Angry young yan.
Angry young man
with headphones on.
Walks down the street,
repeating the words
of another mans poem.
Disturbing the peace
of the passers by.
Get a life young man.
Leave the headphones home.
Spend some quiet time,
make words of your own.
Speak them out loud,
and then we'll see,
what bugging you,
and if it bugs me.
Oh angry young man.
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Another Day.
To work forever seems the only choice,
anxiously balanced between paychecks.
I console myself with a lottery ticket,
and pretend I am not growing old.
Love, like fortune, seems elusive,
almost there, then slipped away.
This time I'm sure I'll get it right.
How many more times can I try?
Perhaps I've missed my way in life,
thinking I'm nothing special.
If I'd been more positive, who knows?
Fame, fortune and love might have found me.
The old recourse is always tempting.
After work I'll go and get a beer,
and chat or flirt with some pretty girl.
A modest happy ending to another day.
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The big bark
Startled awake in the small hours,
a crescendo of barking floods the night.
Some street-dog fight or night visitor,
alarms an insomniac domestic pet.
He sounds off, and wakes his neighbour,
who knows his voice, to join in too.
She in turn, her neighbours on each side,
jumping the street to rouse another block.
A chain reaction starts, and soon
all of the district is in uproar,
barks and howls of every sound and size.
Each dog waking another two.
There's open land between, but now
the din's enough to wake the dogs in town.
They hear the conflagration and set to.
From there, the suburbs all are doomed.
A city of barking dogs, alarmed,
and now excited by the sound of
pure dog power, become resolved.
Their owners' curses go unheeded.
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It's ages till a dog gets hoarse,
and boredom's not an issue here.
Some owners win, some dogs give up,
I say goodbye to further sleep.
Gradually dogs drop out, and so it seems
the chain may break, but no.
Some cheeky little pup chimes in,
keep it up boys, this is fun.
And then, like magic, a cockerel crows,
signaling the first gray crack of dawn.
The neighboring dogs all know him, and
defer for a moment to his call.
Dogs far afield now stop to listen.
What's up? somebody's stopped. What's up?
The ripple of silence spans the city,
and so the cock's crow breaks the chain.
I sleep, woken by the cockerel later
to a city of tired sleeping dogs.
I shall be well inclined to let them lie.
They've made their point.
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The devil eats a hearty breakfast.
Does god eat?
Some theologian must have decided,
back in medieval times perhaps.
Eating too much is gluttony; a close call.
Corn flakes or a little fruit perhaps.
Man must eat.
But breakfast is the difficult event,
infuenced by our mood, and our actions
on the night before. Oh my poor head!
My shame won't let me face such fare.
The devil though
has gluttony as a virtue; in reverse.
Must give example to his sinning flock;
breakfast on ham, eggs and champagne.
The devil eats a hearty breakfast.
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Eat drink, and be merry?
Eat drink and be merry, so it goes.
For tomorrow is uncertain,
we may not get the chance again.
How does this hold up in life today?
In Shakespeare's day a man might well.
Opportunity was likely scarce,
and daily labour was the common lot.
The fat he ate today would burn tomorrow.
The rich and powerful knew real gluttony.
But a thousand ailments now extinct
or trivial could cut them down.
Blame it on food and drink, not likely!
Now we know better, or we should.
Our hearts can not sustain high living,
having more time to take the damage.
Each bout of merrymaking takes its toll.
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Yet the urge is still alive and well.
Food, fast or rich, lures us everywhere,
a distraction from the daily tedium.
We politely disregard obesity, or try.
Lifestyle can sustain both body and soul.
The ascetic oriental traditions show
us ways to live in peace and health.
But merry hardly leaps to mind.
And so we try to double up our lives.
Wedging the daily labour in between
the tedium - treadmills all round.
So we still have leeway for the feast.
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Endorphin high.
The sun caresses my neck.
Azure blue, the sky is magic.
Women in the street are beautiful and sexy.
The mosque reaches to the blue,
its minaret pointing to heaven.
An antenna seeking signals from the void.
My simple food's a feast,
teasing my tongue with its flavor.
Pleasing me even in it's color and its form.
I listen to a favorite piece
and find a new intensity of joy.
Nuances missed in music I know by heart.
My cheap wine is luscious.
I swill it in my mouth and marvel,
watching how it wets the glass that way.
Where is it from, this rush,
perhaps the medication? If so I know
why athletes risk career and reputation.
Endorphin high, I pass the day
hoping that the mood might last,
or that I've found a trick the Buddha knew.
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Godless
God released me from morality when I was twenty five,
letting my firstborn die in my arms.
A child, without sin - what more can he impose?
Think twice before you love or put your trust in me,
I'll judge you silently as days go by.
There's no forever, no future, no lifetime pass.
Spending my life a wanderer, new fences, greener grass,
I'll trust in few things but myself.
Though now the world is small, no places left.
I beg forgiveness from those I have passed by.
You will have judged me as you please,
and I have no rebuttal, but also hold no grudge.
What's my authority in this? None but my own.
I'll meet my maker when he's ready,
and, if he gets in range, spit in his eye.
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Happy Hour
Times are hard, and competition fierce,
each bar must have some little edge,
balancing economics with ingenuity.
The trick's to get them in;
laid back after one or two quick drinks,
then serve some food in sniffing range.
To plant that little seed of doubt,
shop and cook, or sit here and eat?
It's cheaper here than making it at home.
A board outside promotes the bar's pet hook,
brute force low price on cheaper drinks,
or two for one, or beer in in bulk.
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Give them the drink for free - almost.
To do so literally won't fly.
The city shuts you down for that.
Provide that early evening buzzz,
and hope come seven they'll be eating;
maybe hang out and buy another round.
Check their tab later, only to find
what started as economy quite blown.
My god, how did we spend all that?
Next day the fog of work dims memory,
after all, we had a super time.
Hey, join me after work - it's happy hour.
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In the Mood?
Am I a dried up old stick,
no emotions, nothing left to say?
Not long ago I tried to find
things that were interesting and true.
To find some insight, or a joke,
to make life less mundane.
Thoughts would pop into my head,
and take some shape as I drove or rode.
Then I'd spend an hour or two
going over the words to make them fit.
Words are unmanageable things,
changing their ways behind your back.
Did lack of confidence mute me?
I can't think why, I feel secure.
Maybe such verses grow from doubts
that make you think about your life.
Now I'm content and do not question.
But no, that's bull, it's something else.
In verse you are your inner self,
there's probably some insight there.
I tried life in a goldfish bowl,
but partners like to paint the glass.
I should resist, there's not that long
to dwell on truth or lies before they're gone.
Perhaps to try is the important thing.
Practice makes perfect, as they say.
But then perfection's not my aim.
Wait for that and you'll wait forever.
I should do it for the fun of it,
and say my piece when I'm in the mood.
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New York Snow.
The snow takes the city back a hundred years.
People walk on a quiet avenue devoid of traffic.
In a gray canyon, twilight dim before the lights come on,
stretching mysteriously to who-knows-where.
I take a bus uptown, toward Grand Central and the subway.
The pace suits my mood, and I stay on the bus,
spurning the subway to sustain the dream.
For tomorrow it will be New York snow; dirty and cold.
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Pride
They say that pride comes before a fall.
In fear of this possibility, pride is a thing
I have often tried to avoid.
Too often it comes only to disguise anger.
Justification! I was right, and they were wrong.
Easy then to slip and fall.
But sometimes pride comes unbidden.
Today, my two year old grandchild spoke to me.
Hello and goodbye, she said, and I was proud.
Perhaps there is a lesson here.
Maybe a little pride is something I'll let by.
Time will tell, if there is time.
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The Prize.
The rat wrestles a bagel between the tracks,
risking the eyes of the watching crowd.
She ducks from the incoming train,
returning before it stops.
We feel her panic - how will she get it home?
The prize would feed her family for a week,
cream cheese and all, good stuff!
If it's moved before neighbors come to share.
With the rest, I board the train - we'll never know.
The rat stays with me, I'll remember her
when I find a treasure that I can't move.
Good for her, my money's on the rat!
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Rap of Ages
It's Monday morning and I don't feel good.
The wife's not treating me like she should.
The kids are grumblin' about their food,
and Edie says there's no money left.
I give her my card, which I don't like to do,
'cos I know she'll spend when she gets to the shops,
and we're thin this month so we don't need that.
I get in my car and drive to work,
but the traffic's bad, and I'm gonna be late.
I'll miss my call and my boss'll be mad,
we've a deadline to meet that's turnin' bad.
I get into work and grab a coffee,
then try to hide myself in the office.
Try to tune my head to something solid.
The mornin' drags by and its nearly lunch.
The girls walk by, they're happy chattin'.
We're goin' to the pub Mr Teale, you comin'?
What the hell I think, I may as well.
This afternoon's gonna be like hell.
Young Silvie says she'll give me a ride
on the back of her scooter that she calls Mike.
I ride to the pub with the pretty girl
She smells pretty good and doesn't seem shy.
I get me a pint and a chicken pie,
and the world seems better by and by.
I chat with the girls 'bout this and that.
Wendy says that Silvie fancies me.
Silvie smiles and blushes and so do I.
We ride back to work, arms round her waist,
my legs spread wide and her between.
Just watch it man she's far too young,
could be your daughter or dating your son.
Whatever I say I enjoy the ride,
I say thank you Silvie, that was fun,
then get down to work - seems easy now.
Before I know it's six o'clock,
the girls are half way down the block.
As I watch them go Silvie turns and waves.
My stomach flip-flops - very strange.
I drive t'ward home and stop at the local.
My friend John's there and pretty vocal.
What a shit day Monday is he says.
I smile and buy him another beer.
But mine was good I realize,
which given its start, was a surprise.
I get home late, and E's been spendin,
but I kiss her lips and make no fuss.
Tomorrow will be another day.
We'll see what comes or goes that way.
She cooks me supper - the kids are out.
She's happy now and I feel horny.
We make love like she's someone else,
surprising her with my urgent need.
Man it was good and now I'm sleepy,
she'll watch TV and catch me later.
I've no idea when she came to bed.
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Tuesday morning the boss is happy,
we got new work and it's down to me.
You'll work all hours that god will send
and if it comes off you'll be ok.
Silvie asks what I'm doin' for lunch.
No lunch today love - lot to do,
be here today till after seven.
Leaving that night she's still around.
I worked late, you can by me a drink.
She parks her Mike around the back,
then we drive in my car to a pub she knows.
It's after work so she has a drink.
Now normally I just drink my beer,
but I join her now in something stronger.
She tells me she's down cos her boyfriend split,
but really he was a bit of a shit.
She thinks she may be better off,
but it's been some time so she's kind of sad.
A couple of drinks and we both feel better,
but it's time to go or we'll be missed,
so we pay our bill and move for home.
She lives a little out of town,
and as we drive toward her home,
she turns me down a country lane.
I enjoyed our time today she says,
and before I know she's split my zip,
goes down on me, mouth hot and wet.
In a moment, it's over and we go on home.
By now I've seriously got the bug.
Going to work's a joy, and 'working late'.
Edie's still got the card so she's happy too,
and the credit card company's havin' a ball.
Silvie's there for me every day.
Our sex life's getting really mad,
we're doing it anywhere we can.
We lunch together when there's time.
But a woman at work is a friend of E's
and she doesn't think much of what she sees.
Edie catches us one day at the pub.
There's a rotten scene and Silvie cries.
I flounder - there's nothing I can say,
caught fair and square with my trousers down.
Oh rock of ages cleft for me,
I could do to hide myself in thee.
And now I have to make a choice,
my wife and kids or the girl who's life.
Every day is now a challenge.
I can't do a thing that suits them both.
My fleeting joy an old sick joke.
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Real-Time War.
I am mesmerized by real-time war.
Real time; there's an expression!
What time is there that isn't real?
Passing us by, it's gone forever,
whatever happens in the fleeting moment.
TV news and press are at a loss.
So much time to fill, and so few facts.
How can such uncertain conflict
yield so little that's sensational;
so many light-news days?
I scour the web for tiny facts.
Little hints of time and place.
Where are those young men now,
living dangerously on unknown ground,
knowing no more than I.
The media hover for the human angle.
The worse the news, the juicier the prospect.
Torment some distraught mother,
hoping for anger or real-time tears
as she dreads the worst.
The spin doctors lie through their teeth.
Playing the world's oldest game.
Of course they're not surprised,
nothing surprises them, the enemy is doomed.
What else did they ever say?
After the event all will be clear.
We knew it would be like that.
Another generation knowing what war is;
but they'll never tell, leaving the next
to find it all again.
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Running the gauntlet
A cockroach scurries across the busy road,
avoiding my bicycle's narrow track,
and on toward the heavy traffic.
I pedal on, wondering about its chances,
and how they might be estimated.
Quite quickly giving up on that.
Elsewhere perhaps, running the gauntlet
of the traffic might not be the catch.
Pure chance would deal that card.
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The morning crowd beyond the traffic flow
would pose a greater threat,
with sharp eyes and malicious feet.
But in India it might fare better.
The attitude's more laisser-fair,
and maybe feet would be just chances too.
As I drink my morning coffee later,
I wonder if the cockroach found it's way
to tasty morning garbage on the other side.
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Safe or Happy?
Free falling for twenty thousand feet,
without a parachute, while making love.
Certain death, but what a rush!
Life in a bunker underground, air filtered,
with food screened, and guards outside.
No problems here, you can't touch me.
A level between security and excitement;
Happiness, like beauty, is in the eye
of the beholder, and mine's not yours.
Be safe, you say, labelling me
with apprehensions I may not share.
Your greeting wasted, I felt nothing.
When you greet me, give me some space.
I'll gladly take your blessing, but
wish me happiness, I'll choose my own.
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Seeking Shade
Here at at twelve hundred meters high,
the sun will harm you if she can.
She tempts with her seductive warmth,
hiding her quick, sharp UV knife.
I find a shady bar and order beer.
It comes, I sit and sip, and drift.
My eyes unfocussed, I stare both ways,
onto the future and the past.
Seeing there ones that got way,
and yet to be, the ones that will.
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The Smile
It's an ordinary morning,
standing on the subway platform.
Suddenly from out of nowhere
appears the smile.
A smile for someone else
is my shy first assumption.
But then I see the eyes are
looking at me.
A pretty face;
perhaps a Latin background.
The smile fades, but the eyes
probe me frankly.
The train sets out,
downtown - Brooklyn bound.
At City Hall she leaves
with glance and nod.
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How can this be,
why would she smile at me?
Next day I set out earlier
and she's not there.
Next week I find her time;
you could set your clock by her.
The smile is always there;
a silent warm greeting.
We learn to speak.
A voice matching the smile and eyes,
always relaxed and easy,
is a little daily treat.
Now my job's gone,
swallowed by the recession.
We meet no more, but still the smile,
lingers like the Cheshire Cat.
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Transported
I'll take him home, and see you there,
should take the scooter anyway.
She rolls it back and pays the man.
I'm well contented with my fate.
I don't need clubbing in mid week.
The morning comes round soon enough!
A ride home with a pretty girl
will round the day off very well.
Apart from regular pedal bikes,
two-wheeler's never were my thing.
Don't put your feet down! Hold on tight,
and leave the balancing to me.
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I relax and let her do the work.
The four-stroke engine purrs along,
a contrast to the two-stroke bikes
with their petulant, metallic snarl.
Transported, with the girl between my thighs,
and a cool breeze blowing in my face.
Together, in a private moving space,
I wish the drive were twice as long.
We soon reach home, and I dismount.
She doffs her helmet for a kiss.
Goodnight, I'll see you, then she's off,
vanishing quickly in the night.
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Waking Dream
I held at the exit to the end,
after all those years of non-violence.
The weapon hot beyond its limit,
my body damaged beyond repair.
The air-lock behind me finally blew,
and I was thrown out into the vacuum,
along with the bandsmen and waiters
who had sheltered there.
No chance of survival, no air at first,
too much as I moved toward the planet.
Doomed to suffocate or burn up,
somehow I fell to Earth.
She was there - a surreal echo.
Was this the bizarre reality of death?
I thought of how we made love, reflected
in the walls of infinite mirrors.
So long ago, how could this be?
She looked at my shattered body,
calmly, as if it happened every day,
urging my dumb lips to quiet.
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Then came the small craft of the enemy,
cutting her fragile humanity down.
From pain and love came infinite rage,
I broke my oath and interfered.
Focussed on my remaining hand, I grew,
becoming at last the final Brahma.
Grasping the alien ship, I crushed it,
and pulled it to my centre.
Then the collapse of anger into grief
compressed everything into a singularity,
the ship, the earth, all things we knew,
lost in one small black hole.
A random wormhole took me back
to some space-time I vaguely knew.
Brushing my teeth in a suburban home,
memories fading with each stroke.
So now I guess, I'll get along.
Another ten thousand years perhaps,
before we two shall meet again.
But will she know? Will I?
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A Wet Saturday.
The rain came heavy and mild,
melting the piles of dirty snow,
and flooding the gutters.
On Monday they say
the snow will come again.
The first real winter in years.
My love and I nurse our hangovers,
expensively acquired last night,
and toy with plans for the day.
Won't do that again we vow;
experience suggests otherwise.
Just the odd one perhaps.
We make love as old friends do,
easy, knowing each others ways.
Bringing smiles to the wet afternoon.
Then lie in contemplation,
her dark skin against my stark white,
each lost in thought.
It's five - the thought of eating comes.
We search the icebox,
and find the remains of Friday's dinner.
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Wipro Park
I walk the length of Wipro park.
Taking the side furthest from the road
to distance myself from the traffic noise.
The clop, clop of my cowboy boots
sounds on the hard packed earth,
as I pass lovers on the benches.
A line of newly planted palm saplings
sit in pits of mud to my right.
My groceries hang in my left hand.
The tiniest beer-buzz makes me calm
and yet elated, at peace in the dark.
I am content in this far away place.
Leaving the park, I cross the street,
buy onions, dhaniya, and eggs,
then make my way home for supper.
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