The Soccer Sunday

Woke up to the tapping sound of light rain on the other side of paradise

It was, in fact, a drizzle and the world cup of football is two paces ahead

and the sleep in the eyes reserved from watching late night soccer games

makebelieve balls to goals as if a magician is calling the name of Goddesses

The fruitful Sunday, the God’s birthday is upon the stakes of daily sport bets

will there be enough ripe sweetness in the fruit soccer produces for the day?

The Church bells rang a tedious sound why is there a religion of soccer hey?

Took a walk on stopping of rain and read a magazine while fending for rice

Nothing is as hasty as the news on Politics and today’s soccer games call for

attention as to who will wear the Divine crown on a pitch of socialist Russia

Damn the war it is love that fills the minds of fans without ennui and speech

Kill the Lovejoy is a distant call of fairies in the skies who can’t see Pope lose

to a goal of Ronaldo baptized as the son of God who never is put on the cross.

 

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The Vocalist

“Jam it,” said the violinist

“there goes the hell,” said the guitarist

while the vocal artist sang the dead tunes of winter

now in the month of June it felt like a December solstice

when she would tie her head in a drape calling for the days

that she roamed around the outskirts of Montreal

She sang the Marine Song of long farewell

While on the beach in Mexico she had left the seas to become a doctor

and in the US she fairly lipped the tunes of time

She sang a lovely forlorn tune of separation

The lead drummer caught in the eye of the storm

and said Good Bye!

While she hovered with an intellectual,

who was dead drunk on time and space

and who held her hand and danced the time to forget

Canada Day!

The Evil Afternoon he took the bus to Puerto Rico

And slept on the floors of the bus station as if mopped by wind in his salutation

She called the evil afternoon a gay science to recover from

throngs of love.

They both skid on the surface of sea to stop the killer love game

of evil afternoon in its empty shoes!

The Fan page

Where the memories rest in anticipation of love

where the mountains are climbed by the moles

Sit the biggest fan of the sun,

a poet so poor as to eat half a meal a day

and under the shaodows of his head comes the sparrow

which listens to the beat of a maiden’s music

with tightening noose as the prison around the mob

which listens to her, the poet being a fan of the sun

whorshipes the maiden’s shaodow endowed with love

the poet having missed all the meals arose

and left the garden in silence for the clouds had engulfed the sun

and with the falling rain came the last dirge

the sun having floated to the other world

where lives the maiden’s father and the poet

having left the garden turned on the fanpage

of the cosmos with the sparrow pecking at maiden’s hourglass

who was the goddess of dirge that the heavens listened to her

and now the poet had fallen asleep over the fanpage

and dreamt about the other world of heavenly bodies

revolving around him!

 

 

Pantomime

Will the tyrant die of tuberculosis for he was a chaste smoker?

No, he didn’t while he paced the apartment up and down breathing

hastily for more air than there is in the universe for he was an emperor

who built the shanty town kingdom of gold and had a pinnacle of thought

in worshipping the Buddha! Would he renounce his kingdom to a saint?

No! he was a tyrant I told you and had a silly habit of making mincemeat of flies

that would buzz through his doors.  He lost the patience and left his kingdom

to mourn the sacrificial goat that woman was with whom he fell in love with

He walked the forest in the pantomime of the God and had his nose sullied

in both war and love as they were in the providence of the lord!

Now the Buddha sits a top on his throne in a statue that would propel

the tyrant to give up cruelty in the light of forsaken love he pursued.

The Letter

He smoked a cigar

while she spotted lipstick

and saw the smoke coming off the cigar

in the hand held mirror

that stuck out in her slender hands

In the pair the dolls danced on the top of cake

and she rolled up the love letter of her ex

and did take a chance

in setting on fire the love letter

and refused the golden alms

as conveyed by the billionaire

in exchange

who resolutely smoked the cigar

while the distant memory of her lover

faded out like a sunlight in the gloaming

as she picked the candles off the cake

and in memory of the billionaire

her new husband on the loose

who smoked resolutely.

she consigned the love letter to flames.

Lost love!

What is love lost? On the days of bright spring

When the blush of flowers flush the skin green

and she looked an epitome of the green on purple

her gaze fixed on starry space, twinkling and then

bidding everything a sigh of heart in the offing

seeing the ships returning from nowhere

to the port where hearts rejoice in cool beer

Her finger buds smoothening the roses scent

in her lap with a afterglow of a vagrant heart

There was a stern patient on the sailor’s dorm

who has returned from the war in love for a gun

that now rested besides the corpse which once

pulled the trigger on the enemies while she

kept quiet of the tales of broken heart,

the heart boken by the war more so than

a love tiff on the sea.

Life Coach

My life-coach, I ever think if I deserve one

Is the girl whom I fell in love with

I lounge for the love on sofa kidding her about God

If God is live in the silence of art,

I need to paint the picture of Jesus in a car

There is  heavy silence in the courtyard where was a relic of the past

A silken boat of bamboo lying in the window as dinky as it is

It would never set the sails for it was a tiny boat made for decoration

I club the thoughts more on the east side of the road

eating samosas and thinking about a diva

who is long dead and gone and now my life coach

thinks it would rain and I have to be indoors but in vain

I love her sanity of a child as pure as the heart for a gain