands
And splashed it on his trembling face.
You tire of asking why, why, why.
He never answers. Only glares.
Only grumbles. Only trembles.
That’s how he keeps you shackled up
Inside a cellar, four-by-four,
Of his narrow-minded grumpiness.

1.

“Judge a moth by its candle.”

O Rumi, I’ve become the moth
Whose candle has been fired and
Replaced by an LED bulb
That better fits the firm ethos.

2.

“Be a tree and let the dead leaves drop.”

O Rumi, I was searching me
In fallen leaves of autumns past.
I found you in my gnarly roots
Becoming rings around my being.

3.

“Be an empty page, untouched by words.”

O Rumi, what a flaw I have:
I can’t abide an empty page,
As silence scares me more than words.
I lose myself in finding use.

Corns of black pepper,
Buds of black cloves,
Cups of black coffee,
Clothes of black cotton,
Leaves of black lines
Pens of black ink –
Instruments of writing
Spell out the black words,
Dispell the black moods,
And clear my black eyes.

1.

I shooed the pigeon pair away,
Without a care to hear their words,
And back I went to Robert Frost
To read his rhyme on garden birds.

2.

I came along with pen and ink
Opened the window to the dawn,
And found the Muse in pigeon eyes
That glared at me ‘fore moving on.

3.

I scrubbed the floor off pigeon egg,
Which Humpty-Dumptied from the roof,
And wondered if the mother bird
Would grieve aloud or stay aloof.

If I get another ping from you
Where all you do is crib and cry,
I’ll block your number, permanent,
So don’t you even think to try.

You think I’m your agony aunt?
Just sitting here to hear your woes?
I don’t care if your boss is bad.
I don’t care if your food is gross.

It happens every time you have
Two options, which are both so bad,
Or both so good, you cannot choose
And run to me like I’m your Dad.

Just take your own decisions, please.
I’m slammed with many on my plate,
Against an old adversary
Whose options come with loaded fate.

It cocks a gun at me and asks
“Which option do you like today?”
It matters not which one I pick.
It pulls the trigger anyway.

It’s not that your problem is small.
I know it’s big inside your head.
I’m saying it’s your own to fix.
So, let me deal with mine instead.

You all who wish to save my soul,
Infecting me with sanity,
I stand here vaccinated to
Your toxic positivity.

You send your love in fancy dress
Of wrapped up gifts from Amazon.
I can’t enact your fairy tale
And there pretend to be your One.

Your chocolate hug and rosé kiss
And promised flow of teddy treats
Are weak proposals lost on me:
I’ve given up all processed sweets.

The gravel of my gnashing teeth
Has skinned the fore-end of my tongue
For I’m a bitter biting man
Inside a bag of sandy dung.