I am prophecied

I am prophecied to lead an army of women,

who love and serve me true,

but what of the woman I love Zen,

he replied with a wink and smile drew;

my girls will win the world for me,

but by the time they appear, she may disappear,

nothing impossible for my girls, conquer all I see,

them I see daily, she I can’t see or hear;

for me they did murders and beyond,

made me richest in wealth and power,

yet can they with her me bond,

or am I fated to purr at her like cat forever;

fate is of cosmic river but one stream,

hate it and will soar with each stream.

Gipsy woman

Oh, Mary, 

sweet mother of Jesus,

no surprise that you loved, 

the immaculately conceived child,

but  look at that wonder,

gypsy beggar woman,

on the roadside,

gleefully playing with her child, 

unmindful of the pedestrians,

heaven glimpsed,

in the spontaneous laughter,

of mother and son.

She is rich, 

in love of her child,

he a prop,

in her begging,

but a well loved,

and cared for prop. 

Who created mothers,

magical creatures,

that tend to the child’d every need.

Knowing full well 

that as an adult

he will be her’s no more.

Oh, the scene,

wish I extended my arms, 

in rough embrace,

but just extended alms. 

The unbathed mother,

and dirtier child,

with hair turned brown to golden,

ruffled and sticking out,

as if to challenge  

the world that made them beg.

Wished I could take them home,

as if they were stray puppies,

but they had lives,

more rich than poor me. 

There was no doubt,

the kid the king,

and me the pauper here.

Life flows golden 

through their veins ,

and love cruises amply,

breaking the chains.

But both clotted

in my rusted self. 

Each child a Jesus,

and each mother a Mary,

but who am I?

Why cast me thus,

I a mere witness,

as life happens around me,

but the sole witness,

to the joy of the gypsy woman,

is that my purpose,

to spread that gospel

is nothing more than love.

But how can I?

when I’ve lost all my love,

and my capacity to express it. 

Why tease me thus?

show me to connect to the gipsy,

or let me forever be tipsy,

with wine so fine.

I have no other choice,

but to believe,

that like the Gipsy woman,

I too shall partake in life,

rich in words

disburse them freely. 

Hoping that someday,

my words be precious enough,

that I unloved,

be loved through my words. 


I weep for myself

I weep for myself,
not for woman begging,
with a kid on roadside,
weep for not happening novel,
she fights for kid’s survival,
me more sad,
she has kid, family,
I got none,
except sorry old self,
scribbling lame,
she has a life,
a story to tell,
though be of misery,
I languish in solitude,
letting thoughts raw,
roam nude here,
without shame or fear,
praying for a day,
my child, the novel is born,
and she, me and all is well.

A tired maiden

A tired maiden, soulful, ravishing and eloquent,

in plain distress, sat and brooded on high hills,

seen her cheery self prance here far too frequent,

dangerously perched on cliff, not for cheap thrills;

lost in grief over the demise of a kindly pet dog,

never seen men mourn departed family so intense,

what thoughtful words to soothe and lift the fog,

she’ll tear any fake tears or shallow pretence;

spell bound as witnessed the beauty in grief,

not shedding a tear, not lamenting, sitting quiet,

shrunken and pale like a withered autumn leaf,

such worry harsh, mix pain and joy, balanced diet;

what made such love and care for a lost pet,

yet none for me who bared all, the day we met. 

She sat there

She sat there with her clothes torn scorning the world with a steely gaze,

little scoundrels with all innocence threw stones at her shabby self,

insane spooky lady go away they yelled yet she sat on as if in a daze,

she floated several galaxies away as though not a human but an elf;

the morn dawns for all they say yet why was it all misty and dark for her,

the sun’s rays refuse to penetrate her grime filled bloodied skin,

the uncaring world didn’t ditch her but she who shunned it all wiser,

an epithet insane was not given easily she had to wrestle to win;

it seemed that she was mocking all the busy men in their myriad errands,

with her steely composition strangely calm in a mad max world,

was beyond joy or grief now, yet I wonder where were her family and friends,

what incident did happen to make her lose all and turn so cold;

little did I realise that I was staring at a former beauty queen

that betrayal of the ones she loved had made her build this screen.


Errant fool

Err(… )ant hill is love.
Her choice…
Break up is good.
Your choice…
Break down is not.
Her tem…pestuous nature err…or, your callous self. Whatever the reason. Move on.
Nothing lost that can’t be gained.
Yet closed woman’s heart with a window open.
Lost for eternity.