Sunday, July 19

Emotionally Disturbed

I dont know what triggers it
I just know this treason
of the brain, a severe headache
and the loss of reason

I become a stranger to myself
The feeling possesses my soul
All I want is to hate you, lash
you, before I become whole

Few minutes ago, I served you tea
and worried about your knee pain
was it that smirk on your face, a private
hatred for me, that caused the strain ?

I stormed out of the room,
I threw my cup, stomped in a fit
I abused you, you a stoic image
I, the captive of this mental cesspit

You sat there battered but unfazed
The tea turned tepid, irking me more
I had to do something much worse
To drag you out of you stupor

I saw you sprung into action
When I flung on the gas stove
A strange look on your face
A mix of exhaustion and love

You held me hard, my body
caught in violent paroxysm
You walked me back, my body
loosening, my mind still a prison

When I waded into a slumber
I saw you bent over me
You were wiping my vomit
And holding your pained knee

I know its wrong, what I do
My little holiday, this subterfuge
If only I could get a grip
There wouldnt be so much rue

If only you had held my hand
And only if you had been
a little less critical, I would
have fought the demon within

And so you go about your day
Reading a book, nursing your pain
I get up and make you tea, and
from allusion to "it", we abstain

Sunday, July 12

Middle Management

I am the middle management
Caught in a strange curious cusp
I am cheese stained soggy lettuce
Flanked by dry toast, sitting smug

My juniors find me conceited
From their little gossips excluded
I am friendless and insecure in the
Corporate ascent, its ladder eluded

I am top management's parakeet
who sings paeans for their vision
to a group of suspecting juniors
And live forever with their derision

Whole day I make presentations
labored over by other folks
I present their insight as mine
While their ambitions choke

The management finds me tiresome
Growth seeking, eager to please
Bad witb peers, worse with juniors
I am their idea of a corporate leech

And I keep blaming this and that
Hop jobs, or expect boss to resign
To storm the corporate citadel
And thus, I bid my time

Wednesday, July 8

My married friend's woes

This contempt of familiarity
The thing about marriage
Ebbing love, hiatus of "us"
This domestic barrage

Oh! Courtship, the rush of adrenal
The urgency, the living on edge,
The wanton ways, I prefer,
To this life of predictable drudge.

This daily fret for beer and bread,
Waking up to each other's breath.
The dinner jacket is for others,
And the boxers bore me to death.

Since you asked for the troth,
No point stretching this squabble.
Over fetching groceries, paying bills
Lets, for peace, again, play scrabble.

Lets entertain couples, as trite,
Stamp of boredom, their marriage
''Please pick my mom up tonight"
I meant her when I said baggage.

And honey, why do I see a yawn
escape you, I cant stand the sight.
This injured look on your face
You know, sex is for Saturday night.

Saturday, July 4

Politically Incorrect

This acquaintance of mine
Didn’t date, didn’t love
Her virginity intact
Like the smell of clove
This man, she married
Has other plan for her
He wants her to be
Wordless, quiet, demure
Cook, clean, pay
Warm the bed, love
Without a whimper, a say!
This acquaintance of mine
Virgin, clove, dew, petal
She is waiting right now
quiet, proving her mettle
Her lord turns away
In the nuptial bed, like ice
She is doing her best to defray
These thoughts, her only vice
Hoping her man, her master
Will surely turn around
Will take her in his arms
Coldness thawed, duty bound
I wish her the best
To pass in flying colors
This self imposed test
Her mother confirms with
An air of platitude,
That all will be well, the
Need is, a right attitude
If I were her, I would
Show loads of it, and
Steal this man’s gall
May be, castrate him
And fry his ball
I know, this poem
And the thought is
Crass and juvenile.
But what do you expect?
I can’t write
A politically correct
Pain laced, tear laden
Fourteen line sonnet.

Wednesday, July 1

Women like me

They live on their terms
They are women like me as such.
They don’t fret over their past
They don’t obsess with future much.

They drive their cars and their
view points, with the same alacrity.
From Mumbai to Manhattan
Their stories weaved in one tapestry.

They loved their men ruthlessly,
To each one they were true.
Fear and biological clocks apart
They shrug the going aways with little rue.

Lunch can be forsaken, niceties as well
Dinners and dates can go cold
But they jump up enthused, at midnight
For the mad dream that they hold

These are women like me as such
Devoid of seduction, free of clairvoyance
Their tales many muted mutinies
Mired in morality, also an act of defiance