A Sonnet (To My Enemy)

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We are but sharp talons in each other throat,
Of sonnets that counter-resist, catamarans still afloat
I’m just a poet who met you down your journeyed road
Where my eyes found thee, in a promenade’s abode

Kill me, not with toxic words that sting,
Like the scorpion in thee, like that merciless thing,
In you, there rests, your way, as against, that of mine
I’m a home schooled fellow, not a MA in my line

I’m just a natural trickle against your tidal wave
Like a hermit crab or a hatched turtle that simply won’t cave
You and me, we are worth, a duet of dueling verse
How beautiful, if over a coffee, we could ever converse

No pretense in me, I’m partial to the idea of thee
To wave the white flag, to tussle, to détente’s decree.

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A Sonnet (Parted Lovers)

Starrry sky

Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Of two souls, fate carved asunder
T’was the tango of love, in fool’s brace
She was armed for the moment, in corset lace

Now she looks through the window pane,
Like him through the broken sane,
Hath both flown with Daedalus’s wing
The sun was in reach, for lovebirds to sing

Then fate swooped to catch them unaware
He was sent to the war front, to the fiery glare
Of gun smoke, and not love, fogging his eye
No goosebump blush that can never swear in lie

And so, two lovers’ labor, crossed in star
Two stars on the night sky, still pining from afar

American Dream

Waffle Ice Cream Cone Ice Milk Ice Cream Ice Cream

Present drips in to your tongue,
Like a cookies and cream ice cream cone.
You’re taught to believe that fate promises
And yet still, will not deliver.
So many Americans have dripped
Their tongues to taste the supposed good times,
Only to encounter the salty nothingness,
What leaves behind a memento,
Of how this land is squeezed between
Two mammoth oceans, and still
A Yankee dreams of the American dream,
Which comes in an assortment of flavors,
Vanilla, chocolate, pistachio,
Mango and green tea among others,
And we break ourselves on that rocky road
To power a lowly dream – not yours though-
Only of a man, somewhere in Iran,
Selling pistachio nuts, who will
Never know real freedom, nor be duped to believe,
That “making it” is for everyone,
The American dream is just a figurative
Claim for making it there, where there is no welfare.
Meanwhile in Iran, there are bumper
Crops of pistachio nuts sent to the US
To stuff your tongue into.
Reality is only a cold serving of ice cream.
And only you know how to scoop your dream,
Your flavor, which makes you richer
And yet lonelier, when you start to realize
That the dream in past-tense, is
Like an anecdote that will depreciate
From that point onwards. Then
You rewrite your life, with a new wafer cone,
Searching for a second scoop;
Of the now re-scripted American dream. 

Stranger in Japan

Geisha

The ocean reclines, ebbing away
Like the kimono of a geisha,
While in the next room, a foreigner
Waits for some pleasure. Entertainment
Turns itself on, in the submissiveness of a knee,
And the warmth of a tea cup.
They lose all their inhibitions, while
The corn flake skin on the stranger’s epidermis
Makes a crispy breaking noise.
Just like light, through a Shoji screen,
Their bodies diffuse out everything
That lay tormented inside. In this godless dominion
You could find the rustle of tatami, compiling a story
Of how there are strangers in this land,
Who loom into interfaces by nighfall,
Folding into their own geometries
To usher in the humility of lovemaking,
When every sweet pea bloom, is a goodbye, a sunset,
That fixes onto time’s embrace,
Like a red-spider-lily,
To be lost forever.

 

New Born

Baby

The pink slip is an end,
Two pink lines was a beginning,
Which trickled to a pink-patch chord
Cut from her bud, to usher
In first singularity – life.

And in that never-ending story
Of the most obsessive feeling, trapped,
Inside a palpitation-prone pink enclosure
A labyrinth of valves and vessels,
All in shades of pink,

Transforming the maternal science,
Of a pinkie held inside the tight grip
Of the tiniest palm,

To blossom a trans-generational memory
That is so indestructible,

Just like the pink panther,
– Stolen forever, in touch.

9/11 – The After Story

America

There are flea markets in Tribeca
Little migrant stalls selling Pakistani Cashmere,
Chinese ornaments and African curios.
While a little upwards, Madison
Square garden hosts a Floyd Mayweather fight.
While a long way downwind, you have renewal,
A 9/11 memorial, a structure that epitomizes
The fighting spirit of the common man.
The days of Marcione are long gone. We are now burning
Our emotions, on a man called Floyd,
Who like the door-to-door salesmen during the great depression,
Lifts the healing spirit. While a little uptown
You find a fireman telling his son, how many bled on 9/11.
Everyone perished, the Indian salesman,
The Chinese hawker and the Irish fire fighter,
And so did the great American spirit, at least for a while.
Now 16 years afterwards we hear the cheer that man Floyd gets as he
Walks by, a black man with no credentials,
Cheered by throngs of white people. The American dream is giving color,
The same chance to raise a legacy on his shoulder strength.
Many did post 9/11, to become unsung heroes
Who may not have fanfare or fandom,
But live inside people’s hearts. Grief is rarely a past tense,
It is always incumbent, hitherto spanned
A few more years more, a lurking hunger
To look past the agony. The calendar starts with MLK day, the day of dreams
And on 9/11, it dwells on lives lost, when
Prayers unite everyone, every heart pining
For a lost loved one, litanies bridging here and there,
Earnest pleas, rubbing on fate’s ears.
While in the ghetto, yet another legend is born
Whose umbilical cord is cut, like slave owners
Cut the chains of freed slaves. Life starts
In that very moment, you become a singularity,
Freedom too starts with a step, like freed
Slaves found out. Life and freedom,
They become proportional at some point in time.
Everyone lives obesely in New York,
Even same-sex couples. Dreams know
No gender or color here, it is the most primal defiance
Of fate, it thickens skin, and molts
Slave names, and makes you the man
Climbing away from your roots, like a butterfly
Climbs out of a cocoon. Either way,
You develop wings, when fate will give
You a choice – Daedalus or Icarus,
Which to the colored man sounds like
Mayweather or Tyson. The fall,
Like a wedge, standing between the two.

Pity

Fog

There’s a diner that serves pity
On the menu. Something I will order
Just once to see, whether the doves
Have wings, or the serpents will slip
Away. Pity comes like a spacey spaceship
To carry me off to a far-away
Habitable planet, to make me an
Extra-terrestrial, on that lonely place;
Something to salvage me from impressions
That like judgments, are arm-chair opinions.
I’m just a zone defined by flesh.
Anything can land or park on me.
A woman, or a container truck, and
Both are accidents. I am, who I shall be,
And ought to be, writing poems
Like I’m at the final exam and getting an A+
Is a matter of life and death. I’m
Just an accidental poet. Fate hooked me one day,
On the end of a fishing line.
I squirmed, and wriggled, gasping in pain.
And now, here I stand, as era later,
Still training my gills to be lungs.
I’m in a purgatory of sorts,
An amphibian forced to use his lungs.
And hiding beneath the frog’s mask,
Is a prince, learning that pity
Is just skin deep, like paper-thin beauty,
That gifts verses their own lungs,
To dance on paper.