Category: thoughts

 

It is one of my many dreams
haunts me for long.

My mind cycles in speed
forward and backwards.

Condemn the desire. They thrust me
where to, I do not know.

Do I want to build a home
huge and modern?

Is it a zealous aspiration to see
the world?

Might be an interest to lead
the community and the state?

Should I hold treasures of
gold and silver?

Is it a trepidation? A trespass
I meander in circles.

A call from within confounds me.
Do not rely on temporal delights.

I turn inwards. Listen in attention.
Work towards a goal, it says.

Serve and work hard.
Mind not the result.

I have to learn. Have to transcend.
Know nobility is hard to achieve.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A smile and a curtsy,
are recognitions.

A word  kind and sweet
is a greet.

A friendly attention
is all harmony.

These are values
wealth cannot buy.

No man is big or small
because of prosperity.

The virtue lies
on the humour.

Men act with insolence
reckoning on the influence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That of culture
even a difference
creates a  consequence.

An invitation is a subject
the  organising part
discloses the character.

Solicitations from a son
and a daughter is a requisition,
a conventional expression.

A far-flung relative invites a few,
the son visits the rest.
The attitude is unqualified.

Disparity invades.
Discontent permeates.

 

 

 

The passing of the baton
from one to another.

The transition of power
from one to another.

The translation of terms
from one to another,

have to be done with ease
from one to another.

A strain destroys the shift
from one to another.

Care enhances the transformation
from one to another.

 

 

 

An outburst, not uncommon
seen with fear,
shows up with a force,
unable to endure.

The bout swells with fury,
interminable exchanges ensue.
My submission is absolute,
I shudder with a rue.

Goes on and on for a decade,
I remain consumed.
This cannot continue, I ramble
feeling determined.

The following day
another concern.
I establish my impression.
Rebuke without relent.

I throw a bunch of accusations.
He counters,
The conflict angles nasty.
I stand embarrassed.

The disagreement extends.
See no conclusion.
He baffles me. I insist the same tune.
No other solution.

For the moment,
he is reticent.
Let go his anger.
Damn. He is indecent.

 

 

 

 

A rose on a thistle
swings in the wind.
Beckons every other
with salutation and love.

Looked upon as the Queen
the crimson rose blooms
the interwoven petals
seem delicate and tender.

She dances with joy,
I stay apprehensive.
Will she injure herself?
brushing against the stinging claws.

I gaze at her with empathy
exclaim, “Oh, you wonderful
why do you sit on nettles?”
She grins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a merger
that of hearts
a love story.

Not one of
man and woman
still, a love story.

Not between
a friend and another
yet, a love story.

Not that of
the siblings
but a love story.

Signifying the love
of a mother and the child
a curious story.

Her love is boundless.
The child’s overflowing.
a glorious communion.

One without expectation
express a graceful look
and of a kind reciprocal.

 

 

 

I enter my buddy’s house.
It wears a deserted look.
Is there anyone at all? I yell
I encounter a silence.

Called once again,
Face a quietude.
I go back.
A sound stops me.

The sound is shrill. Not a man’s
I move in haste.
Could be a ghost? I presume.
I run.

The voice echoes
through the avenue. I hold on.
Nothing inauspicious in the lineup.

Concerned, I go onward.
The expression is a wee behind.
Terrified, I sit down in a corner.
The voice trails.

My heart pounds.
A parrot nudges close.
I attempt to fondle her.
She talks incessantly.

Is this not the one I heard so long?
I chuckle.  Crazy
.

 

 

 

 

 

Marriage is a binding.
Male and female unite,
a synthesis of any two objects
a symbiosis of two events
one could continue with many.

Considering the union
the sensuous element overwhelms
the sanctity is beyond that
a will and an earnestness
to perpetuate the genre pervades.

It is private. Thematizing
the amalgam is bizarre.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enthusiastic about art and literature
I become mad when I look at and read
any of these artistic features.

The desire swells as I grow grey
am allured by the exquisite.
I understand it is beyond the sway.

I slither out of the sensuous.
The perspective demands a restraint
but they are sacrilegious

where aesthetics play a  discerning role.
Control should be the rudiment.

Excessive sensuality revealed in expressions
might be  enjoyable  to a few, while many
stay from such sexual derelictions