I once wondered why dead fish float,
And the live ones often remain below –
For it struck me as ironic that the dead,
Which are weightier by nature should float.
So I thought it the norm that living things
Should remain below, while the nonliving
Float like jetsam atop the water bodies.
But then I thought of stones and sands,
Which sink when thrown in the waters;
So I concluded that it is not the weight
That keeps the dead fish afloat but the will;
For the living can go where it pleases but
The dead remains at nature’s pleasures.
Modern-day kettles and pots,
Enjoying the luxury of cooking gas,
Would sure be at sixes and sevens
Whenever they hear the idiom:
“…Pot calling kettle black.”
You may miss the game,
If you take long to aim.
And if you rush and miss,
You may console yourself
That nothing is yet amiss-
For there is as many fish
As ever came outta the sea.
Since the communal blueprint
Isn’t perspicuous to the common man,
He sets about building his own press;
He perspires like Iya Basira’s black goat –
Now, all handkerchiefs are China-made –
And combined with his wife’s tears,
The atmosphere’s redolence reminds
Of the valley of Lot’s wife’s remains.
You saw me taking cover
From the rain under the yew;
You rushed in and re-emerged –
With a brolly in your left hand,
And a steamy cup in your right.
Then you led me in like a queen,
And ushered me to a cosy chair;
When you darted into your room
Like lightning, my heart skipped-
I remembered stories of long ago:
What if he returns with a pistol,
I chided myself in an interrobang?!
You came out armed with a blanket,
And my lips parted in a broad smile
And my eyelids released a prisoner.
The rains ceased, and you led me out,
A broad smile caressing your face
Like a lucky English peasant who
Was opportune to entertain his queen.
This is 21st century! Who does that?
A bosom friend
may walk away,
while a sworn foe
choose to stay.
an eye-sore-ic food
may become mealy,
while your favourite
meal turn your belly.
harsh words from a dear
may work a lot of wonders,
while the choicest one tear
at the fabric of your being.
a smile may engrave
the comforted soul
while hard looks save
from the call of seoul.
Let’s go on a date –
I won’t be late;
We’ll share a fish,
Both fin and gill,
And also the bill –
We won’t be selfish.
You pick a venue
(The idea is new,
I sure do know;
Just don’t say no).
Pyres are meant for the dead;
But yours was made while you breathe,
Pleadingly gazing for clemency.
Goodyear and Bridgestone tyres
For the smooth running of automobiles
Are made, not for fire festoons.
But the mad mob were oblivious
To these, and made the tyre your pyre,
While you breathe and plead.
I saw a halo adorning his head,
As he sneaked in amongst the saints–
Though he took the backdoor;
I saw the ground beneath him
Strewn lavishly with golden confetti,
By a bevy of long-legged damsels.
I saw many figures attired
In white baban rigas swaying gleefully,
Singing welcome home, OUK.
Then they sang a new song,
Thou hast overcome, this day, dear OUK,
For thine perspiration is o’er.
Once my lovebird lost a wing;
It ventured a flight and crashed,
And I rushed it to a love doctor
Who mounted a three-legged chair,
And through a half-open mouth,
Ministered redemption to the wing.
Try as I might, I understood him not,
Though he spoke no glowing grammar
Nor belched out debilitating platitudes.
And though I tarried a year and a half,
The doctor said it healed the first day;
But he would have me learn a lesson.
Then he told me a story of two cousins:
The one born and bred in Beverly Hills,
And the other in a civilian barracks:
They both came into enormous wealth,
But one lost his; for what is easy to get,
Said he, is easy to lose and also forget.