Pictures

What a picture is to me?
hope sometimes
but mostly despair
frustrating at times
and its only fair
you live in your pictures
but I die a million deaths
yet live to tell the tales
of admiration and envy
of joy and dejection, but
its a shame how
all the wits, charms,
advances and snubs are
punctuated by a snap and
they say I think too much
but its the best I can do
for I would have a rotten life
if I lived in pictures too 

Recantation

If I could cleave this hopeless sky
or a few incisions could I make
what lies beyond may sooth my soul
or wearier it may render me
it is indeed a purgatory
a blunt knife I listlessly wield
and myriad doubts unhinging
night's rodents gnawing at my grit
the rope still hangs over yonder
a short climb and I'll reach a place
a place I climbed down from, a year ago
and vowed I'll never visit again
this tilt in balance is enough though
I go running back to the rope again
while pride outweighs the want for love
foreboding it certainly can't 

The Sword of Indifference

Oh the mighty scimitar 

and the one who wields it 

through the realms afar 

with a raw, uncomely grit 

thy glory I can't exaggerate 

for a thousand thou hast slayed 

with gestures swift and intricate 

victims left chafed and flayed
the beauty of it all we see 

the ignorance thou canst exude 

no wonder why some call thee 

self centered and rude 

to our misery, thou showest no preference 

brandishing the sword of indifference 

Waste

With the dinner wasted and left to rot
a million times of you I thought
but if I was a bit more wise
every such thought would I despise
for I didn't know your plate was full
of frivolous foods with spices dull
and sweetness the only saving grace
to mask the pungent, coarser trace
its alright if you like the taste
but what about my kitchen's waste?
how do I dispose it off?
while these bowls and plates still scoff 

The pillow man

Many many years ago 

on a humid summer night 

waiting for sleep 

through half shut eyes  

I saw a strange man 

in the moonlit courtyard 

seated on the creaky old chair 

behind the derelict hand pump 

with a pillow for face 

and a mattress for trunk 

he sat there every night 

for months together 

trying to get me talking 

egging on a conversation 

but I had nothing to say 

nothing worth sharing 

fed up of my silence 

one day he was gone 

now everything has changed 

the courtyard a distant dream 

as distant as a sound sleep 

but the nights humid as ever 

and I have a lot to say, yet 

the pillow man can not be found 

Virtue & vice

Of all the virtues that my being exudes

I may extol some and belittle the rest

and of others that my repertory excludes

there are so many that pique my interest

then there are vices hard to relinquish

and vices I do not have nor I can bear

some of these demons wish I could vanquish

while the rest not as vile as they appear

and these strands comprise the rope of life

imparting us strength, and weakness too

and when the rope is cut by the death's knife

there are no rewards, no punishment due

trite and tedious though it may sound

this is the sum total of what I have found

Clothes

Have you ever worn 

a shirt made for another 

or a coat that doesn't fit 

you knew it when you did 

I bet you wore it once 

or maybe twice or thrice 

as you had no choice 

but never did it again 

it's a habit with me though 

it's what I always end up with 

either the pants are too tight 

or the shirt too big 

no matter how much I try 

my clothes never fit 

The Chinese room

You listen to it all
and respond when its due
though not to my liking
so brief and patronizing
no emotions, words too few
like a robot's scrawl

There is a pattern I see
as I slip more random notes
through the tightly latched door
of the Chinese room to be sure
while the expectation floats
as shameless as it can be

The Clown

With layers of gaudy makeup
white mouth, yellow face and
a red nose to make it worse
and sporting a child's garb
for so-called comic effect
and what is he without it?
when the paints are peeled
and the dress is changed
a very bitter man, I am sure,
as he goes out the exit door
I am the same or even worse
for I can't peel off the paint
nor this dress can I change
can leave the stage, but once  

Rejection

The choking smell of rejection
fills the little musty room
threads of unwanted affection
still spouting out of my loom
the loom I tried shutting down
the room I locked, hid the key
veiled the madness with a frown
thinking why is it always me?
now I can use some flattery
and probably some alcohol
while praise runs the battery
spirit lets the night roll
but for how long I am not sure
this madness can I endure 

The Ship

And away January went
like the wretched December
left my pride more bent
lower than I can remember
gone and still at large
the will to let it go
wish to sink this barge
that I aimlessly row
adorned with lofty sails
a poor flimsy structure
chasing imaginary trails
of foolish hopes I nurture
of capturing the unicorn
and taming its pointy horn 

A Sonnet

While the moon gave way
to the winter's drool
the lonely night's grey
hung by the murky pool
rubbing my bleary eyes
a few lines did I spawn
made a few more tries
and Lo! here's the dawn
sun rises like an elf
as mundanities take over
while I insulate myself
beneath the worldly cover
this sonnet I wrote today
and I sling it down your way 

Invitation

I cooked a meal for two tonight
kind of hoping that I just might
find you a good reason to drop by
or at least if I could try
I know I may sound stupid now
and made you wonder as to how?
don't lose your mind over it
not as much as a careless whit
its ok if you'd like to pass
and it'd be great if you may ask
for a raincheck to be polite
as next time I may get it right
and I say this with little scowls
as I bought some new plates and bowls
and did my share of homely chores
picked the cobwebs, mopped the floors
but I guess you should never know
a part of me wants you to, though