Cunning is life

(This is an interesting effort, that mentions 4 sports easy to identify, those that do can mention as soon more tougher ones will be added making it a sort of a riddle)

Cunning is  life
moves and countermoves
never knew
all forces fought
Queens came and went
Valiant Knights shielded
all for me.

Am I a king?

I had an open hand
while others camouflaged
what could they do
with their two pair,
even full houses
made excuses
for dirty tricks.

Did I command a royal flush?

Then why at last
it is me against a wall
a tight squeeze,
my very own force
all source of my strength
pitted against me.

Is this conduct warning?

I once wanted
all coins on board
my aim never precise
the strike lacked force
yet never empty pocket
slowly I fix my gaze
as time draws near
on that final coin.

Will I have a follow-on or will I be a pauper?


There is no originality they say, one sees a flying bird and a horse to imagine a flying horse. Yet the minds that dared to see them together, is daring and creates beauty. Today’s creations are just combinatorics from myriad million possibilities, all the more alluring for their daring novelty. So don’t comment emptily on a creator’s originality but be daringly original in your perception of it.


Blog. Log. Slog. Clog. Bog.
Lag. Snag. Drag. Me a Rag.
Can’t Shrug. Blog a drug.
Cling. Cring. Yet Bring Zilch.
High Strung. Few Wrung Likes.
Like, Strike Same. Like Pity Seem.
Strangers All. Dangers None.
Except Indifference. No Warmth.
No Friends. No Love. No feelings.
Blogger. Human, Moron or Robot.

Love’s Grammar

Love is there in their hearts.
But where is the talk.
Isn’t spoken word, medium of love.
I am alone. But I have a phone.
It isn’t the same but would suffice for me.
For I am alone. Whom to call. What to say.
For I need an excuse to talk.
I too – have, had, don’t, have, do – a girl friend.
I don’t call it love. Why is love – I love my wife and kids – alone. Why can’t there be more.

Enough – one question –

Is love singular or plural?


Can live with a sorrow,
but not with an embarrassment,
can forget all the punishment,
this will haunt even tomorrow;

would like to hide the face in a burrow,
for that deed, shall forever repent,
not a cure for this ailment,
feel like a mummified Egyptian pharaoh,

some deeds get no laughs, felt right then,
but retrospectively the soul is ashamed,
in the past some stupid mistake done,
shadows follow to rest in grave engraved;

now that all is over,
laugh at oneself what fun,
but for a stupid yet evil deed,
better bury your head.

What Dreams

What dreams, what thoughts, make a man lonely,
for what, didn’t all, come from the same press only,
or what deeds are that, that make a man lonely,
in truth, is there any one holy, or really lonely;
is it mere melancholy, there’s no such thing as ugly,
why should you talk, when I don’t listen,
why should I be loved by any one,
when I see, only myself truly;
come here, not for me, nor my thoughts,
for am I worthy of you in any way,
yet come, for the times, when you miss
someone, near, dear or far away;
or yet when you feel unvalued
or even desolate and lonely,
for my tunes though unloved,
might just make you see the light.


Selfish Giant

What weird puzzle to try,
a stone or a heart ran dry,
self possessed, deaf to others’ cry,
in a selfish world thoughts fly;

suspicious, self piteous, stupid, shy,
revolting civilization and society’s pry,
frustrated by routine and common fry,
still the need to share strongly weigh;

unheard is the heart’s stammer,
unseen the glow of the new moon,
giggling at the thoughtless murmur,
fun filled invisible shadow at noon;

unable to learn world’s grammar,
is giant’s thoughts thorns in dune.