Wa tyool ook in gat

An oggleple I am

with large peepgogs, two.

I oggscope many a ham

and the things they do.

I sit and while

the time in oggscoping.

Each passing smile

can be heartwarping.

And while I sit, quietly,

sipping at my fresh coffee -

a truest oggleple I be -

I wonder who's oggscoping me.

An oggleple I am

with a vivid imagination.

I conjure glitz and glam -

Write lives in my vision.

I like to think of every face

as a secret window.

A story there to even the pace

with which they come and go.

And while I sit, quietly,

sipping at my fresh coffee -

a truest oggleple I be -

I wonder who's oggscoping me.

An oggleple I am,

with many a story told.

An oggleple I am;

sometimes not too bold.

As I sit and oggscope out

I sometimes come across a mirror.

I wonder oft - I have some doubt -

Why oggscoping myself, I dither.

And while I sit, quietly,

sipping at my fresh coffee -

a truest oggleple I be -

I wonder who's oggscoping me.

Thro o alu king lass

A search was out to seek.

A look was out to peek.

The know knew not

the what was sought

and when began to leak.

A leaky when did fear

as never's end drew near.

The soon was now

and that was how

but if was not a clear.

The clear was white as black.

The black was lying back.

Asleep was sleep

to lie so deep

that what became a lack.

And so the what was sought.

But know had still knew not

when the leak

at never's peak

would over-sleep the pot.

Jive a frown away

At breakfast you sit

feeling down.

Your brow knit

into a frown.

The days are large and often looming.

You miss the birds and flowers, blooming.

A suitcase of apprehension and full of doubt -

What luggage to pick up when stepping out!

At lunch you sit

feeling down.

Your brow knit

into a frown.

The path ahead's not always clear

but sound advice is usually near.

Perhaps it's just a phase of the moon.

Whatever it is, it will pass soon.

At tea you sit

feeling down.

Your brow knit

into a frown.

Look around and you will find

a gentle hand or word, kind.

A film, a person, or even a book -

It could be any, if you'll look.

At dinner you sit

feeling down.

Your brow knit

into a frown.

Before you sleep, you think a while -

Look back to find a cause to smile.

The night now seems crisp and bright.

Tomorrow, perhaps, will begin right.

In dream you dance

and feel alive.

You take a chance

at even a jive.

Written on the twentieth

It's one of those days when all around, good wishes and smiles will surround me. Friends from yesterday and those who've only recently come and chose to share a moment or a word or a glance, when they heard that today was today, came along, to say 'hey'. It was a lovely thing to do. And to each and every one of you, I extend my warmest and my best and I'd like to say a big THANK YOU.

What rhymes with rhythm?

The piece begins with simple beat,
not even penta, just the four.
A message into this to pour
is not always a simple feat.


Does prose have rhythm?
Can prose have rhyme?
Am I looking through a prism
and will it be a crime?

Clash of the forms

Is it true that poetry is not just about the rhyme? Of course there is the one-two-three (while the fingers tap in time). It's so compelling and fulfilling, to culminate a sentence thus: with a dance of fingers, feet and mind. It's a super stimulus. It was good advice from a very sound source: respected, educated, well-read, of course. But another had shared yet another juicy view that when something burst forth, only then follow through.


Neither is law and neither misinformed. I will do both and both shall adorn this space of mine where rhythm meets rhyme – Time to grow and change, no? It will be written from within and every day the other will win and both shall be equally real and I'll try to stay true to what I feel.

New

Late night's

bright lights

blaze with no warning:

memories in the morning.

Dance: drop the wine;

chance: "drop me a line";

tonight, the moment's

yours and mine;

said to be providence,

perhaps divine.

Hugs and wishes,

farewell kisses,

missed sunrises,

new-year promises:

the branded night and tag-line morning are come and gone and now are done;

the year ahead's the season's flavour: gladly, it was well-begun.

Luny Day

What the hell is it about bloody Mondays?

Is it about the end of a hangover-haze?

Guilt-ridden compensation for the weekend's laze?

Do people jump awake

and do a double take

at the enormity of the innane targets that they chase?

What an invention, these bloody Mondays!

Care to chance?

Chances and prances may oft lead to dances
and dances and chances are age-old friends.
But dances are not assured with prances,
given the off-beat message it sends.

A self portrait by a small ball of white fur that sits on the bed.

Reality's in my eyes.

Contentment is my purr.

Dawn shall break when I rise

and clean my pristine fur.

There shall be food when I mew,

there shall be love when I'm due -

And I am due when I wish:

It's like the salmon in my dish.

Call my name with all your might;

I'll turn on a whim.

Pick me up without the right:

your fingers get a trim.

The noise and mayhem of the world

disappear when I am curled.

I live on simple terms and ask little of life:

To eat, sleep, purr and be left away from strife.

I have been called

and shall again

be known ever more

as the epitome of beauty,

grace and elegance -

oh, what a bore!