The Proposal

"I have a thing for cliché ", said she.
"I do", said he.
"Excuse me?"
"Diffuse me."
"Confuse me?"
"Choose me."

Hounds

They howl, but at night;
or is it Morning, mourning?
Their eyes, dreams' coffins.

La Mascarade

                                 Picture Courtesy: Google

Here's another one:
A fanatic, a puritan,
a flame forgotten;
here's fire, still unmade,
squalling unafraid,
en route to Life's masquerade.

He, who dons this blue,
this rag of rue;
he, who lives so true-
will he find me at the ball?
Will he, my name call?
And will that be all?

Will he a stranger seem?
Or my lord supreme,
as we kiss to blaspheme?
Will I in glory bask,
as I see through the mask?
Will I be kissed, I ask. . .

I wish the bud bloomed;
Oh. . .I long to be consumed!
Yes, too much have I presumed-
for what use this scrutiny-
when love, that is mutiny,
is seldom the destiny?

So let there be me and him,
and Fate and its whim;
and let pain its cup brim-
for this known sorrow
that Fate would borrow,
shall bring us tomorrow.

Bête Noire

                                            Picture Courtesy: Google

I am a scribe to this night-

this night, that has

addressed to me its agonies

and confessed to me

its handicap.

I am a stooge of this life-

this life, that has

needed me to be its accomplice

and needled me

into being.

To be or not to be?

To be or not to be?

I walk free.

And freedom's futility

is known to me.

Do you hear the violin

she plays?

And do you see him there,

fondling her chin

in his dream?

To be or not to be?

To see or to flee?

Words? Bah.

Songbirds.

He'd talked to me of flutes.

And his skin was blue.

I dived but didn't get through.

I am only a scribe to the night.

Yet when it rains,

I weep.

Embroideries of emotions

underline his eyes,

and they say

poetry is hyperbole.

Be. Don't be.

I am a slave to those eyes,

those eyes, that have

owned me an eternity

and owed me

tears.

When blackbirds

will reach the sun,

the horizon

will not be.

And they will not be.

The Tragedienne

                                     Picture Courtesy: Google

Ripples of her laughter

spread across the audience

and died thereafter

as she wept her penance.

The red in her lip
had been all her blood-
they took a holy dip
and died in a flood.

Years ago she had

been too frail to be appeased,

when times were not glad

that she did as she pleased.

She'd sighed and wailed

but all they'd eyed

was how she had failed

and not complied.

"Rise, rise, Aphrodite!

The foamy ocean,

your ensemble of white-

bring us emotion."

"Emeralds of envy,

Sapphires of scorn-

what else can we

have you adorn?"

"Bleed, blend,

become the breath.

Succeed, befriend,

succumb to death!"

"Let loose that lock

laced in lust.

Give up the clock;

embrace, you must."

And thus she feigned

as well as she felt.

For eons reigned

and for ages knelt.

Her giggles appalled

that sea of men

and then they called

her 'tragedienne'.

Narcissus Sees

                     Picture: The Son of Man by Rene Magritte

Narcissus sees

a nebulous reflection

of his perfection

and he flees.

The murky seas

that obscure conviction,

are they perception

or grease?

Cathartic sprees,

to end recollection

are but self-affliction

and disease.

Storms- they cease,

become fiction

and springs affection

as tears freeze.

So until one frees

one's own reflection,

one is the imperfection

Narcissus sees.

The Gay and the Gray

                           Picture Courtesy: Google

Fate stands acquitted

in this court of justice,

while I am admitted

a sinner, and exhibited;

Love, my accomplice,

Religion, the winner.

"Guilty", they retort,

"Gay", "ghost", "gross".

"Crime", they report.

"Odd", they revolt,

bitter and cross.

They do it for God.

I know not why they spar-

what is their goal?

Those who gazed at the star

and dealt with the scar-

They seek not the soul.
They have not felt.

Hues

The hills painted white,

Red trickling down the eye-

And Envy is green.

Knit Me a Lie

                                         Picture Courtesy: Google, Picasa

Like rhymes churned
to hold soldiers
to field;
try tasks and parts
until they die-

When times turned
their cold shoulders
to me,
I asked my heart,
"Knit me a lie."

A Haiku that Happened

Whirling of her skirts,
a chequered carpet beneath-
sunset dawns outside.

On Being Unreasonable

                                   Picture Courtesy: Google

I do it because I cannot do otherwise
than being not before your eyes.
I do it because it looks a compromise
that kills me so you may rise.

I do it because I need to disguise
this soul, this heart and its cries.
I do it because I'd heard your sighs
and thought for once, to be wise.

I do it because, although, a surprise,
I know you'll someday surmise
that I do it because I see what lies
ahead of this day as my prize.

Let Him

                       Picture Courtesy: Google
                   ('The Kiss' by Auguste Rodin)

Let dreams not captivate my love tonight,
let my distant cries now be heard by him.
Let memories of me not haunt his sight-
My face before his eyes; the rest be dim.

Let hands not reach for stars that shine so bright,
let them be burned by cold wits or at whim.
Let moons procure not what he knows of 'light'-
aflame, my heart be christened this by him.

Let him succumb to anything but night;
let him but come and kiss this crimson rim,
drink the passion and be drowned with its might-
Let him, let him, let him, let him, let him. . .