The moonlight

Tease, tease tease the moonlight

upon the heavens is bestowed the music

of the light slanting another night

out of the closet of nature’s clock

and the sun is ticking fast in the west

you chase the moonlight in the streets

wearing black clothes as growing is the din

of the day in your mighty arms that light lingers on

there’s cut-off face of a lemon on the edge of the glass

its 10pm and the moon in the southern shores

dances upon the haywire wind that is fast

clipped and nipped in the bud, the sonata you recall

and your sky is empty with only a moon

to pace the distance and sweet moan of life

hardly creasing ,very pleasing bunks the love

on this starry night somewhere in the paradise.




The Oracle

He had borne fruit with the sleepless nights

fidgeting about the idle ream of papers

he had drawn the shape of a seer would like to take

an oracle with ships sailing in offing to which he claims

all his powers- the ships clear on the night coming to the shore

something is soothing to say that she has got a lover

who has a crush on nicotine and more of chutzpah

to woo women with music into raptures that seize

the end of humanity- the seer with a pothole of vows

he wanna see the rushing power of the skies above

breaking column after column into powdery snow

and his sunken face coming out of hood- the apocalypse now!

A broken vase

She sits on the red carpet amid the salon, surrounded by lamps

of varied shades and hues,

All lighting the room and among the records you pick the blue vase

You drop dead the vase, lost in the music of the vase

the sound of  a breaking vase is a rhetoric on the eardrum

only you wonder what will happen for the Klien vase of 1957

has  a characteristic sound, you leave the salon

the music repeats itself on the tv screen as the broken vase

is a shattered dream of a wayward silence and she turns on the other side

of the bed and pretend to sleep, I overhear the love drive and eerie romance

not coming soon, is the broken vase, you cannot collect it to be

a vase again, but you might lose the night sleeping, deeply!

The Seas

The merchant ship was billowing over the charted waters

And Isco smiling smartly to heave a sigh of scented air

as the chirpy wind of the southerly seas dampening

the milieu on the deck where lay under the sun, Nikita

The day was a bright jewel that Nikita wanted to wear on her finger

but the sun cast shadows were soon eclipsed by the clouds

and she fidegted the finger with a wire of the mobile phone

It was all dead matter and only thing that mattered was the sea

the water soon became flushed with the rainy water and

everything abated in the mad rush for a stream of love

Nonetheless love is the dose for those who lack pain

whatever is the name, the cascading curtains fill the space

as if Cinema has let loose all the goons over the swoon

of Nikita who now tangently drew the cycle of cirque

while the sun rested and rested till the silence of yes

was faced with the hop s,oked by Isco and dressed negeliently

he jumped into the sea.

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


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!