I wished I were a hero

The last day I wished I were a hero

Tasted the wine to morph into Superman

Only to be denied by the  marvellous age

as the dying man pinning hopes on providence

of the lord who would not rescue Christ

from the cross and denied the Church a faith

to love the prostitue and call her a lame dame

 

A hero to worship the heroism be my breed

nonetheless silence about the room was pinching

like a five year old crying for a supper

and there was nothing in the world to hang about

but the World Cup of my dreams when I was a ten year old

to become a captain was the chance time had given me

only to be spurned in the morning with a loss

to the kids on the other side of the street

never mind the coin toss

 

Today in the morning I wish I were a hero

and the heroism will be defined to play violin-

the game of roses only if there is an answer in the mirth

of morning upon morning being churned  day after day

and something huge happens in the world cup’s way

as a fair agenda game, how the man has grown over?

since the days of the third reich and violence on display

immortality eludes me as a lawful wed wife

 

if only the last day were Sunday and heroism was

the talk for the day! I would oblige with a random

tip-toed walk on the pavement, slowly  gauging my days

after the dead winter had waylay the month of December

and my partner was away never to surrender.

I reckon the last day I wished I were a hero

 

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The Boss

As caterpillar closes on the mount

silently the time rolls in the moments

and thence I see the pact

between the caterpillar and the mount

scarcely the love is pitted to the human

who is your boss and the work committed

as the caterpillar to the mount is

and ink impregnating the paper

makes the boss work like a madman

arching like that in phobia

A World Cup 2018

The beats come to uphold the battle of soccer giants

from the hooting of the spectators

to a truer challenge of grit and sitting in an Italian association

I walk down the prime stairs of heaven as if opening into an open space

sinking with the soccer was a team who kept Hertha Berlin silent

and Madonna glimpsing the sky in anticipation of a goal

was on the other side of heaven punishing the heathens

Thence rip off the talent of Cristiano Ronaldo subdivided by men

left to pick ups gifts from the stalls on the lower side of the mall on heaven

stuck in Mississauga was the woman who thought zero was invented

for a goalless draw while the enchanting of the bold claims

for a World Cup triumph parried Peru and Poland, lowly among the supple

who could thought the socialism will pave to the doors of World Cup exits?

In merciless stair the queen of Japan saluted the spirit of fine men!

 

 

 

 

The Lyrical Painter

He painted hollow and the hollowed men

An empty eye and an emptied face for the urn

in which the fate would dissolve love like a foam

of a wizard who would induce more of lyrical love

and then the queen who wished to be a ballerina

to steal a place into the heart of the audience

 

He would paint the queen and the ballerina

given to the artist as stranglers of thought

and then again to strangle the mob and

win the war against the third rike till the death

of innocence in the painter and, he would produce a marvel

of colour upon colours like staking claims on the playing cards

to guess the card the queen had,

the plum of hearts but not a chance for the ballerina

for she had a knight to herself as shinning armour

 

and he painted a lyrical ballad of yore on to the canvas

the ballerina having come to dance and the queen

as a dying morph of the dance both as one.

A Strange love

Hiding behind the fence

picking love at last in flowers from the floor

there’s a hand of God in the reckoning of love fete

where the pygmies fall for the giants

only to be called moles on the mountains

To watch the movie in tie-breakers

as the game of soccer which like

the bees walking upon the behives

leaving behind the love potion in making

consumed dot by dot by the gents

on a June day that’s usually hot

and they fancied poison for a strange love instead

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.