eBooks „hat“
Es wurden 14205 eBooks für den Suchbegriff „hat“ gefunden.
Amin Nayerhabibi
Felix und die freundlichen Fledermäuse
Ein Abenteuer über Freundschaft und Zusammenhalt im Wald
- Belletristik
- Deutsch
- Wörter
- Ab 3 Jahren
"Felix und die freundlichen Fledermäuse" ist ein Kinderbuch voller Abenteuer, das von Freundschaft und Zusammenhalt erzählt. Es ist ideal für Kinder im Alter von 3 bis 8 Jahren, die gerne Geschichten über Tiere und Natur lesen.
Das Buch folgt Felix, einem kleinen Fuchs, der sich im Wald verläuft und sich plötzlich mit Fledermäusen konfrontiert sieht. Obwohl er zunächst Angst vor ihnen hat, lernt er schnell, dass sie ihm helfen können, seinen Weg nach Hause zu finden. Durch diese Erfahrung lernt Felix, dass es wichtig ist, offen zu sein und neue Freundschaften zu schließen.
Die Geschichte wird durch wunderschöne Illustrationen von Tieren und Landschaften zum Leben erweckt. Die Zeichnungen sind liebevoll gestaltet und helfen jungen Lesern, sich in die Welt von Felix und seinen Freunden hineinzuversetzen.
"Felix und die freundlichen Fledermäuse" ist ein perfektes Geschenk für Kinder, die gerne Abenteuergeschichten und Tiere mögen. Es ist eine Geschichte, die nicht nur unterhält, sondern auch wertvolle Lektionen über Freundschaft und Zusammenhalt vermittelt. Bestellen Sie noch heute und lassen Sie Ihr Kind in die wundersame Welt von Felix und seinen Freunden eintauchen. [mehr]
0,99 €
Patrick30
Lost in Glasgow
- Biografie/Autobiografie
- Englisch
- 1 Wörter
- Keine Altersempfehlung
- 272
- 3
True story
This happened to me one day back in 1970
Being a football fan (Celtic) in Scotland it was
Regular evry
Saturday to go to games home
And a way we would meet up in the pub waiting for the hired bus to take us to the
game all decked out in our football colours
(green and white) we would have a few drinks
Beer whisky talk about the teams about things
Up and coming things we had done the week before usual patter this particular Saturday was the old firm Darby rangers v Celtic at ibrox park Glasgow always tickets for these
Games now and getting a ticket was hard to
Get but we always managed to get one so to get back to the pub! At this stage we were sort
Outcasts at the time we had all been members
Of our local supporters club but things had not
Been good with some of us there was no drinking ban on the buses at that time and we
Were young so we would bring carry outs onto the bus and you can imagine it stop the bus
We need a piss this did not go down to well
With the older ones on the bus especially when it happened three or four times on route
To the games there would be arguments sometimes a wee fight would break out (ah great days!!!) there was a meeting called in the church hall and a few of the lads decided
To go on threr own me being one of them
Which meant we would have to hire our own
Bus we were then known as the rebel bus the
Name stuck to us and I suppose we were a bit
Rebelious at the time we got into a lot of a troublefew of us would get lifted by the police now and again barred from a few pubs
Fights were regular in them days they say that
The drink was the cause of most trouble not
True hatred was the trouble still is to this day
Catholic and prodesants that is the cause
Anyway to get back to that Saturday the old firm game we had hired a mini bus a firm in a place called kilsyth not far away from us in my home town Denny get this the firm from kisyth
Had bought some mini buses from a mental
Hospital in larbert near falkirk well known
Hospital so that was that we would get the
People in the pubs saying bus from nutters
For nutters took a lot of stick we did but we did not care as long as we got to the game so when the mini bus turned up to take us to the game we could not believe it all green twenty
Seater all wooden seats hard as well they were all out the pubs to see the nutters mini bus so of we go after a bit of stick about the
Bus nearly a fight broke out every one in the mini bus had a carry out the singing started
Two miles up the road stopped the bus pub
For a pint or two meet some other fans usual
Thing (alesters bar denloanhead) then back onto the bus by this time we were well on as you say with the drink none of the fans in the mini bus were paying no attention me included
To where we were going the singing the drinking was going great guns sweeps for the
Game pick a player to score the first goal out
Of the hat can't do that now a days numbers
Are all over the place one to a hundred back
Then in my day it was one to elven and you would put the ref in as well many a sweep I won great stuff So there we are going along
The road not noticing anything wrong to be honest about it we were all pissed anyway
Then one of the lads said there are a lot of
Rangers supporters going about here so the usual thing was you would start giving them the fingers roaring abuse at them but it just dawned on me there was no Celtic supporters
To be see anywhere we were in the heart of govern apache country ( rangers supporters
Evreywhere). Next thing the bus was caught
In the traffic the Huns ( rangers suporters)
Were all around us the mini bus was covered
In spittings you could not see out the windows
Next thing bottles cans bricks being thrown at
The bus we were lucky no windows were broken the traffic would move on then stop again the bus took a hammering the rangers
Supporters were trying to get in the door at the
Front and drivers side I remember putting my back to the boor the force of the door being
Banged was awful this went on for ages it did sober me up I can tell you bus moved on again the rangers fans were running after us
We got caught in traffic again rangers fans
Were on us again on the roof battering windows and doors driver was going nuts
He was shitting him self he even left his seat
Get back in that fucking seat you stupid bastard next thing police turned up I was never
So glad to see the police in my life rangers
Supported still throwing bottles at the bus police had to send for more polce that was
Bad we were stopped in the middle of the
Road bus being battered even the police were
In trouble I remember saying to one of my pals don't you open that fucking door took ages for the police to get it sorted out When they did I can remember police officer talking
To our driver who by the way was a rangers supporter why did you bring this bus of Celtic supporters into this area did you not know this
Was rangers territory. Don't know what the driver said he was shitting it so we got escorted by the police to ibrox park boy it was
Some experience I would not like to go through that again and the game was a cracker Celtic won one Nile Joe Craig what
A goal what a day tell you this that driver
Was very lucky he did not get hammering
Back in the pub when I told the story people
Could not believe it and the nutter bus well
Took more stick about that as well
I have been away from scotland twenty odd
Years but they still talk about it yet
There are more stories to come [mehr]
Kostenlos
Carolin Schindbeer
Family Time - Was kochen wir denn heute?
Großartiger Kochspaß für die ganze Familie, schnelle Familienküche einfach zubereitet
- Kochen
- Deutsch
- 24453 Wörter
- Keine Altersempfehlung
- 46
Neue verbesserte Auflage mit vielen Rezeptbildern!
Eltern stehen täglich vor neuen Herausforderungen. Eine, die dagegen in den meisten Fällen immer gleich bleibt, ist: „Was sollen wir denn heute wieder kochen?“Stellen Sie sich vor, Sie haben ein Kochbuch in Händen, das dieses Problem und Fragen wie „Was lässt sich einfach und schnell zubereiten und schmeckt nicht nur Ihnen als Erziehungspersonen, sondern vor allem Ihren Kindern?“, „Was müssen wir alles für eine ausgewogene und gesunde Ernährung besorgen?“, und „Wie beschäftige ich mein Kind während des Kochens?“ ein für alle Mal der Vergangenheit angehören lässt.Et voilà – „Family Time – Was kochen wir denn heute?“, das fantastische Familienkochbuch von Carolin Schindbeer unterstützt Eltern genau dabei und bietet dazu abwechslungsreiche Rezepte, die Ihre Kinder lieben werden.Carolin Schindbeer, selbst Mutter von drei Kindern, stellt viele einfache und abwechslungsreiche Gerichte vor. Ob mit Fleisch, vegetarisch oder vegan – für jeden Geschmack findet sich das passende Rezept, einfach in der Zubereitung und auch gemeinsam mit Kindern umsetzbar. Egal ob Salate, herzhafte Gerichte oder leckere Süßspeisen, in diesem wundervollen Familienkochbuch finden Sie Rezeptideen für jede Tageszeit, die nicht nur satt, sondern auch glücklich machen.Haben Sie auch schon einmal einen kritischen Blick auf den Esstisch geworfen? Wie ist der Essensalltag Ihrer „Kleinen“? Egal was sie bisher gekocht haben, nörgelnde Kinder und die immer gleiche Frage: „Wann gibt es wieder Pizza oder Pasta?“, sind Alltag?Dann ist „Family Time – Was kochen wir denn heute?“ genau das richtige Kochbuch für Sie. Neben der riesigen Auswahl an Rezepten für jede Tageszeit und Situation erhalten Sie zusätzlich die hilfreichsten Tipps zum gemeinsamen Kochen mit Kindern. Und für die Beschäftigung der „Kleinen“ zwischendurch, gibt es unterstützende Malvorlagen zum Ausmalen – so wird das Kochen zum gemeinsamen Erfolgserlebnis – Spaß garantiert!Sie möchten Ihr Kind von Anfang an vegan ernähren? Carolin Schindbeer hat auch daran gedacht: Um Kindern von klein an die vegane Ernährung schmackhaft zu machen, finden Sie kindgerechte Rezepte und wertvolle Tipps für den optimalen Einstieg in die vegane Ernährung.Überzeugen Sie sich von der Qualität dieses gelungenen Familienkochbuchs mit einem Klick auf den „Blick ins Buch“.Worauf warten Sie also noch? Profitieren auch Sie ab sofort von den vielen erstaunlich einfachen und gleichzeitig leckeren Rezepten für die ganze Familie, in dem Sie das Buch jetzt bestellen. Das bringt nicht nur Ihrer Familie mehr Freude, sondern vor allem Ihnen mehr Leichtigkeit beim gemeinsamen Schlemmen.Viel Freude beim Ausprobieren und guten Appetit! [mehr]
Stichwörter: Kochen für die Familie, Familienrezepte, schnell und einfach kochen, Kochen mit kindern, Familienkochbuch, Familie kochen, rezepte für kinder, familienküche, schnelle familienküche, kochen für kinder, einfache gerichte, schnelle mahlzeiten
9,99 €
Helmut Schmidt
Julia - Roman 1. Kapitel
- Liebe
- Deutsch
- 1 Wörter
- Keine Altersempfehlung
- 1057
- 2
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Julia 1. Kapitel
Im Wartezimmer gab es nur noch einen Stuhl der nicht besetzt war. Seit mehr als einer Stunde saß ich hier mit elf Patienten in diesem tristen Raum. Die Stühle waren unbequem; keiner sagte ein Wort. Die Luft war stickig, obwohl ein Fenster geöffnet war. Meine Füße schmerzten wie nach einem zehn Kilometer-Marsch. Ich hätte diese unbequemen Pumps nicht anziehen sollen, dachte ich. Ich taxierte die Menschen im Raum und mir fiel auf, dass ich im Vergleich zu allen anderen Frauen doch recht üppig gestylt war. Das störte mich aber nicht besonders. Ich liebte es, meine Haare schick zu frisieren, ein dezentes, aber gutaussehendes Make up aufzulegen und große Ohrringe zu tragen. Mein Kleiderschrank hatte fast eine halbe Stunde leiden müssen, bevor ich mich für ein sehr elegantes, ultramarin-blaues Kostüm entschieden hatte. Es war mir immer wichtig einen guten Eindruck zu machen und zu hinterlassen. Aber mein Styling spielte für mich jetzt absolut keine Rolle. Ich fühlte mich hier nicht sehr wohl in diesem Warteraum. Ich wünschte mir eigentlich nur, dass die Tür geöffnet wurde und die Arzthelferin endlich den nächsten hereinbitten würde. Die meisten Patienten beschäftigten sich eifrig mit den Illustrierten, einige saßen nur stumm da und starrten auf den Boden; die Frau mir gegenüber durchsuchte nun schon zum vierten mal ihre Handtasche; aber ihrem Gesichtsausdruck konnte ich entnehmen, dass sie nicht finden konnte, was sie vermisste. Ich fing an darüber nachzudenken, ob sie überhaupt wusste, was sie suchte. Ich schätzte sie auf Anfang 50; etwa zehn Jahre älter als ich. Hin und wieder blickte sie zu mir herüber. Sie war eine attraktive Frau, wirkte sehr nervös. Okay, sie könnte viel mehr aus ihrem Typ machen; aber vielleicht fehlten ihr die finanziellen Mittel oder sie brauchte einen Farb-und Stilberater – möglicherweise war sie aber auch schwer psychisch krank und bemerkte gar nicht, wie altbacken ihre Frisur wirkte und das ihr Pulli offensichtlich zu heiß gewaschen worden war, die schreckliche Farbe dabei völlig außer acht gelassen. Sie wirkte völlig verkrampft und unruhig. Aber besonders entspannt fühlte ich mich auch nicht. Der Mann, der neben mir saß, gab in
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regelmäßigen Abständen leichte, aber nicht zu überhörende Stöhn-Geräusche von sich. Ich hatte keine Ahnung, warum er das tat, er tat es eben. Ich wartete seit einiger Zeit sogar darauf, dass ein erneutes Stöhnen von ihm zu hören war und überlegte, ob die Abstände dazwischen immer zeitgleich waren; aber das konnte ich nicht hundertprozentig beurteilen. Eine junge Frau am Fenster strickte mit sehr dicken Nadeln an einem Pullover in einer unglaublichen Geschwindigkeit. Wahrscheinlich wollte sie das selbstgemachte Teil heute Abend noch verschenken, obwohl es in dieser Jahreszeit bestimmt keiner tragen würde, wenn man nicht schwitzen wollte. Ich stellte mir vor, wie sie es am Abend in Windeseile noch auf dem prallgefüllten Küchentisch in Geschenkpapier einwickelte, die Beschenkte es dann eine Stunde später auspackte und sie dann mit Schrecken mit ansehen musste, dass sie vergessen hatte die Fäden zu vernähen. Irgendwie sind die doch alle bekloppt hier, dachte ich. Und ich saß mit all denen in diesem Wartezimmer. Was machte ich hier bloß? Ob es ein Fehler war hierher zu kommen? Sollte ich wieder gehen? Wie konnte Carmen mich nur hierher schicken? Ich überlegte, ob ich mein Taschenbuch erneut hervorholen und ein weiteres Kapitel lesen sollte; es war ein sehr spannendes Buch – etwas neues von Nora Roberts, konnte mich in einer Atmosphäre wie dieser aber nicht besonders gut auf das Geschehen in dem Buch konzentrieren. Vielleicht bekam ja irgendjemand gleich hier einen Anfall oder so was. Ich entschied mich dann nach einer Weile für eine der wenigen Illustrierten, die noch auf dem Tisch lagen, fing gerade an, darin herumzublättern, als plötzlich und endlich die Tür wieder geöffnet wurde. „Frau Julia Bartens bitte für Dr. Reiser“. Ich war erleichtert, dass das Warten für mich ein Ende hatte und folgte der Sprechstundenhilfe, die mich in das Zimmer zu Dr. Reiser führte, meine Krankenakte nicht sehr galant auf seinen Schreibtisch knallte und sofort darauf wortlos wieder verschwand. Wahrscheinlich hatte sie sich gestern Abend von ihrem Mann getrennt, dachte ich; vielleicht hat sie aber auch ihre Periode und damit ein Problem. Zumindest wirkte sie äußerst unfreundlich und schlecht gelaunt. „Frau Bartens, bitte nehmen Sie Platz“, begrüßte mich dann freundlicher der
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mir bislang völlig unbekannte Neurologe und Psychiater Dr. Ludwig Reiser. „Was kann ich für Sie tun?“ – Recht jung für einen Arzt, ging es mir durch den Kopf. Vielleicht zu jung. Aber sympathisch. Und dazu noch gutaussehend; und das nahm mir zunächst schon ein wenig die Angst, dass ich einem mir völlig fremden Menschen meine Probleme anvertrauen sollte. Er trug ein weißes Polo-Shirt, von dem keines der Knöpfe geschlossen war, so dass seine schwarzen dichten Brusthaare zu sehen waren, was mich für einen winzigen Augenblick leicht erregte. Sein Haupthaar war voll, und raffiniert geschnitten; er war bestens rasiert; an der Stirn war eine kleine Narbe zu sehen; (wahrscheinlich war er als Kind irgendwann einmal unglücklich gestürzt oder die Narbe war das Ergebnis einer Schlägerei mit einem Kommilitonen während seiner Studienzeit); seine Augen waren dunkel – ein Südländischer Typ, den ich mir sehr gut mit nacktem Oberkörper in einer Strand-Cocktailbar auf Mallorca vorstellen könnte, während ich bei ihm meine vierte Pina-Colada bestellte und im Hintergrund ein Sommerhit aus den Lautsprechern meine gute Laune steigerte, dachte ich. Seine Frau war zu beneiden, mit einem solchen Mann gesegnet zu sein – zumindest optisch. „Sie sind das erste Mal hier, ja?!“, fragte er dann, weil ich nicht spontan auf seine Frage geantwortet hatte; so dass ich den Eindruck hatte, ich stand hier etwas unter Zeitdruck. Verständlich, wenn noch elf weitere Patienten hier bei ihm Seelen-Striptease machen sollten; oder zumindest vier oder fünf, wenn der Rest dann bei dem Kollegen Dr. Schildmeyer vorgeladen wurde. Ganz davon abgesehen, wie viele weitere hier noch einen Termin hatten heute. Wieso bestellen die sich hier so viele Patienten auf einmal, die dann doch Stunden im Wartezimmer „ausharren“ müssen? Plant man hier nicht richtig? dachte ich. „Ja, ich bin…, also meine Freundin meinte, dass ich Hilfe benötige“, begann ich etwas unsicher. „Fein, wobei kann ich Ihnen also helfen?“ Ich sah mich um in dem Raum und schwieg eine Weile. Irgendwie war ich nach dem langen Warten gar nicht bereit jetzt „behandelt“ zu werden. An den Wänden hingen geschmackvolle Bilder, Regale waren vollgestopft mit Fachbüchern; die Behandlungsliege war mit einem knallroten Laken bespannt. Auf dem Schreibtisch stand neben dem
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Computermonitor, die Sprechanlage zum Vorzimmer, vielen Schreibutensilien, Stempeln und sonstigem Papierkram ein kleiner Bilderrahmen, den ich leider nur von hinten sehen konnte. Wahrscheinlich ein Foto seiner Frau oder seiner Kinder, dachte ich. „Woran denken Sie gerade, Frau Bartens?“, fragte er mich mit einem Kugelschreiber in der Hand, leicht schmunzelnd und beobachtend. Und spontan antwortete ich: „Ich denke an die Patienten im Wartezimmer, die sich jetzt immer noch so fühlen wie ich mich bis vor einer Minute noch gefühlt habe; wartend und ungeduldig. Sie warten darauf, dass Sie hier mit mir fertig werden – wenn ich dass mal so sagen darf – und deshalb fühle ich mich eingeengt und unter Zeitdruck“, meinte ich, während meine Augen an der Grünpflanze auf der Fensterbank hingen blieben, die meines Erachtens dringend Wasser brauchte; welches mir aber heute recht unwahrscheinlich schien, dass das passieren würde; weil bestimmt die Arzthelferin „Madame Schlechte Laune“ dafür zu sorgen und diese ja ihren miesesten Tag seit langem hatte. „Machen Sie sich oft Gedanken über das Wohl anderer? Kommt es häufig vor, dass Sie in erster Linie weniger an sich selbst denken ?“, fragte er; und ich spürte, dass wir mit diesen beiden Sätzen schon mitten in der Behandlung waren, und der gutaussehende, charmante, sicherlich verheiratete Vater von zwei phantastischen wohlerzogenen Töchtern im nächsten Augenblick in meiner Akte schreiben würde, dass ich an einem Helfersyndrom leide. „Nein, das war nur so ´n Gedanke – Entschuldigung“, antwortete ich. „Sie müssen sich dafür nicht entschuldigen“, sagte er. Und dann folgte: „Sagen Sie mir doch bitte, warum Sie der Meinung sind, dass Sie sich dafür entschuldigen müssten“. Ich schaute einen Moment nach unten und überlegte, welche Antwort jetzt die richtige wäre. Der Mann war schon dabei mich seelisch auszuziehen; und das gefiel mir nicht. Ich hatte geahnt, dass dieses Gespräch in der Gemeinschaftspraxis Dr. med. Ludwig Reiser und Dr. Udo Schildmeyer - Fachärzte für Neurologie und Psychiatrie so ablaufen würde. Ich hatte es hier also ganz offensichtlich mit Dr. Reiser zutun, obwohl mich niemand danach gefragt hatte, ob ich vielleicht nicht lieber von Herrn Dr. Schildmeyer behandelt werden möchte. Aber den kannte ich ja auch nicht.
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Er beobachtete mich irgendwie belustigt; das machte mich nervös. So attraktiv wie noch vor einer Minute war er plötzlich nicht mehr. Er wartete auf meine Antwort. „Frau Bartens?“ – Und ich sagte dann: „Ich habe mich nur dafür entschuldigt, weil dieser Satz nicht nötig gewesen wäre – wir haben damit nur Zeit verloren“. – „Sie denken also, dass Sie anders hätten antworten sollen?“ Meine Güte, was mache ich hier eigentlich, ging es mir durch den Kopf. Worüber rede ich mit diesem Typen? Warum habe ich das Gefühl, dass dieser Mensch hier eine gewisse Macht über mich ausübt? Was sollte das? Ich begann also noch mal von vorne. „Sie haben mich gefragt, woran ich gerade denke. Und wahrscheinlich haben Sie erwartet, dass ich Ihnen als Antwort mein Problem anvertraue, denke ich; ich meine warum ich eigentlich hier bin, womit ich nicht klarkomme“, erwiderte ich etwas vorsichtig. Es machte ihm Spaß diese – meines Erachtens – schwachsinnige Unterhaltung zu führen und meinte: „Sie sind also der Meinung, dass Sie auf meine Fragen so antworten müssen, damit ich zufrieden bin? Frau Bartens, ich habe sie gefragt, woran Sie denken, und Sie haben mir gesagt, dass Ihnen die wartenden Patienten durch den Kopf gehen. Das war ehrlich und völlig richtig. Jede andere Antwort hätte nicht der Wahrheit entsprochen“. Ich nickte leicht zufrieden und schaute dann etwas verunsichert wieder einen Moment auf meine Schuhe. Na, dann ist es ja gut, dachte ich. Dann können wir ja nun noch mal von vorne beginnen. Ich überlegte einen Moment, wie ich diesem Mann jetzt am besten mein Problem beibringen könnte, aber dabei wurde ich schon wieder unterbrochen von ihm: „Sie schauen nun schon das zweite mal nach unten, Frau Bartens. Verraten Sie mir doch bitte, ob Sie sich unwohl fühlen hier“. „Ich fühle mich nicht unwohl; ich schaue nur gerne mal hin und wieder hier und dort hin. Außerdem tun mir meine Füße weh, weil ich die falschen Schuhe gewählt habe. Und wohin soll ich denn sonst schauen? Ich hab´ mir ihr Zimmer doch schon angesehen“, protestierte ich; und fühlte mich nach dieser Frage jetzt mehr als unwohl. „Und ? Gefällt es Ihnen?“ – „Was ?“ – „Na, mein Behandlungszimmer. Ist es für Ihren Geschmack stilvoll eingerichtet, oder was würden Sie verändern?“, bohrte er und lehnte sich nun zum ersten Mal
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lässig zurück an die Rückenlehne des Schreibtischstuhls. – Das Gespräch blieb für mich absolut unsinnig. Ich hatte nach dem schlechten Opening gehofft, dass wir nun eine „normale“ Unterhaltung beginnen würden, aber er wollte es anscheinend nicht. Solche banalen Kommunikationen hatte ich schon oft geführt mit Männern, die mich mit einem halbvollen Glas Bier in der Hand in Pubs oder Kneipen dumm von der Seite anquatschten, wenn sie schon leicht angeheitert waren und das Anmachen für sie somit leichter war; und bei denen ich es dann genoss sie abblitzen zu lassen; aber erst dann, wenn ich ein ebenso etwa zehnminütiges schwachsinniges Gespräch mit denen geführt – um nicht zu sagen – sie total verarscht und irgendwie - gewonnen hatte. Hier war es nicht anders; nur, dass dieser Typ Arzt war und mich nicht anbaggern wollte; was im Grunde eigentlich schade war, wenn er nicht so gut aussehen würde, obwohl jetzt von Minute zu Minute seine attraktive Optik mehr und mehr nachließ. „Entschuldigen Sie, es ist ein Behandlungszimmer; was soll man denn daran großartig stilvoll einrichten? Außerdem ist es ihr Behandlungszimmer, das können Sie doch einrichten wie Sie es für richtig halten. Ich bitte Sie ja auch nicht in meine Wohnung zu kommen und mich zu beraten was ich verändern soll“. Ich überlegte kurz ob ich das so hätte sagen sollen; schaute Dr. Reiser dann aber direkt in die Augen und nicht mehr nach unten, zu der Grünpflanze, den Bildern an den Wänden, dem Fotorahmen von hinten auf dem Schreibtisch; aber den klebenden Blick in seine Augen hielt ich nicht lange stand. „Und schon wieder haben Sie sich entschuldigt“, meinte der Doc und hatte sogar recht damit. (Ich finde das richtig scheiße hier, Doc Reiser – wir labern hier nun schon seit fünf Minuten über diesen Raum, über meine Gedanken und vor allem über meine taktvolle Art, mich zu entschuldigen; was ich aber anscheinend nicht darf. Wenn ich nicht schon krank bin, dann machst Du mich krank, Doc Reiser, ja! Und lange werde ich mir das hier bestimmt nicht mehr antun, außerdem bringen diese Scheiß-Schuhe mich um) „Die Blume braucht Wasser“, sagte ich ganz spontan; „und knallrote Bettlaken finde ich richtig daneben. Erst mal sieht ein knallrotes Laken für mich tuntig aus, hinzu kommt, dass diese Farbe bestimmt abfärbt und somit alleine
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gewaschen werden muss, weil man sonst alles versaut – zusammen mit anderen Textilien, meine ich. Die Bilder an den Wänden gefallen mir allerdings“. Vielleicht war das nun die richtige Antwort, die er hören wollte. „Na bitte – Und ohne sich dafür zu entschuldigen, sagen Sie mir das?“ – „Sie haben es mir verboten“, sagte ich bestimmend; obwohl das nicht ganz richtig war. Dr. Reiser musste darüber lachen; ich fand es alles andere als komisch, dann wechselte er das Thema. „Sie sagten vorhin, dass eine Freundin Ihnen geraten hat, Sie sollten einen Psychiater aufsuchen, Frau Bartens“. Ich hatte keine Ahnung, was das nun sollte. Ich wusste aber, dass ich mich bestimmt wieder hervorragend mit meiner besten Freundin Carmen verstehen würde, und zwar nachdem ich sie erwürgt hatte, weil sie mir diesen Gehirnklempner empfohlen hatte. Dr. Reiser bestimmte das Gespräch. Er stellte die Fragen, ich hatte zu antworten; ganz nebenbei wurde aber jede Bewegung die ich machte auseinandergepflückt, jede Antwort sowieso. Jetzt wurde Carmen in dieses Gequatsche hineingezogen. Nein, das lasse ich nicht zu, dachte ich und reagierte dementsprechend. „Wir sollten nicht vom Thema abweichen, Herr Dr. Reiser. Ich bin mit Ihrem Behandlungszimmer noch nicht fertig. Das Bild dort auf Ihrem Schreibtisch; ist das Ihre Frau? Ich kann es leider nur von hinten sehen.“ – Er schmunzelte wieder. Ich spürte genau, dass er mich für komplett durchgeknallt hielt, aber das war mir egal. Ich hasste es, dass diese gelehrten Psycho-Mediziner sofort die Macht über die Patienten hatten; dabei war doch allgemein bekannt, dass über 70 % aller Psychiater selbst in psychiatrischer Behandlung waren. Kein Wunder; die mussten sich ja auch den ganzen Tag die Geschichten von „Bekloppten“ anhören. Er nahm den Bilderrahmen in seine Hände und betrachtete das Foto darin. „Ja, das ist meine Frau. Möchten Sie das Foto sehen?“ Ich hätte jetzt erwartet, dass er es auf seinen Platz hätte stehen lassen, sofort umgedreht und mir zeigte, aber er hielt die Zügel in diesem Spiel fest. „Nein“, antwortete ich kurz. „Ich frage mich nur, warum Sie ein Bild Ihrer Frau hier auf Ihrem Schreibtisch stehen haben. Sie sehen sie doch heute Abend sicher schon wieder. Oder ist sie vereist? Ich meine, es geht mich nichts an – Entschuldigung…“ (oh scheiße, jetzt hatte ich dieses Wort schon wieder
-8-
gesagt; und gleich musste ich ein drittes Mal erklären, warum – deshalb versuchte ich noch schnell die Situation zu retten) „Entschuldigen Sie bitte das Wort „Entschuldigung“ – das wollte ich eigentlich gar nicht sagen; denn wozu sollte ich mich entschuldigen, nicht wahr?!“. Und bevor er einhaken und mich wieder foltern konnte, sagte ich: „Vielleicht hat Ihre Frau auch ein Foto von Ihnen auf dem Schreibtisch stehen, falls sie an einem Schreibtisch arbeitet; oder aber auch eins in ihrem Portemonnaie oder zumindest in ihrer Handtasche – ist ja okay – wahrscheinlich ein Zeichen dafür, dass Sie sich immer noch lieben oder sich immer wieder irgendwie ansehen müssen; und wenn es nur auf einem Foto ist. Es könnte natürlich auch einen anderen Grund haben“. Ich machte eine kurze Pause; wollte ihm diesen Grund gar nicht nennen; aber diese Chance bekam ich nicht. „An welchen Grund denken Sie da, Frau Bartens ?“ Er sollte ihn hören, diesen Grund, doch dazu benötigte ich vorher eine kleine Information, und diese durchaus nichts bringende Unterhaltung fing an, mir in einer gewissen Weise Spaß zu machen. „Wie viele Patienten behandeln Sie hier am Tag?“ – „Das ist ganz unterschiedlich; aber im Schnitt sind es etwa zwanzig; warum fragen Sie“, lautete seine Antwort, die natürlich sofort wieder mit einer Frage gekoppelt war; um mir ganz deutlich zu stecken, dass er immer noch der Arzt war – ich die Kranke. „Nun ja“, begann ich, „wenn wir mal davon ausgehen, dass die Hälfte dieser Patienten weiblich ist, und – ganz unabhängig von ihren Problemen – davon wieder fünfzig Prozent noch recht attraktiv, ich meine, was Sie unter attraktiv verstehen, und jede Frau Ihnen hier persönliches, privates, ja, meistens sicherlich auch intimstes aus ihrem Leben erzählt, dann könnte es doch gut möglich sein, dass Sie sich hin und wieder in die Gefahr begeben, sich in die eine oder andere zu verlieben. Und in einem solchen Moment schauen Sie dann auf das Foto Ihrer Frau und sehen, wie schön und makellos sie doch ist, und das es sich nicht lohnt, diese wahrscheinlich perfekte, immer verständnisvolle Ehefrau zu betrügen; und wenn dieses Betrügen auch nur im Kopf stattfindet“. Pause. Er starrte mich nur an; sein Schmunzeln war verschwunden, aber sein rechter Mundwinkel war ganz leicht angehoben, so dass ich den Eindruck bekam, dass er mir
-9-
damit zwar weiterhin seine Macht zeigen wollte, ich ihm aber auch endlich mal die Wahrheit und nichts als die Wahrheit gesagt hatte; ja, ich hatte einen Stachel ausgefahren und ihn getroffen, dachte ich, und diese Situation war für ihn irgendwie neu – zumindest hatte ich das Gefühl; und es hätte mir eine Art Befriedigung verschafft, wenn es denn so wäre; denn diesen Gesichtsausdruck, den er nun auflegte, war neu für mich und ich sah diesen nun zum ersten Mal bei ihm. Ich überlegte, wie es nun weiterging und wie er nun reagieren würde. Wahrscheinlich würde er mir jetzt das Bild zeigen; was aber nicht geschah. Er hielt es weiterhin in seinen Händen und fragte mich dann: „Halten Sie sich für attraktiv, Frau Bartens?“ Damit hatte ich nun nicht gerechnet. „Bitte ?“ – Er wusste genau, dass ich die Frage akustisch bestens verstanden hatte, genoss aber meine Verunsicherung und wiederholte sie, setzte sogar noch einen drauf. „Ob Sie sich für attraktiv halten. Wie sehen Sie sich selbst? Finden Sie, dass Sie makellos sind, optisch perfekt?“ - „Ich bin ganz sicher nicht makellos und perfekt. Weder optisch noch charakterlich. Wer behauptet das schon von sich? Wenn ich all das wäre, dann säße ich sicher nicht hier bei Ihnen, oder? Und was Attraktivität betrifft, ich denke, dass sollte man von sich selbst nicht sagen; ich mache das zumindest nicht. Das sollen andere entscheiden; außerdem ist das eine Geschmacksfrage“; und das war meine ehrliche Meinung dazu. „Das ist eine selbstbewusste Einstellung, Frau Bartens. Verraten Sie mir aber doch jetzt bitte, warum Sie davon ausgehen, dass all diese positiven Eigenschaften auf meine Frau zutreffen?“ – Verunsichert schaute ich wieder nach unten zu meinen immer noch schmerzenden Füßen. Dieses Wort – ja, dieses Wort sollte jetzt kommen, denn jetzt passte es wirklich und würde auch seinen Sinn erfüllen. Ich musste es sagen, und wenn ich Glück hatte, würde er es sogar annehmen diesmal. Ich sollte auch nicht länger warten damit. Ich schaute wieder hoch, sah ihn an und wagte es; und zwar deutlich. „Entschuldigung, Herr Dr. Reiser – Sie haben recht. Es gibt keinen Grund, dass ich mir über Ihre Frau ein Urteil erlaube; das war nicht sehr höflich von mir“. Ich wollte noch ein zweites „Entschuldigung“ hinterher schieben, ließ es dann aber bleiben. Er sah mich weiter an und schwieg.
-10-
Kein Kommentar von Dr. Reiser warum ich so geantwortet hatte. Ich sah wieder auf meine Schuhe, begann meine Füße aneinander zu reiben, überlegte kurz, ob ich mich trauen sollte, meine Schuhe auszuziehen, ließ es bleiben, sah wieder hoch zu ihm. Unser Schweigen dauerte an. Nach etwa zwei Minuten (obwohl es mir wie mehrere Stunden vorkam) ertrug ich es nicht mehr. „Und?“ sagte ich. Und endlich brach auch er die unerträgliche Stille. „Ich denke, dass Sie das Foto doch ganz gerne sehen würden, und ich frage Sie, wie ist sie denn dann, meine Frau, wenn Sie nun plötzlich Ihrer Meinung nach doch nicht perfekt ist, Frau Bartens ?“ Das war zu viel. Dieser Mann verarschte mich. Ja, er verarschte mich so, wie es schon zu viele Männer getan hatten. Ich hatte keine Lust mehr, diese „Behandlung“ noch länger über mich ergehen zu lassen. Keine Minute länger würde ich mir das hier antun. Es war mir scheißegal, ob hier ein Psychiater, ein Staatsanwalt oder gar der Papst persönlich vor mir saß. Ich kochte vor Wut, stand auf, und dann schrie ich es laut heraus: „Das weiß ich doch nicht. Was denken Sie eigentlich wer Sie sind und was wir hier machen? Diesen Psycho-Terror können Sie sich an den Hut stecken. Und jetzt zeigen Sie mir endlich dieses Scheiß-Foto von Ihrer Frau, verdammt!“ Im gleichen Moment riss ich ihm den Bilderrahmen aus der Hand, schaute darauf und sah eine sehr hübsche, lächelnde, blonde Frau von etwa vierzig Jahren. Das Foto war oben rechts unter dem Rahmen mit einem schwarzen Trauerband versehen… [mehr]
Stichwörter: Roman, Liebe, Drama, Arzt
Kostenlos
Dr. Sonnet Mondal.
Fusion Sonnets of 21st Century
21 Lines
- Lyrik und Poesie
- Englisch
- 1 Wörter
- Keine Altersempfehlung
- 493
- 2
Sonnet 1
The white clouds, in black theme;
Hidden daylight on the Eastern earth,
For Great Poets a dreadful dearth,
For the poetic vegetation to take birth ;
The spotted moon shining upon its seam-
Without vitality, fragile against the agile clouds,
Heading towards it to spread the shroud,
No star in the scenery, no men to cry aloud;
Where’s the smile, where’s the gleam?
Where’s the hope where’s the dream?
The billows will fall as water vapours
Upon the wish of the Lord!
If not poetry will form itself in the dark-
Fighting to shape its form.
The white clouds in the black theme ;
Perhaps the fault of the painter…
Colors spreading toward the subject tower;
A new shade to be brushed
To save it from being crushed;
Or a few drops upon the face with a pull on the edges will form-
The spotted moon, shining upon its seam.
Sonnet 2
Oh, Old, Bold, kingly building…
You stand here for the fifteen decades of transition-
So many changes in thoughts travelling through sensation-
Of wars and treaties, cries and cremations;
Oodles of the century in your stoic ceiling!!!
Your eroded body with weathered paint-
Must be turning you faint,
Without a space to launch a complain, all constrained.
Are you not bored standing here, then why are you smiling?
I know you have whims; still why aren’t you appealing?
The day isn’t far when the circulating air in your galleries-
Will break open the blockage of the ministerial ears,
And will force them to dress up with new color perhaps white-
Then the parties and dances will kiss off your boredom.
Oh, Old, Bold, kingly building…
Are you not jaded with the age old architecture?
No more does it winch your structure.
The people residing have pinned loads of pegs in your skin –
Haven’t your soul ever wanted to move out of this sin?
Still from where do you gather the power to bear-
Oodles of the century in your stoic ceiling!!!
Sonnet 3
Hours of waste heaped beside your shores;
Nature started you with the touch of purity perhaps from the hands of a priest,
With glaciers creating you and flakes creating mist,
Boulders standing on the way showing you fist;
Still you flow, form and find inspite of the infected core.
People say you to be life and still treat you as dustbin,
Curtailing the ability of the moving fins-
To move about, live or swim,
Above is it layer of smoke and over you, the oil pores?
When would men realize, actions will cause sores?
The sores would rise above the skin to expose themselves;
The children would scream in pain-
Perhaps then the guys would realize
And clear your feet and drop flower on you.
Hours of waste heaped beside your shores;
The human blood overburdened with sorrows,
Showing the step of the fellows,
Anxiety, grief abound in veins-
Layering it the hidden pains…
Scores of ups and downs in the course-
Still you flow, form and find inspite of the infected core.
Sonnet 4
The mother sat with hanging tongue, brooding over conscience;
The puppies in their own world of Natural toys; above the cawing ravens,
Bits of stones comprise their castle, their heaven…
Stolen splendor, innocent appeal, thoughtless vitality – all woven;
The platonic smell in mystic hairs within immortal science.
The new-borns were lessened by one in number,
The very next date, after the time of human supper,
The mother seemed fresh, her stomach looked fatter;
Was it her who did it in some shallow mines?
You were the cause of production, then what led you break the charming rhymes?
Must be to reduce an extra burden of –
Or to cure someone off the circle of existence;
Perhaps the soul will go to merge into the supreme soul-
Or the hunger would never return again.
The mother sat with hanging tongue, brooding over conscience;
The burning heat had vaporized the saliva of the mother,
The hanging skin of her belly had arose a blood hunger,
That supplemented her crooked eyebrows towards a female child-
And lured her towards becoming savage and wild.
Perhaps crops and economy would improve and prepare you to conceive-
The platonic smell in mystic hairs within immortal science.
Sonnet 5
The steel cages rusted, rotted yet strong and bold,
Inside them lies a separate world of wild limbs limping-
And turned inert with torture and malfunctioning,
Their bloody flesh exposed a slapdash attitude with distressed feeling.
Excitement in eyes, pleasure in heart, wonder in minds from sufferings untold.
The fierce paws perhaps waiting for the head,
One chance will kiss alive the daring dead!
They are here cogently none of them are well fed.
What makes them stay here for hours in heat and cold?
What if God decides to move them to eternity from these nuts and bolts?
The crowd is increasing with the number of days in earth’s calendar,
Perchance some eyes would feel the ensuing death-
And scream in protest, close the doors-
To provide zeal to work and vigor to our pulse.
The steel cages rusted, rotted yet strong and bold,
The values disgraced and degraded in an ever-sinking trough-
The well born meant to rule and the ill born destined to plough!
The hunger forces them to spread their hands and bow their heads-
Possibly one lord would see the angry eyes desiring to weave wreaths-
And would start heaping red soil in the gulf of separation to change the world of-
Excitement in eyes, pleasure in heart, wonder in minds from sufferings untold.
Sonnet 6
The signs of the past signaling them though the walls of the museum-
Ancestral figures sleeping inside glasses;
A nostalgic journey embedded inside multifaces;
Moving in and out, the sorrowfully happy masses.
The bridge which leads to our much coveted past’s stadium.
The plaster over the stony bones undergoing depreciation,
Unnoticed or willfully derelict till the boss comes for inspection.
Most of the doors have been closed under the poster of renovation!
When will the gates containing history open in open fluid medium?
Is it also ordained to face the delaying court of law, in this millennium?
Beside the central entrance, bamboos have been erected,
The floor is dusty but to support the roof;
The work has started, the contractors engaged, the workforce is on-
Perhaps that could smell breathe into the sleeping statues.
The signs of the past signaling them though the walls of the museum-
Fated to be silent in reaction of the course of detrimental activities,
Carried out by those still figures with cavities-
They didn’t care to save their past-
Then we are far better in saving them in any caste.
We will still care without anger and act to preserve,
The bridge which leads to our much coveted past’s stadium.
Sonnet 7
The two sparrows fluttering feathers in the mud water-
The summer heat outside raging over the northern tropic;
The folded leaves, dozing crowns, piercing sunlight caught in the camera’s click.
The shot captured the lifted tails, squashy feathers, twinkling eyes and the insect in the beaks.
While the thirsty earth begs for some juice, nature seems to be interested only in its care.
The camera turned to jail more of such scenery-
The dusty structures all around surrounded by ironical greenery;
No where a second such beauty; what a slavery!
Have all other sparrows left the bower?
Why didn’t the scene act as an inspirational shelter?
Some rays have acted worse than the scorching sunlight!
They must end soon, for more lovely views to be viewed;
Or they will turn to iron falcons
To take up the reign of survival.
The two sparrows fluttering feathers in the mud water-
Want of water all over the thirsty city,
Still fumes are up over the trees; what a pity!
The realization yet to be dawned and distributed-
Or the living brains would turn to boiler heads;
The water pumps of actions are being cleared to prevent the rule of insects-
While the thirsty earth begs for some juice, nature seems to be interested only in its care.
Sonnet 8
The shirts and pants hanging from the ropes crisscrossing the room-
Perhaps they were washed today; the last drops still appear on the floor;
They are yet not dry, held together by something in the core,
One of them appears red, indicative drops, apart from those dropping from pores.
Below the roof a new world has bloomed.
Sleepy eyes, sinking figure, loose fingers upon different brands of wine and fusion,
Hallucinations cutting towards flattering illusion,
The smoke rising and curling up to create a new creation of destruction.
Are they heading towards perfection in passion or ultimate doom?
Have the labeled bottles perforated their body or they find happiness in gloom?
Addiction will vanish in another six months-
Vital forces of the drunk, will end in water-
The dying whim of employment would turn them loyal;
The compulsion to perform will certainly speak in favor of betterment.
The shirts and pants hanging from the ropes crisscrossing the room-
The yes failed to see those burning veins-
Whither no blood but alcohol drains!
Neither parents nor teachers interested for their survival-
The sensed out bodies with the red color tearing through eyes-What a carnival?
They will spin to ashes and then the renunciation will make the scholars utter as if-
Below the roof a new world has bloomed.
Sonnet 9
Peace all over the pitch black abode of the sleeping souls-
A faint weep could be heard, mysterious yet sad-
A half burnt man sat on his grave, over his head a tattered hat
A symbol of his success that turned his enemies mad.
Triumph or collapse both being part of life, harmony was packed into holes.
His lament was for what he failed to complete-
His annoyance was that he was competent to compete,
Yet was shot dead before his works could reach the country fleet.
Why did they tell then that ‘you aren’t applying for big goals’?
And when he did why did they stole his discoveries and tear his brain’s poles?
A figure rose from behind, awakened by his daily sobs-
That world is a punishment, the graveyard is serene;
You have worked a lot and now the Lord wants you to wait,
Till those assassins finish their span and come here with no bed to sleep.
Peace all over the pitch black abode of the sleeping souls-
The moans of the dead specify his failure to satisfy himself-
Even with huge money and innovations in his shelf,
Still he didn’t wait but tried to run with wrong associations-
That led to his untimely fall, and post death frustrations.
Now, it’s the hour to realize the world’s way-
Triumph or collapse both being part of life, harmony was packed into holes.
Sonnet 10
The time has vanished when I used to rely upon my branches-
I am now, just like a tree whose lithe boughs have congealed,
Enduringly bent and rotten without the sap inside that have been sealed
Somewhere else, for someone else’s to be filled.
The provider of shade is now herself craving for calm benches.
The yearning in psyche is still strong yet has lost poise,
My opinion doesn’t matter anymore owing to my faint voice;
I fear placing my words to prevent creating noise.
Shall the doctors be able to cure me to early stages?
Or shall I be forced to be like this for the rest of my ages?
I will stay in this form, but will not groan in pain-
When my children are enduring me, shall I not endure them?
Let my branches fall and let me turn cripple,
Till I have the verve in the nerves of my eyes, I must see them idyllic.
The time has vanished when I used to rely upon my branches-
Perhaps I have disused the forming element of my cadaver-
This had left me like a brittle glass upon the soft bed cover;
I have no clout to enjoy but smirk occasionally-
When I see them laughing in joy, those who care me blissfully;
Let this be my life now, contended with all I had over the years and forget that-
The provider of shade is now herself craving for calm benches.
Sonnet 11
Outside the lights are up, the grand fiesta of lights has stepped inside halls-
But they have botched to skulk within me.
My eyes are wide open to seize the brightness and feel the glee,
Yet times and over it is murkiness and tedium, what it could see!
The large bursts crashed against my ears, crackers burned in my eyeballs…
Over two decades ago, it was the similar night, same as today
Two kids at the doorsteps, behind them their father was about to join the play-
I had evil commitment and my spiteful arm shot him to taste the clay…
Is it my turn now to cart the heavy death’s shawl?
Or should I wait for heavenly calls?
The peccadillo I had adhered to blinks each moment,
Let me spread my hands to be taken away by the handless,
Let my only dwelling be temple!
Let me wait before I sleep.
Outside the lights are up, the grand fiesta of lights has stepped inside halls-
I was a sincere murderer; I was bound by profession;
The ferocious sounds have provided a base of my frustration;
The reason may be my wobbly fingers and meager eyesight,
That pulls me back, say me no and deter me from having my fight.
Can those children without senses, with slaughtered father be my now…?
The large bursts crashed against my ears, crackers burned in my eyeballs…
Sonnet 12
Tension crawled and prevailed over the creepers in the mangrove and vineyard-
The other day witnessed the death of the grasses;
The army with spades and machines moving in masses,
To trample upon herbs, chop down the mangrove without any traces.
Nature is silent perhaps dumb to see the greenery turning to a grey graveyard!
The land that swelled amongst leaves now presented waterless soil,
As if the human race choked in a python coil;
The huge figures were cut into pieces, loaded in trucks and the wastes were boiled.
Was there none to choose barren yards?
Now who will provide fruits of life and shelter to birds?
The last one was left but covered by worms of hundred types-
Their only home was left- not an inch without a group of them;
The green hue emitted the color of industries-
The spades dropped from the hands, now looked at the seeds, the basis of creation.
Tension crawled and prevailed over the creepers in the mangrove and vineyard-
Unwanted, undesirable minds moved their arms without perceiving thoughts-
Depending upon the sales of those destroyed and the deceiving papers they got.
The mute worms made them look into themselves and kindled thinking power-
What if there’s neither rain nor the life sustaining showers!
They will now take up their tools and dig the ground to cremate the notes, still
Nature is silent perhaps dumb to see the greenery turning to a grey graveyard!
Sonnet 13
The deformed woman, in her eightieth revolution round the sun,
Like thin black rotten skin pasted upon a skeleton frame;
She came out of the crowd and called out to blame,
For the dirt were uncared by the juvenile bloods-a terrible shame!
The gaze through the spectacles looked spectacular with the stick, as if preparing to run.
With a broom in her hands she brushed the floor,
Fifty men and women all standing without thinking to adore,
No one humble enough to share with her before she pushes the dust out of the door.
What she thinks of such person avoiding their turn?
Or does she take it as her old-age fun?
She is not worn out but looked most carefree still in her senescence –
The servant suddenly arrived to fall to her feet and take the charge-
Of cleaning, staring with surprise at the crowd who never knew-
Who was combing the ground was a landlady.
The deformed women, in her eightieth revolution round the sun,
Sunburns and distortions in form were a result of her long service-
For days to serve the people gathering at her office;
This was years ago, but still now God has kept her strong-
While travelling and cleaning places all along-
The natives were dormant but now buoyant to take up charge of reformations while-
The gaze through the spectacles looked spectacular with the stick, as if preparing to run.
Sonnet 14
Falling heavily, the rains barred us from moving out-
My thoughts boarded upon the boat of chimera and rowed to my land,
Crossing the oceans to reach the shore where stands my dwelling of sand;
My nostalgia played a mischief upon my beliefs with a magic wand.
Waiting beside to see the waves pull down the structure setting laws of timeout.
O Ocean Fluid you are perpetual flowing with the same pace,
Then why are you so fervent to crack away my heart’s case?
I endure the groaning pain which for the mankind absorb no place.
Will it persist drizzling and create unanswerable doubts?
Out should I move, prepare myself for a bout?
By the time the showers will stop, may be all of a sudden,
But the colorists will get some time to complete their work-
To paint my home, and all along to paint my gloom;
They must be working hard; the nature has lent his hand.
Falling heavily, the rains barred us from moving out-
Grueling me for my actions through its own measures,
I was wrong to make someone cry for my own pleasure-
To leave address and set up a new,
But destiny desired failure for me amongst my crew.
I hope Mother Nature indubitably will exonerate me or I will be-
Waiting beside to see the waves pull down the structure setting laws of timeout.
Sonnet 15
The girls came to me, each with the opinion of being diverse in their own tales-
The first one with the policy of ‘to be for one is to be forever’;
The second one with the principle ‘to love I belong never’;
The third one with the words ‘to head towards love is a daring endeavor’;
Confusion prevailed over my musing wits with those terse lines from the females.
Spending a night with each will increase my awareness and compel,
All of them were to be my lovers to compete swell, to lift me up from the baffling well,
The second one came, she lost; the first one with a pre-relation, she too failed;
The third one tried to be safe; wasn’t all swept in just a gale?
Was this their commitment to lips or was there more for fake sales?
The will power of women didn’t lie in words but they are like volatile chemicals,
Touch and vanish without informing, sometimes leaving a trace-
To fall into them is like digging deep in a well,
Still I would experiment, if not the purity of words then the purity of pelt.
The girls came to me, each with the opinion of being diverse in their own tales-
Experimenting was just a filthy cause, lust lasted in heap,
Unsatisfied with one that led to two and three and seep-
The beauty beneath the blood; the feeling of ship in a storm,
Perhaps I chose those girls changing their norms;
I fell in love through yearn, but they seemed to scorn…
Confusion prevailed over my musing wits with those terse lines from the females.
Sonnet 15
The girls came to me, each with the opinion of being diverse in their own tales-
The first one with the policy of ‘to be for one is to be forever’;
The second one with the principle ‘to love I belong never’;
The third one with the words ‘to head towards love is a daring endeavor’;
Confusion prevailed over my musing wits with those terse lines from the females.
Spending a night with each will increase my awareness and compel,
All of them were to be my lovers to compete swell, to lift me up from the baffling well,
The second one came, she lost; the first one with a pre-relation, she too failed;
The third one tried to be safe; wasn’t all swept in just a gale?
Was this their commitment to lips or was there more for fake sales?
The will power of women didn’t lie in words but they are like volatile chemicals,
Touch and vanish without informing, sometimes leaving a trace-
To fall into them is like digging deep in a well,
Still I would experiment, if not the purity of words then the purity of pelt.
The girls came to me, each with the opinion of being diverse in their own tales-
Experimenting was just a filthy cause, lust lasted in heap,
Unsatisfied with one that led to two and three and seep-
The beauty beneath the blood; the feeling of ship in a storm,
Perhaps I chose those girls changing their norms;
I fell in love through yearn, but they seemed to scorn…
Confusion prevailed over my musing wits with those terse lines from the females.
Sonnet 16
It was the autumn festivity, liberated joy marked by a day of desires-
Desire for good shirts, good food, good friends, good journey-
Amongst the sea of wishes, there’s some, infact too many –
Glance at the season not as their means to toil but to earn money.
The alluring ladies enjoying the victuals, while server is in frayed attire.
Standing with his small child washing the crockery, the man behind the counter-
Occasionally he looks at his son, wipes off his sweat and tries to work faster,
While his son look at the merry-go-rounds; a vain dreamer.
To one it’s everything, to another it’s nothing; isn’t it a satire?
Will they earn enough capital to leap out from the poverty fire?
They are avoiding outlay, being ambitious towards some aim,
To stop the customary conditions in the rich and poor-
They want brotherhood, we too-
But the self-seeking people, let them value labor now.
It was the autumn festivity, liberated joy marked by a day of desires-
A freefalling object lightened the sky premises-
The mesmerizing night had made so truthful promises;
The astronauts too sighted the object and tried to track it,
Who should it belong; it fell to one of the hunger stricken feet;
The world has watched this through technology, no one to do injustice yet-
The alluring ladies enjoying the victuals, while server is in frayed attire.
Sonnet 17
Sometimes the sizzling sun, sometimes the blinding rain in the muddy plot,
Thwart my lazy veins to depart for daily classes,
But my poetic psyche begins its research ogling through the glasses-
Not at youthful lasses but at the blissful Sun, White sky, and growing grasses.
The Sun and Moon in their reverse course performing their duty to capture snapshots.
So many four years have passed; I will also go by-
The hazy metaphors of these days, some prominent yet among them, will surely make me cry;
I will earn a lot but will these things available for me to buy?
Where does the past passes and clot?
Is our sorrowful mind only facet of elucidation that we have got?
Lords must have fixed the sky to register and clouds as informer,
Wherever we go, leaving our land, to foster peace in our life,
Thinking or forgetting our times of yore to which we covet to come back some day,
The chronicle will keep on working; we’ll posses the criterion to see them.
Sometimes the sizzling sun, sometimes the blinding rain in the muddy plot,
If I went to class I couldn’t have travelled to the billow,
May be I have a different world like all others; yet I reside in a hollow-
Memories and mirrors, reflect a melancholic song when viewed closely,
We have our closed fingers yet outlets are many through which they escape simply;
Nature like a King fixes work for its subjects and has his own cameras with which-
The Sun and Moon in their reverse course performing their duty to capture snapshots.
Sonnet 18
The passing days enhance my loneliness, among pen and papers;
I talk to the two lizards-
Who too try to hide apart-
To escape from the smell of my unwashed body and dirty shirt.
I long for someone of any gender, somebody of any culture.
The door bell rang; she came inside my room-
A fairy out of nowhere, kissed away my gloom!
Time went by; she came closer, still I refused to turn myself to a bridegroom.
What do I want; to be like the solitary reaper?
Why my feelings wished a companion when I preferred tear?
I was barmy from within who failed to know his fancy;
Let me talk to the walls and books,
I love that more than speaking to robots;
They will listen all my words without protest.
The passing days enhance my loneliness, among pen and papers;
God should not have created me at least,
Let me now turn to a theist,
I may have challenged him-
To spend my life without fulfilling whims-
I now think of growing stronger, let me desire none yet,
I long for someone of any gender, somebody of any culture.
Sonnet 19
With the toughness in figure, sanctity in intellect, clarity acquired over the days-
He stood on one leg as the a stilted log, adamant in deep meditation,
Without food for a hundred days in the same condition;
Below his feet, woods have been stacked; a fire-stick has been ignited under stipulation.
The hermit stood upon the fire; unshaken by the blaze!
The day before the sage stated himself to be sacrificed in the fire of purity,
For the sake of peace and principles among degrading humanity;
No administrator took a step, though all gathered from the city.
Couldn’t the sage utilize his divine powers for civilizing the phase?
Couldn’t those idiots stop this or they wanted more of such plays?
May be some godly influence paralyzed the people and policemen,
Leaving their eyes to watch,
Conceivably this was to make them see the naked truth all around,
To make them act, for benevolence and be strict with rules.
With the toughness in figure, sanctity in intellect, clarity acquired over the days-
The religious norms yet not done away, we still wear them as gowns;
As the saint burnt without movement, his parts fell down.
The scene should have caused a shockwave
But all bowed with joined hands, fell to their knees but none dared to save.
Today I realize rationality has lost in religions, which forced the bold people stand as-
The hermit stood upon the fire; unshaken by the blaze!
Sonnet 20
The greatest Epic of all times had so much to teach, though followers are fewer;
The plight of women indicated though the pages of Mahabharata,
‘Panchali’ born in the lap of King Dhrupad; in the kingly strata;
A princess for whom gold was like water; coins could be treated as excreta.
She sat upon barbs, in spite of her glorious image and backing power.
She longed and dreamed of Arjuna but got four of the brothers along,
She didn’t complain; but which woman would act so strong-
When the evil hands fell on her clothing while her husbands sat in the throng!
How strong was the deal that the dignity of a woman fell lesser?
Just a game of dice; does it suit to the princely ears?
The squashing of a princess occurred in a time when God had incarnated,
Then are we not better at present? At least the laws are…
Or the epic ought to be an indication to future scenarios,
Written by some wise man from his vision.
The greatest Epic of all times had so much to teach, though followers are fewer;
‘Panchali’ perhaps tried to be teacher of the women cult-
This made her endure so many curses and insult;
Made her a women of respect but after centuries –
Still how many think of these and her glories?
Perhaps the wise man would take steps now, to spread the message of the lady who-
She sat upon barbs, in spite of her glorious image and backing power.
Sonnet 21
I called upon platonic love upon knowing you;
I proposed you first then persuaded you to conceive spirituality-
The night assisted with its serenity and tranquility,
Of romantic breeze carrying the smell of concealed beauty.
I was mad in passion or mad in illusion, upon the reflection from the dews.
She spoke, perhaps the nature had dawned similar effects at her place-
It seemed we were familiar from toes to face,
We roamed in heaven; she blushed, my eyes glazed.
What if a strong wind blew?
Will I not be brought back to those dozing few?
I had my wife yet she was like an obligatory being,
The poetess for whom my poetry will flow,
Beyond the wildest imaginings and thoughts-
Inviting readers from the superficial world.
I called upon platonic love upon knowing you;
Nasty eyes looking at the figure formed by brain,
Like a tree I fall upon your breasts; now to give pain-
My carnal desire of lust you have to fulfill,
Let me pour the immortal juice in you without any appeal.
My hunger is satisfied now, the sun has risen-
I was mad in passion or mad in illusion, upon the reflection from the dews.
Sonnet 22
I thought myself to be the central spark of a diamond, a rationalist;
But never realized to be centre of pastime for the hackers of heart,
I was brave and bold but now I dare not act smart,
For I have been deceived detrimentally mingling me with dirt.
I have exchanged blows but they are too many, the modernists.
Was I really suited for a scornful behavior laid upon my core?
By those who call themselves intellectuals of the shore;
They want us to butter them, or else burn the core.
Why don’t they bear us with their list?
Why do they act as the arrogant, ancient priests?
Perhaps fear, the only reason of dumping the good,
They know us to be better, suitable for the age-
Yet enforce rules, but how long will they succeed?
Time is now ripe for them to leave poetry and join politics.
I thought myself to be the central spark of a diamond, a rationalist;
The old fashion might not match the present period; much less to share-
But the philosophy does, the style too if nurtured with care.
Respect arising from foolishness will now turn to disdain them-
Uncover their functional courtesy, rip of their wallet of fame.
But shall I be alone again to protest?
I have exchanged blows but they are too many, the modernists.
Sonnet 23
The Bamboo framework was being put up for the fest;
Freedom was blowing like soft breeze though the branches of a ‘Gulmohar’,
While the workers worked as red ants before the ensuing winter,
The sky seemed to bop and bloom with white cotton flowers;
The frame made of the bare bones of a tree that couldn’t protest.
Waiting hearts would be so glad to see the completion,
Four days of delight, with desires to show up oneself; nothing but infatuation-
Towards neglecting the dark days of decimation.
Do we love to adhere to wastage of time and neglect the test?
Or are we machines limited to our capability of taking rest?
Perhaps some think that the population of flora has increased,
And some seek to derive delight from shortcuts deserting the fact.
Whatever may be, the bustle is just like crackers-
After they are fatigued, we are back again on our toes.
The Bamboo framework was being put up for the fest;
The following day would bring new apparel,
Noise from the performers and beggars would run parallel;
Just a sputter of hope in a petite fraction of time,
In a tasteless water sugar and lime;
Cherishing them would help us, or we all will be like-
The frame made of the bare bones of a tree that couldn’t protest.
Sonnet 24
My first night of gig; I was presented as an elocutionist for poetry recitation;
Days of hard work must turn fruits of success in fame,
Of understanding verse to make others do the same.
I was primed, yet it was the first instant; I didn’t realize it to be a game.
I never knew if, for my voice, my image to be set into aberration.
The culture of city was great sitting in its historical chair,
As I stepped into the stage, the lights were off, what a fear!
Lights in front were off, I finished my lexis, but no but no claps rang in the ears.
Didn’t my tone overflowing with feelings create any sensation?
Should I have refrained from appearing in shows; should I have been down in frustration?
Look at me today, thousands fight for tickets,
I shall not deprive them of their wish, for any revenge;
But shall smile while I perform, those day are over,
Left for stories while appearing in interviews.
My first night of gig; I was presented as an elocutionist for poetry recitation;
I was dire at reciting the lines, I feel at present,
The lights were off perhaps to encourage this peasant,
I cried outside; the feelings in it were more than the poetry I said,
A memory that is still waiting to fade.
Like the knife, I go sharper each time my lips shudder, but days ago-
I never knew if, for my voice, my image to be set into aberration.
Sonnet 25
We two brothers brought up in the same cradle of care;
Separation was not meant for us;
Hand in hand even in tightest mass,
For we were the seeds of the same grass.
The love was intended for a short time- I was left bare.
I wore a coat given by my mother,
A bracelet from my father,
Those were the only gifts in these long twenty years.
Did they prefer one than a pair?
Are brothers not meant to share?
I was possibly one hour older, I guess-
I had to bear for the younger one,
People knew me more than him,
Perhaps they wanted both to be blessed equally.
We two brothers brought up in the same cradle of care;
My wits are confusing me in my own thoughts,
For the job I have done and adore he has got;
I see no tension in his eyebrows,
While my forehead and figure shows,
The anxiety of being adopted; no place for tears, I should be grateful though-
The love was intended for a short time- I was left bare.
Sonnet 26
The train moved calmly, as the slayer wheels proceeded for a crime...
I was on another track, waiting for that to pass,
It was amusement watching the movement, like the rounds of compass-
Upon it travelling thousand people of a hundred class.
The mail, a minister, with its subjects on both sides, but none upon the lines!
The wailings of my mother, slapped me twice,
For the joy I tried to receive from that who had cut my brother into taciturn slice,
A mean of transport, inevitably strong, yet criminal in disguise-
Was I paying for the butcher’s shine?
He committed suicide; where lies the fault of mine?
We felt sorrow, perhaps due to the loss of an essential life!
Covered by magic and everyday findings,
No scope for exceeding grief, or I will be the cause of another as such;
He was liable for what he did in his senses; why should I shake!
The train moved calmly, as the slayer wheels proceeded for a crime...
A dog was barking in tremendous restlessness-index of concern,
For below the massive engine, was one of his son -
For a moment he was seen, the next his flesh was carried away,
The mother looked at her other brood, and took them to play.
A striking similarity and a possible solution upon the dubious kindness of
The mail, a minister, with its subjects on both sides, but none upon the lines!
Sonnet 27
The hospital looked overburdened with patients, a place to shed tears of sorrow;
A little child with broken leg passed by,
An old man whose veins seem to turn dry;
Sleepers spreading infectious dust against the warning board which seems to be a lie.
The jail teaching humanity, through the art to lend and borrow...
In a place where one wants nothing but support,
Though the hours of patience; as if the people bored-
In a ship trembling upon life-taking waters to reach the port.
If this is present, what is waiting for tomorrow?
The healers breaking beliefs; will they prolong hiding in burrows?
The natural medicine will enhance to accrue,
And ignite the germs within;
While the science of yoga establishing strong,
Weaving to cure the ill-treated.
The hospital looked overburdened with patients, a place to shed tears of sorrow;
The young boy, like an official during day and lamp at night –
Striving to cure his father- a damaged body creating fright.
That made his studies a bud in a plant full of roses,
Still to bloom, till his father wins over the daily doses.
Oh! If we were tough before proceeding in-
The jail teaching humanity, through the art to lend and borrow...
Sonnet 28
I wasn’t any versifier; you were, among the few;
Your philosophical ride wasn’t truthful,
Taking me as a loving fool;
Look, your gifted floras have twisted into plastic tools.
I searched your awarded creation to have a first sincere view.
What is it? My muse questioned me times and again-
I had thought of penning but it has all gone into vain-
The themes that were mine thrilled him with fame.
Why did I share with you the story of my dead son Andrew?
Why have you committed theft even from my stored dews?
I am your inspiration; my sad heart feels proud,
You had words to trim them; stud them with jewels.
What an expert observer and listener you were!
I fall to your knees, here lies your greatness.
I wasn’t any versifier; you were, among the few;
You were in the front greatness was behind-
The cause beheaded and then reflected in your canto of typical kinds...
As I bent like a bow, you appeared with a glow,
To take me by a rope and pierce me with a glint of an arrow-
Never did you try, but your action meant studying me; I knew as...
I searched your awarded creation to have a first sincere view.
Sonnet 29
The landscape that my imaginations drew upon the canvass of joy, philosophically,
Made me travel as far as the chariot of my mind took me to-
Feel the unfelt before being touched by the blue,
Lost to find a new world, to examine if it was true!
All the while reality was becoming blurred; smiling maliciously.
I had no feet neither weight,
Before a pond in which lilies have been drawn like plate-
A man on the other shore, handless, giggling upon fate.
Whose fate- mine or his, seemed deadly?
Has he read or foreseen some ensuing fury heading furiously?
The man must be another dreamer-
Painting upon something aesthetic, unreal, unwanted!
An escapist, let not be so-
The warning is turning red; let me sprinkle water upon my face.
The landscape that my imaginations drew upon the canvass of joy, philosophically,
Was for few hours of night-
The day wasn’t so bright, it demanded fight;
The man must be an incarnation-
Showing his hand lost to crocodiles in motion.
The water lilies like traps towards the end, I have now realized-
All the while reality was becoming blurred; smiling maliciously.
Sonnet 30
The tapering of feet was heard as I waited below the bridge;
The place hasn’t changed, but none seems to be bothered,
To see the new encroachments revolutionizing their lives, providing a machine guard.
I waited with bags of questions for my parents who must be still old colored.
They should see me and think of covering the gravel of peach...
Another hour marked no special entrance,
My dad as if marked by marker; my joy enhanced-
For my mother, another eye was waiting for a glance.
Where’s the connection to my ridge?
Was I wrong in replacing my inventory cartridge?
It had been so many days that I had waited and they too,
To see each other but she wasn’t there;
Brimming watery observation now thought,
Whether there was any need to change; perspective rules.
The tapering of feet was heard as I waited below the bridge;
I was born, perhaps for this day-
To learn that grief lies veiled behind being gay;
Stumbling into truth, I removed the curtain-
My face tuned red, to see hell in certain.
I fell to my father’s chest, he told- I’m still living; my heart still gave a statement-
They should see me and think of covering the gravel of peach...
Sonnet 31
A flower that sprinkled drops upon my cursed face;
Spreading binding variety like a television program,
Like trumpets of victory upon wooden drums-
Love accumulating in unbreakable lumps.
Let me smile, the time is ripe, of fruits and grace.
I screamed for her, the tall buildings broke my echoes,
I began moving my feet, the soil warned my toes;
She blinked through her waving hairs, but no care did it show.
Did her stem demand a stronger base?
Did she think me to be a toy in her showcase?
For some wayward moment, I thought her to be mine,
I wasn’t wrong, she too was not,
The gap betrayed us, yet left memories in the sediments,
Of gone days, to make us wink remembering cries
A flower that sprinkled drops upon my cursed face;
She had hr her dearer for being older,
I couldn’t leave impressions upon her style, I being newer;
I succeeded in tying a thread connecting our life-
This was cut by her sharp tongue that acted as a knife.
Sadness molded by joy of forgetfulness;
Let me smile, the time is ripe, of fruits and grace.
Sonnet 32
The bucket flooded with the rain water dropping from the roof hole-
Swelling water raged in the river;
A flickering lamp quivering at the corner,
While the four members shared two breads with no drinking water.
The hunger was overpowered by the rising death toll.
The wires of communication by the flowing devil fate;
They didn’t cry to save vitality, as the water touched the gates,
In no time the flooded bucket was floating beside a piece of bread in the plate.
Was it due to the bending of earth’s poles?
Or was the wrath, each moment going out of control?
The jammed silt are now being removed,
Helicopters spreading food, insufficient yet appreciable-
The anger of the river will calm down soon,
To provide grains with its kindness.
The bucket flooded with the rain water dropping from the roof hole-
The palpitating mothers beside her motionless child,
Restlessness in her turning mild;
Like a life containing egg, broken without protest-
The people and cattle stopped their breathe, the birds without nests.
The giant will feel sad now and try to make amendments for the day when,
The hunger was overpowered by the rising death toll.
Sonnet 33
Neglecting the arts how far do you artists intend to proceed with virtual humanity!
When you are called to inspire the falling youth with ethics-
You say you are incompetent showing your competence beside politics!
Sometimes blaming even the new creative tricks.
We grew up with your stories; hereby we respect your creativity.
You were bold enough to stand up against odds,
But never to nurture a pod,
Of talent left for the mercy of God.
Do you fear healthy competitions filled with purity?
Or do you still crave for self popularity?
While thinking of this I saw some policemen,
I was pushed into a hypothetical place of gunshots,
One of them pierced my arm, my wife coming down towards me-
Was shot dead; perhaps you were right.
Neglecting the arts how far do you artists intend to proceed with virtual humanity!
We know you all as authors, not as social workers;
When you don’t write, that makes me suffer.
When we asked you for guidance in confrontation,
You said the decades are now for self formation.
We witnessed an execution, which confused us; if art was for service...
We grew up with your stories; hereby we respect your creativity.
Sonnet 34
The red radiance upon the distant tower was no more-
The cold season that left a pockmark upon my face pulled me in its cart.
I visualized the day when my regret knew no bounds in ceaseless flirts-
Signified by vexing tears from a torn heart.
Faithfulness betrayed by prettiness in a forsaken sea with no shore.
Her lotus breasts and nectar crammed lips-
Aroused in me the desire to take a sip,
And immortalize my romanticism; long and deep.
Was it necessary for my destiny to carry me to her door?
What was the women attraction that I urged to adore?
My physique needed satisfaction,
With nearing creation in any form,
But love took birth within the want-
This perhaps encouraged me to choose another after her.
The red radiance upon the distant tower was no more-
We crept into each other like creepers,
She hided her thorns-the blood suckers;
Blood flowed through the saline waters wetting the eyebrows,
Leaving me half baked in half baked world of sorrows.
Today I stand; I have strength of another lady to save me from-
Faithfulness betrayed by prettiness in a forsaken sea with no shore.
Sonnet 35
The flighty Daisies winked and shook in the cold weather-
Pending works to be finished,
The oneness to be relished,
Upon the branches brought together; revered like a fetich;
They wanted to be released from being torn, to live together forever.
The petals closed, then opened to look straight;
The wind stopped; the stillness looked great,
A sudden gale scattered the pollen, even upon the leaflets.
Shall they be alone to live together?
Or will they wait in some posy to share the death beauty with others?
Their span is short, as hours for us-
Is to help them grow and kill them,
Yet that keeps their honor-
Perhaps this is their pride.
The flighty Daisies winked and shook in the cold weather-
Like the girl and boy of same cast;
Still like a handshake in the background of an atomic blast,
Pulling them apart without reason,
A cold war undergoing fission.
They won’t curse those hearts, but will wish goodwill from them…
They wanted to be released from being torn, to live together forever.
Sonnet 36
I have saved a tear in my pocket,
As a testimony of the injustice inflicted and imposed-
Upon me, spitting upon my candor that closed,
The honest reflection of which I could boast.
No one in this place except a spider web with a hanging cricket.
I don’t think about the food, infected by insects-
But the wrongful acts and oily tongue infects
Me with the plague of incurable prospects.
What that puts my brain to receive shocks from the electric socket?
When will I see the freedom facet?
Thank you judge for releasing me from death sentence,
But you should have done that-
For I am free now to take guns,
To save the convicts from illogical orders.
I have saved a tear in my pocket,
To show the physically challenged class-
The blinds, deaf, lames, as they pass
Me to be surprised, while they see their unrevealed cruel reflection,
To be jailed in their own spotted complexion.
And I will be free, though old but now…
No one in this place except a spider web with a hanging cricket.
Sonnet 37
The crystal gave a thousand shines as if thousand smiles-
Inside the glass case,
Greedy guys looking with wonder; one reflecting face
Ready to entertain the cost but ‘Not for Sale’ written at the base!
Unseen beside the door, the gateman thinking about his domicile.
Saluting the gentlemen and ladies he stands from morning-
Controlling his boldness to look at the gathering,
Masses who have enough, but being deterred from buying.
Is he meant to sign only the attendance files?
What prevents him from being mentally agile?
He must have been bored,
Or he talks to the diamond while closing the gates;
They must be having some secret pacts,
While they laugh at night.
The crystal gave a thousand shines as if thousand smiles-
The real was stolen; the present substitutes the past, may be wrongfully;
A human creation too attracts blissfully!
The cost has been removed as it doesn’t cost much-
Perhaps this magnetizes the rich crowds as such.
The real cost would have scorned it; the idea possibly is from someone…
Unseen beside the door- the gateman, thinking about his domicile.
Sonnet 38
The dawn was greeted by me amidst heartfelt song of birds;
My hairs as if brushed by invisible hands-
The disturbance still to blow the sands-
In this capillary of the forest land.
I was walking towards the village to wake her up and take her away from the guards-
Suddenly, tension in affection flared, as it prevails-
Supplemented by the cries of the foxes, like sharp bells,
As if biting sharks attacking sails.
Should I have started the journey afterwards?
Should I have run through the yards?
The friends of nature wanted me to be fast,
To obtain spring out of summer,
To foster peace in the world of turmoil-
At least in me in the forest area.
The dawn was greeted by me amidst heartfelt song of birds;
The dogs barked, as I passed, without cause-
As it seemed to me while moving without pause;
My love must be dreaming of me, I felt restlessness within-
Neither policeman nor cadres, neither leader nor Maoist, I’m none in the political bin.
I care not, you bark, you will you will know when I bring her; I thought while…
I was walking towards the village to wake her up and take her away from the guards-
Sonnet 39
Devotees fell straight upon the marble floor to call upon the Almighty,
Few people knew it to be a temple, a worshiping site,
That looked like a five star hotel from outside!
Turning away the willing people, who are befuddled by the bright light.
The gray color of religion seems to cream out here; a lost identity!
The men entering with their hands up, as if to dance-
To show themselves and give attendance
And then stand close to the idols to have a longer glance.
Do they have reverence to lie on the uneven floor, unmaintained and dirty?
Does polish of the walls decide sanctity?
At least the genteel floors do well for the urbane class;
At least it makes them feel existence, even a bit,
To thwart misery in the winter of life
And while remembering crimes.
Devotees fell straight upon the marble floor to call upon the Almighty,
Comforts crossing limits while praying,
To get God, so easy a way existing!
In the very town of heat and sweat,
Perchance the root is the bequest behind the gates.
Whether it is honest I know not, I too cheer, but-
The gray color of religion seems to cream out here; a lost identity!
Sonnet 40
The three friends gossiping beside the shores of the big Ganges River,
So many ships, so many businesses, so many lives upon it,
Clear calm waters yet mysterious in every bit
To fulfill the black and white needs.
Through the blue color, a red hue could be seen at the centre.
The living world floats above while the dead below the surface;
Cruel intensions behind a graceful face,
Lucid from the floating necklace.
Are you that whom we worship for triumph in endeavors?
You are vast we know, is it obligatory to depict your power?
Instructed by the omniscient to kill the sinful people,
To purify their souls,
You must be working hard-
In spite of tears over-feeding you.
The three friends gossiping beside the shores of the big Ganges River,
Recalling their friend’s body being pulled up, a year ago-
With the same river that seems to overflow with ego;
The parents blamed them, who were like their sons!
While the shrill laugh sounded like firing guns.
Maybe he wanted to die, he was helped…
Through the blue color, a red hue could be seen at the centre.
Sonnet 41
Centuries of creation instills creativity in me, to think and act along-
Boldness through the saved pages of history,
Mind and soul joining hands to decipher mystery-
Prevailing as a result of downfall of readers in each country.
Readers preferring ease in literature, as if preferring drums than lyrics in songs.
Unreformed writers’ society coming up with daily workshops,
Of gossips devoid of heritage and creative crops-
To turn in films of fantasy; what a flop!
Should I bring in the renaissance spitting on the wrong?
Should I not learn to create being formally strong?
Let my birth be for you, oh literature and loving men-
Let me refrain from copying but receive inspiration;
The heaven shower blessings upon my pen, give in ink-
So that it can form the cascade of creation.
Centuries of creation instills creativity in me, to think and act along-
Perhaps the founders were egocentric to dedicate them to one-
Yet they were meant for all underneath the Sun;
As the manuscripts were like the notes of music,
To be molded into any rhythm to heal even the sick.
Revive, restore, recreate, and then form a formation of my name for…
Readers preferring ease in literature, as if preferring drums than lyrics in songs.
Sonnet 42
While standing below the tree shade-
Destroyed in lightning,
The grasshoppers were heard singing,
The mind was out of trade, away from any dealing.
The fever of sleep has gripped the forehead.
My legs and arms were paralyzed,
With a disease in disguise;
A beggar dying for want of rice.
How is this startling world made?
What’s the need of creation without ensuring food and bed?
I sank to the ground,
A rain drop wetted my eyelids,
Lifted me up to look at my utensil-
Some coins have gathered there!
While standing below the tree shade-
Pockets were seen hanging with coins and notes;
They are for make ups and coats.
The disease of neglect is a cancer,
The doctors seem to promote it further.
Lift me up men or mature will push me into the grave-
The fever of sleep has gripped the forehead.
Sonnet 43
The cell vibrated twice-
Like while arrival of any other message;
The sender knew I was engaged,
Still made up sit upon a sharp wedge.
Best friend or lover, or lover turned best friend- it was dice.
Confusion gave rise to dilemmatic thoughts,
While nice feelings were being caught,
And stored in a lot.
Was my love now suitable for a tag price?
Did I think pastime and passion to be nice?
Save me, my turmoil is turning into fire,
To burn me and give me pain;
I must be direct now-
To save myself for my love.
The cell vibrated twice-
I realized that I liked him,
For my present had least concern for my whims;
Yet I can’t be witch-
To seep blood of care like a leech.
Let me suffer, it will revive me; Still attitude makes me think-
Best friend or lover, or lover turned best friend- it was dice.
Sonnet 44
‘Come on’, I said, ‘the dawn is calling’-
Through the softness in breeze and coldness in atmosphere,
Let us walk to the bridge very near
To our house; where life can be felt through water fear.
His ears being deaf in laziness, the eyes preferred sleeping.
I was alone; I wondered why!
The roads those shines in everyday dew has turned wry-
I feel so sad; the dryness made me cry.
Why the nicest part of the day is dozing?
Should I wait in the woods or move to my housing?
Let me walk ahead-
To see the magician performing hypnotism
Upon the trees and vapors,
And have a try to wake it up.
‘Come on’, I said, ‘the dawn is calling’-
I sighted a dead sparrow on my way-
And a man beside lying dead in clay.
All pedestrians were there but the bird which was still alive-
Was left to leave its life-
My friend was right; perhaps dreams have warned him-
His ears being deaf in laziness, the eyes preferred sleeping.
Sonnet 45
The smoke curled up from the ashes-
Of my two brothers and sister;
Innocent victims trapped in a civil war,
Was now focused in the media center.
The judges were either unknown or temporary in such cases.
I broke my skull hitting against the stone,
The house that echoed in laughs is now alone;
Anger from the smoke accruing in bones.
Will you now blame me countrymen for wearing Maoist dresses?
Shall I not breathe revenge at all places?
I will save the rest;
I will take arms for the cause-
To shoot out the curtains
That covers the naked truth.
The smoke curled up from the ashes-
My beloveds were going up in a chariot,-
I could see them happy leaving the earthly lots.
I couldn’t cry but was taken to stillness-
The sight injected an incurable illness…
If I wait, more of such chariots would leave the land as-
The judges were either unknown or temporary in such cases.
Sonnet 46
The newspapers cornered in the room-
Once lured us into them,
While sipping coffee, before going for games;
Sources of knowledge from companies liable for blame.
News those were stories are transformed now into news yet to bloom.
Money makes articles, wine impresses reporters,
The scientists are neglected, the cameras upon gangsters!
Even they are two teams holding political bars.
Doesn’t it seem to be a gloom?
Does it pronounce an ensuing doom?
I still prefer old papers,
But time won’t allow me.
Yes a new paper is in demand-
To be published with honesty; let me start it.
The newspapers cornered in the room-
The rulers would kill their rivals,
Stopping the flow of finance at all levels.
They are not prepared for greatness,
But for a secured life without busyness.
I can work out, there is still a willing mass; they have realized-
News those were stories are transformed now into news yet to bloom.
Sonnet 47
The Sun peeped through the banyan branches-
At the glasshouse where the stone hearted
Board of environmentalists have headed,
To find out the cause as why the plants in an area have been beheaded.
The director was himself peddling herbs growing in inches.
He has authored books about greenery,
Yet actions spoil the scenery-
Of your genius and pull you to the level of primary.
Don’t you feel warning pinches?
Is it you or the chair- whose values have been buried in beaches?
One of them looked-
And placed a concept of a new plant community.
What a relief that papers were signed-
Which too were on our skin; we will have a family now.
The Sun peeped through the banyan branches-
As if the sun has come down to help the slaughtered woods!
Through its reflections upon the spectacles to perform some good;
To pour energy in the old bones-
And make them remember their loans
They had soaked for years; the interest was due too while-
The director was himself peddling herbs growing in inches.
Sonnet 48
The eagle swooped down-
The small rabbits recently born,
May be in some morn,
A week before was now out in the lawn.
The danger was coming down in a black gown.
The jungle rules had driven the mother away-
Though she must be on her away,
To look at the sky, too see her son disappearing as prey.
What are these rules to turn blood from red to brown?
Who is maintaining these, who is wearing the crown?
None but rules for survival;
The food being less-
The remaining kids were benefitted;
A perfect balance moving in a pace.
The eagle swooped down-
The mother rabbit preferred one to die-
For the other to live in the weather that was dry;
The eaglets must be starving too –
For them some food was brought into.
The birth of one of the sacrificed must be meant for this; and fixed when-
The danger was coming down in a black gown.
Sonnet 49
Beside the costliest restaurant of the city-
At about hot midday,
The dusty hands working in clay,
Picked up a fist of boiled rice to carry on his stay.
As a human he ate once in a rotation; what a captivity!
A waiter came outside and threw chicken legs;
Inside, sounds were heard of glasses and pegs-
An airplane flew over; he saw it but held his broken keg.
Has the flame of thoughts extinguished from his body?
Has his mind been plastered with cements and bricks of pity?
A lotto ticket could be see beside,
That shows hope;
He still has ambition,
Luck will guide him.
Beside the costliest restaurant of the city-
A car raced beside-
No jolly but more dust accumulated by his side;
His shirt was dirtier,
So he was unmoved, still fascinated by the car.
He had neglected jobs before, now-
As a human, he ate once in a rotation; what a captivity!
Sonnet 50
The university roads and lanes-
Witnessing degrees for one and a half hundred years;
It hasn’t seen one without tears,
Brought by work, exam or love losing fear.
The rare exception was the boy with a bag with a smile insane!
Confidence bubbling out through laughs and giggles
Sorrowless lives persist in no lifelong tales;
They are not born but penetrate; he as if has shells.
Is it deliberate that a boy taking life truly as a game?
What’s his cult, what’s his name?
Upon the breasts of psychology he replies-
Laughing all the while
Has failed to teach him what happiness is,
These laughs are his sorrow…
The university roads and lanes-
Cursed a boy to be happy forever,
In success and failures and in all endeavors.
The odd one out is never favorite; to be adored,
With his smile he was bored.
The rest enjoyed being happy winning over the odd time-
The rare exception was the boy with a bag with a smile insane!
Sonnet 51
Tearing roots, which stem dares to float in the sky!
Fear has grasped their hearts-
The videos of the bloodshot shirts,
Laid down in media pages of dead bodies carried in carts.
They prefer bathing in dew than blood; they prefer smile to sigh.
They have seen daring men-
With farsighted and wise ken,
But have sighted the same turning lame.
Why is the ambition being curbed with the fear to die?
What souls are these preferring fruits without cry?
The invention and innovations
Must be going on; though hidden;
Waiting for the perfect ruler-
To patronize those…
Tearing roots, which stem dares to float in the sky!
The creativity has become dumb-
In response to overwhelming luxuries under the sun.
The feet are too clean to be placed upon the floor,
But the heart is uncombed even more.
The sadly ended biographies may have to carry the responsibility
Sonnet 52
The drunken river of Amazon,
Flowing in a zig zag way,
With often hunters becoming prey;
Night prevailing even during the creamy day.
She knows her destination, no matter hills or lawns.
Away from its consciousness,
It prefers bitterness-
To see brutal hunts in wilderness.
You will not change; is this you pawn?
Do you want more bottles in your million ponds?
Exceptions are no exception,
She is one among the Nile, Ganges or Mississippi;
The reason why the jungle has been allotted to her,
May be as a punishment of her mind-set.
The drunken river of Amazon,
Turned greedy of blood wine,
As of the deaths, without any sign.
She had a bunch of slayer pets as captives,
Of deadly reptiles and aquatic lives.
She has being jailed among glaciers and oceans, and now-
She knows her destination, no matter hills or lawns.
Sonnet 53
Mother you just leave me starving with five grains of rice,
I cry yet you frown,
I wipe off the salty waters and bow down,
For I do nothing in the town.
I would like to be small to be well fed, as small as lice.
To reduce my stomach, my hunger-
Hunger that arises out of blunder,
Not of me, but of the wicked employer.
How long we will be treated as mice?
When will we be given the break to rise?
I will store my energy in every bit,
Of the fat in my body;
And wait, to see at least my children-
Sitting in chair with an elite meal.
Mother you just leave me starving with five grains of rice,
I will have half life with these,
I demand the worst grown rice not cheese.
I will turn to be a robber now,
Don’t blame me anyhow.
The robbers sit in thrones, he happy or
I would like to be small to be well fed, as small as lice.
Sonnet 54
I am afraid to open your diary;
Once a decade ago I did,
It killed the seed
Of my existence, tearing me in bits.
The day I thought of hating you hating you Mary.
Your son was lazy;
I was active even when the world was dozy.
I think this is why you were crazy.
Thinking of him or me did you turn weary?
Didn’t you plan for my marriage in a hurry?
People are not granted of their every wish,
I too was a bad wish for you.
Yet I like serving you-
As I am of your gender mother.
I am afraid to open your diary;
I do not like to be weak,
With a cause that I know to be bleak.
You ancestors are responsible; and you too
For neglecting sandals and preferring shoes.
I will be an exception; I had pledge to my conscience on
The day I thought of hating you hating you Mary.
Sonnet 55
Don’t you haunt me anymore!
I have ran enough with the pen,
Still you are not within my ken-
Dulling my memory lane.
I know you exist but prefer to hide in wit’s shore.
Days ago I had almost caught you in the book fair,
But the people I asked turned to be liars,
The illiterate buyers.
Do you want me to be bored?
I want to see you, Have to gather some lore?
I will catch you in your game,
By developing the power to light the shadows-
Under which you hide.
My pen is moving faster, be ready.
Don’t you haunt me anymore!
The days left are less,
To leave this mortal dress.
I have left my all- house, children and wife,
Now left only my life…
Illusive breezes cannot befool me; I will get you, or realize you;
I know you exist but prefer to hide in wit’s shore.
Sonnet 56
Look you have turned your drains into dustbins;
The income goes up to hundred thousands,
Yet what a brand!
Is this that you have developed beside you dwelling land.
Oh! Sorry it wasn’t yours; you can grin.
But don’t you dare to ask me to cure,
When the illnesses you are in to endure-
Will prove you to be impure.
Why do you wait to commit sin?
To invite trouble why are you all so keen?
See, you are feeling asleep,
As if I have the duty-
I have the interest; you are perhaps true-
But you will too when I am transferred.
Look you have turned your drains into dustbins;
I am a pig; you kick me for that,
But I clear your drains while you relish my fat.
You will have my flu-
Not for me but for the work you favor not to do.
I am better than you clearing you dirt-
Oh! Sorry it wasn’t yours; you can grin.
Sonnet 57
The baby was sleeping peacefully in the cradle.
Unaware of the fire-
Flaring to end desires-
And hopes that could have been admired.
A scene that pierces life with a poison touched needle.
The relatives were outside;
The flames got a chance to slide-
To eat up and then transfer the chide.
Where have the parents gone to peddle?
Coming back will their hearts settle?
They will perhaps come back soon,
And the father will jump in-
To save the little bud,
Who has not yet developed dreams.
The baby was sleeping peacefully in the cradle.
The fire must have felt like playing above,
To show its affection and love;
But in course it may touch it,
And end the life with other burning kit.
Footsteps have been heard , it will save the situation from turning into-
A scene that pierces life with a poison touched needle.
Sonnet 58
Still atmosphere, with scorching rays tormenting upon us;
I had no identity,
Neither sense to consider it as a pity-
But a uniform with uniformity.
I could smell my sweat and taste it as it dropped on the grass.
Eyes waiting to see something,
I didn’t know what thing-
When only the blank landscape or some living beings.
What’s after this that will truss?
Is it surprise or fuss?
Whatever I care not to think,
As I have commitment;
To fulfill even if my life goes away-
My soul will rest in peace.
Still atmosphere, with scorching rays tormenting upon us;
My family calls me earnestly,
Their faces flash and blink continually;
I gave out a breathe I felt danger-
Not of me but to make me feel I am a soldier.
The gun bears the weight of the Nation, let me hold it firmly.
I could smell my sweat and taste it as it dropped on the grass.
Sonnet 59
Cries have often blurted out roughly;
One day parties and celebration
Cheered the station-
With music in all forms within the mansion.
The gifted bangles have been broken brutally.
Once so happy, is now kicked,
For nameless reasons that had pricked-
The husband who’s cruelty has clicked.
Why does the good turn bad, unexpectedly?
Is there some way of reviving them pleasantly?
Perhaps the work pressure has increased,
To be lowered soon.
Or might be some problem that irritates him,
But not for long; He will calm down.
Cries have often blurted out roughly;
None tells you to be man!
When you hit me with the wand!
I do not complain, you don’t allow,
Tying me with a rope like a cow.
To revive your love, I will not complain that…
The gifted bangles have been broken brutally.
Sonnet 60
The bulldozer ran over the bricks and plasters;
Of the old-age home-
Breaking the calm domes,
Leaving them houseless without a place even to moan.
They aged even disturbed in their time of rest; what a disaster!
The rotten skin will not get pills now,
They seem to be the cows-
Driven away hitting them with dry boughs.
Don’t these contractors respect their father and mother?
Doesn’t their conscience push them to be kind hearted and better?
They have taken money-
The feelings have been put behind bars;
Still they will set up a similar home-
In their senescence, when they have means.
The bulldozer ran over the bricks and plasters;
Some betrayer has signed illicit piece-
In grasping greed than to miss-
The opening to become rich,
No matter if he is termed as bitch.
The goodness will crawl with repeated attacks to sense…
The aged even disturbed in their time of rest; what a disaster!
Sonnet 61
I am a branded man-eater;
I am known for my teeth and paws,
To break human laws,
And kill one biweekly and eat raw.
They set awards for me but not for the hunters.
I had the power, the support of the jungle-
I will have stronger limbs and voice to rumble-
Your guns to me are like bangles.
When will you turn as nature lovers?
I can repose, but will you punish my family killers?
I am no one to forgive you,
I am just a cause;
If you leave us in ourselves-
We will put a pause upon the kill.
I am a branded man-eater;
I had a family and my younger brother-
All were hunted down along with my neighbors;
If I sit quiet and chase gales,
Curses will seal my after life for the hell.
So this is my profession now, and will bid to change but…
They set awards for me but not for the hunters.
Sonnet 62
The two butterfly mating while the two lizards on either side-
Unaware of the peril surrounding them,
They embraced each other in the passionate game-
If they are killed, then what a shame!
All the time they were lost within, neglecting the outside.
Sex was to cheat them or their sex was to be cheated!
The tube light knew not then who in the depleted-
Earth would shake them before their lives are uprooted.
Why had they turned blind in spite of the light?
Can’t they be rescued with might?
The reptiles proceeded,
Then turned to their left,
Went past the two beautiful creatures-
It was their mating season too.
The two butterfly mating while the two lizards on either side-
The eyes of a boy watching the scene,
He took a photo but didn’t clean,
It from the flaws-
Leaving it to the Natural laws.
They were saved; romance was protected; it being in the lizards too but…
All the time they were lost within, neglecting the outside.
Sonnet 63
Crowds that I never saw in my life of ruling-
Blocked the roads and lanes,
Some peeping out from window panes,
Same hope in all that I will do something for these men.
I had papers that had false promises; my tongue will utter them without feelings.
My hear empathizes with you dears supporters,
The culprit is my chair,
Without which I lived once, but now will be bare.
What should I do with those voices ringing?
Shall I thrash the chair and come down from the ceiling?
I owe much to you,
I will perform –
Not in papers but in will,
You can surely be assured.
Crowds that I never saw in my life of ruling-
A heavy hand of the hidden monarch was in my shoulder,
With a lot more strength and power;
Let me utter false today,
I may be spitted upon after few days.
But there must be a way to escape and then speak out, but now-
I had papers that had false promises; my tongue will utter them without feelings.
Sonnet 64
The old car stood by the garage parking;
Cleaning was going on in the floor inside,
Doors closed as they chose to hide-
The new car like a new bride.
What a gift after so many years of serving!
The masters and mistresses,
Whenever they visited any places;
The dust touched the metal but not their dresses.
Will the new be as efficient and attached in feelings?
To serve you-Does it has a healthy bearing?
He is still stronger with these plain tires-
To carry the weights for hundreds of miles,
And then reach safely to home;
They will know once they have climbed the new stuff.
The old car stood by the garage parking;
Left for one month still,
The servants speak of their master’s will-
To sell it even in low cost
The wounds in the body do no more cost!
Still this wounded figure is superior and will be…
What a gift after so many years of serving!
Sonnet 65
A poor lyricist writing songs for none but self.
One thousand songs without music, without name-
Without money, without fame,
Waiting to burn in flames.
Thousand dollars for twelve in the shelf.
They have offered him,
Resting upon his weakness- him whim,
To taste the glass cased cream.
Did they want the titles from themselves?
From the trap of greed, should I not protect myself?
Let them buy,
Let me earn;
They will think that I can’t write more!
While the best is still in my mind.
A poor lyricist writing songs for none but self.
I will die to see my songs being sung and settle,
But will expire if I see them in other’s title.
None to respect me for I don’t have birth base,
Of jewels and diamonds in case.
My creations will never end, never stop its flow; let me now think of…
Thousand dollars for twelve in the shelf.
Sonnet 66
Exchanging blames were going on in the dining table;
For some subtle mistakes,
When mom made-
The materials for the cake.
Idiotic reasons were twisting to harm faith in the blood carrying cables.
I and my brother waiting to get them cool-
For they were looking as fools,
As they quarreled sitting upon the tools.
Have they ever thought what reaction in my little brother would bubble?
Will he too not learn to wrangle?
I laughed to create ease,
They were surprised and then ashamed-
Of what they were into-
Now we ate in silence.
Exchanging blames were going on in the dining table;
They didn’t notice,
That I didn’t even had one bread piece-
In my mouth and the fear of my brother-
Didn’t make them bother.
It will stop as it is groundless but they must realize
Idiotic reasons were twisting to harm faith in the blood carrying cables.
Sonnet 67
The water gurgled out-
As the farmer cut the canal out of the last pool,
The last source in this year’s rule-
The weather at no time was rainy but dry and cool.
One of the working men occasionally looks up at the sky and shouts…
Last year was same,
The season focused upon turning them lame,
In all aspect from food to the sells erasing their name.
Where is the excess water swelling out?
It knows we want her-yet why she is putting us in doubt?
Suddenly a storm started-
All took shelter under trees;
Far in the distance the sky looks –
Its ripe time now to reap.
The water gurgled out-
Of the pond-
But will it be able to maintain the bond!
That these reapers have with rain-
After two years staying out of brain.
It’s like a friend gone away; all eagerly waiting for his return, while-
One of the working men occasionally looks up at the sky and shouts…
Sonnet 68
The black posters have been pasted yesterday;
No one to go out were the admonition,
Whether to start business or for education,
Which the people seem to follow with caution.
Let the war restore democracy today.
The hope rings in every ears-
The bullets tearing the foreheads seemed to clear,
That they had overcome the administrative fear.
The policemen, are they not supposed to fill up the bay?
Apart from the men in power, does nobody have the right to place their say?
It has become a dumping ground of inhuman activities;
Yet a leader is there whom people follow sincerely;
They do not utter the name-
But works accordingly with zeal.
The black posters have been pasted yesterday;
The smell of the slaughtered bodies,
Has been a cause of the jackals’ rhapsodies.
The raped women sitting for marriage to be raped again-
They will not nag; they have turned harlots of men.
The seeping anger gives more power to their chief…
Let the war restore democracy today.
Sonnet 69
I didn’t want to hear this from you-
At least not in my birth-month; never…
You didn’t think of my fever,
The relation I suppose was not forever.
I wanted rain you gave me just drops, that too few…
I had always wished to know your mind and figure-
But the other girl knew the black spot pressing the trigger,
With another fire-pellet from you that tore my tears.
Was she the best in the crew?
Was love now fixed with screws?
I will not cry,
You do not deserve it-
But another relation,
With the one who has proposed me last month!
I didn’t want to hear this from you-
I was not stone nor the lord-
To think not or forgive you in accord;
I get the stench of extra affairs-
For your pleasure, I can’t form pair.
You can go; I will be find happiness in loneliness or in some others,
I wanted rain you gave me just drops, that too few…
Sonnet 70
I close this book now, and close my eyelids-
I have described the night enough, perhaps more;
Let me now go out of the roof door,
And allow it to describe itself from sky to floor.
My test is over your starts now, common water the seeds-
Which I have failed to farm,
And charm,
The readers and book worms.
Will you listen or I will have to plead?
After writing so much will I now have to read?
I have enough wits, you can’t hide-
Let the readers and lover of poetry get you-
Through my future write ups,
To decipher you truly.
I close this book now, and close my eyelids-
Let me take rest,
For creating the best.
Your Profoundness; that had instilled so many poets to write-
But none could win in the fight.
I will write you through you, you can’t say no-
My test is over your starts now, common water the seeds. [mehr]
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