Irritation Extreme

Irritation Extreme  (written to aid catharsis)

Allergy, says the dictionary; body’s abnormal reaction,

towards a person or activity, a strong aversion.

Hypersensitivity to the allergen’s reintroduction,

loss of sanity, logical thought, is the manifestation.

‘Pontifying’ pomposity, with flourish of words, uttered,

nerves grated, even as sheer irritation fluttered.

Irrespective of sanity, diabolical thoughts occurred.

Priding myself of logic, in the least mattered.

A witch with a broomstick, a cat and a wand, I wish I was.

In a spell to have turned him into a slimy toad, because.

He could have hopped, croaked, and not mattered, without a pause.

It would have been all for a good and worthy cause.

Mike in hand, loudly orating, he stood, podium atop;

'I am the mighty hoky-poky- tipy-topy-top-top

those who disobey me their heads go chop chop.'

Disdainfully ignored friends who begged him stop.

Witch, her cat and wand, on her broomstick swooping

black wand circling, fairy-dust twinkling, spell intoning,

'Heegees beegees, schmuking, humpling bumpling

to spirits of the kingdom nether, calling,

turn this odious frog into a toad croaking.'

Magic spell cast, he to the floor soon did drop,

Eyes beady, green and slimy to the nearest pond did he hop.

A kiss of true love would not change him from a frog to a prince.

The spell to break, a thousand pardons he has to beg, for his sins…

Soulmates

Soul Mates

Immeasurably at peace,

with trust immense,

unbreakable ties,

unshakable faith,

bound in friendship and love,

these two,

girl and her buddy

they dream, they sleep……

Beckoning Death

Beckoning Death

Heartbroken, the lover writes:

“Oh beckoning death, I welcome thee with open arms,

free me from the pitiless pain of a hurting heart.

Relentless sadness through every pore does seep,

burning and tearless, eyes, unendingly weep.

My ‘Love’ has left; my life-force gone,

Love’s scythe has cleaved my soul sure and deep.”

Consoling, the friend replies:

“Through sadness, hurt and such anguished pain,

through words of blood does sorrow speak….

is born a poem that wrenches the reader’s heart.

We have the ability to absorb grief

and we learn to live with our pain,

for life is for living, and live we must,

for tomorrow is but another day.”

Parting at death is so final in its physical expression.   At that instant, it is as though somebody else takes over within you.  Mind’s mechanism to inure against grief?  Soon enough that anaesthetic wears off.  Then anguish of loss manifests itself into words….

The Race

The Race

The crow to the owl:

'Giddayyup you slow-coach owl,

we have a race to win, faster...'

urged the jockey to his steed.

'Many a times I have urged you

not to feast before a sprint,

to my words you pay no heed.'

The owl to the crow:

''Cease your cawing you craven crow,

with eye just one, you see not,

crossing the finish line, we succeed.'

The race done

The crow on the victory block,

stands with the trophy held aloft,

squawking gaily, ‘we did it, we did it.’

The rosette-sporting owl in the barn,

hoots gleefully, ‘I knew it, we would do it;

timorous bird, I told you so, I told you so.’

This is the tale of the owl and the crow,

winning the sport, an aerial steeplechase,  

at the derby of the feathered folks.