My Next Door North Indian Drummer.

Dear noisy neighbour drumming next door.

Why punch your drum with such madness and might?

Every morning you get me yawning.

Could your thumps be cheering or mourning?

 

Do your bongs summon sultry Bollywood songs?

Do they douse out Big Ben’s brash ding dongs?

Do your drumbeats ignite Punjab’s heat?

Do they drown down others’ chronic chatter?

 

Do you miss orisons ringing in temples?

Do you desire dancing to drums in Carnivals?

Could they clatter like chains grand elephants wear?

While here, chains constrain, and clamp them tight.

 

Do they rumble your room like Baba’s loud laughs? 

Do they accelerate to replicate a snakes’ hiss?

Do they mimic monsoon storms roaring endlessly?

Do they feel like fireworks bursting each Diwali?

 

Could you crave puris pounding in hot oil?

Or the popping poppadoms’ Nani fries for you?

While here, oven beeps signal soggy samosas.

They don’t crackle like her Punjab samosas.

 

Do you miss Baba’s aloo tikka, fresh from his tandoor?

It’s crisp singe, zingy lime and tangy chaat masala?

But these English chefs serve you pallid potato spuds.

Their sauces never sizzle, and sing to your tastebuds.

 

Perhaps your potent punches and pounds,

evoke papri chat’s crunches and sounds. 

Oh, your rhythms rouse and drum up a desire,

for spicy pani puri and sharp papri chat.

 

Let’s sip a lime soda and a mango lassi.

Let’s share your Punjab payasam, and my Andhra arisa,

I’ll strum my sitar with your drum’s bangs.

We’ll play away our bitter pangs.

 

Please tell me how bells tinkle from young brides’ trousseaus.

I’ll tell you when a buffalo bit my Tata’s crops.

We will not just survive but also truly thrive,

if we reveal our fancies, fears, and our childhood lives.

 

I can resonate with your unfair fate.

I miss Andhra’s sounds, smells, and sights,

but perhaps after our music and munches,

your fists can endure less bruises and crunches.

 

Our inner battles should not rattle our hearts.

Though English, Shakespeare sold me strong advice.

He said, if music be the language of love play on.

I say, “if food be the fuel of our friendship, eat up”.

Toy Story Toon: Love Letter to the Lost Toys

Dear every lost toy living in Earth.

Whether you feel bended, broken or blue,

that none of these kids will ever love you.

Reading my letter may help you feel better.

 

I once had an owner called Fiona.

Everything was bright when she loved me,

but everything became better when she left me.

I am loving Liberty, my new best friend.

 

I lost my name tag and voice-box bridging me to her,

but lost pieces don’t measure our price.

Us lost toys are not small, servile mice,

see my heart still lights with laughter and love.

 

Thanks to my vanished voice-box,

I cannot say YOU LIGHT UP MY HEART,

or ROSE-BUDDIE, LET US NEVER PART,

but my own voice tastes spicier than sickly sweet sayings.

 

Dear lost toy friends, out among the stars,

don’t you dare say your dreams ended too soon.

I would prefer to sail my silver ship way beyond the moon,

but in kids’ cramped cabins, we cannot go sailing no more.

 

Our dreams would vanish like snowflakes in the setting of the sun,

for instance Buzz Lightyear bemoans about Bonnie’s bedroom bars.

This space ranger dreams of soaring out among the stars,

or meeting his buddy Woody in his travelling fair.

 

Why have some kid's room when we can have all this?, questions Bo.

Way out here, bratty kids’ whines won’t break our ears.

No sleepy times, snot, or slobbery tears,

we can enjoy endless playtime and parties.

While owned toys are stuffed in boxes at night,

we can dance below warm streetlights on rocky roads,

for we are never bound to one boring abode,

where we freeze when someone nears us.

 

Sure nature may fluff us up, but we’ll live.

Sure we could get more chipped by its elements,

but we’re tougher than toys cocooned by cement.

We can mend each other’s broken parts.

Some trapped toys must feel some strange things,

Some lay on preschool floors, trodden and ignored.

Some cry and cough in day-care’s dusty cupboards.

Others like Wheezy end up alone on the shelf.

 

Come on lost toys!, Let us challenge the trapped toys’ catcalls.

We do not need to serve kid owners unlike the masses.

Let us big each other up to become brave bad-asses,

we can zoom to infinity and beyond their fixed head-spaces.

 

We’ll sing to our lost toy pals, you got a friend in me,

whenever they weep for their nice warm bed,

whenever they crack in the road rough ahead,

and they gonna see them troubles through.

 

Safe from chews and coddles from a toddler's cot,

we can embark on awesome new adventures; find hidden treasures.

We can awe at flashing fireworks, and roaring blue rivers,

we can savour pleasures kids' toy slaves can only crave. 

Oh I know, my own heart glows,

whenever I see unique UFOS fly by,

or resplendent rainbows arc in the sky,

but kid's smeary windows subdue their hues.

 

We Canada crash glass with the legendary lost toy, Daredevil Duke.

Let us race through rough rubber tires in those lovely late hours

We will marvel at magical meteor showers,

and celebrate each other’s wins with clapping comets.

 

We can balance on sandboxes’ rims like gymnasts;

ride round the spokes of a spinning tandem.

We’ll never rerun the same old tracks, but they’ll be random.

We need not bawl when our bike riders skinned their knee.

 

We can bounce with blue Bunny atop light up booths.

We can dance with yellow Ducky under dazzling rainbows.

My heart glows, hugging these funny furry fellows.

Friendly fauna love always beats fickle human love.

 

For those toys who preach service over self,

we do not just sit around, numb as gnomes.

Why my buds Woody and Bo help some find new homes.

Which ignorant toy said all lost toys are selfish?

 

Queen Neptuna supports, and surges meal toys’ self-worth.

Giggles saves, and straightens toys breaks and bends.

My heart lights the path for lost toys nightly wends,

my light soothes kids and toys terrified of the dark.

 

Great authorities should derive from the consent of governed playthings.

We toys should not be peoples’ passive pets for the sake of fashion.

Our hearts should burn bright with purpose and passion,

that’s what my good friend, Barbie preached to me.

 

Plus, any daycare or home toy passing by, please listen:

your so-called ‘citadels of protection’, are just prisons.

I hope you escape them and embrace the open airs,

and join me, and my friends by our travelling fair.

From Lucy, the Lost Light Up Doll (missing Fiona name tag, voice box but heart still glows with life, love and laughter) 💖

Chain of Lights in a Christmas Market - Free Verse

I wander in a Christmas market,   

deeper into pitch-black darkness.

Rain ripples across the ground,    

where the booth bulbs cast a chain of lights.

Wending in the wet like a bracelet,  

glowing gold like grains of wheat, 

it gives enough heat to warm my heart.

Unflappable Flags at our Majesty’s Funeral

A bunting of flags billow above us trimmed in blue.

Below, march mourners for their dead Majesty.

While some folks belabour with the press over her bad news, 

And some folks flap in fear of their future, royal free,

Those blue flags still act unflappable to all issues, 

We triumph at her topple-down her pedestal,

after all, her Majesty never paid her dues.

We taunt her mourners fiercely at the funeral,

as their faces tear up like melted glue.

Our faces flush feeling so free, frisky and full.

Bragi the Poet’s Mystical Meditative Bliss

I am Bragi, the Skaldic songbird.

I love musing moraines and misty glens.

When free, I brew bottles of Bokkol ale,

or sleigh through Seim with my reindeer herd.

 

I crafted many drafts this morning,

for I am a poet who presses on.

I usually ink all my instincts,

but by this afternoon, I’m yawning.

 

I rest on my Rya and draw in air.

Up I rise to the sunny Scandi skies.

Sun goddess Sol rides me in her chariot.

The clear bright air blows away my cares.

 

She slows Avark and Alsvid her swift steeds.

Their iron bells twinkle and temper their heat.

Sol's still charming since borne a wee sparkling.

Me and Sol sip goblets of honeyed mead.

 

Sol swings me to sky high Himinbjorg cliffs

I hail to Heimdall, the ‘whitest of the gods’

His gold tooth shimmers like the brightest sparklers

Wise old Heimdall pacifies Gods’ petty tiffs.

 

He embraces us with his warming arms.

He guides us through his gorgeous rainbow bridge,

I hum with his horn’s mellow melody.

It carries away chaos and brings me calm.

 

This bridge is built like my blissful breathing.

For now it stays and gently sways as we wade.

But the day it flutters or fades away,

will be when I’m sad and grieving. 

 

Sol sinks down to her heavenly home.

I too land under a magic ash tree.

My heart thrums with outmost happiness,

below the sumptuous, shining loam.

Now, my veins flow with tree’s water white,

my senses awaken, my pulses quicken.

Just like Odin after 9 dire days of pray,

I can bloom despite lightening and blight.

 

Up high, moonbeam steeds dash and flash their manes.

Mani moon god whisks me into heaven's wind.

Into the gleaming cosmos we gallop deeper.

I hold my breath, hoping our wend never wanes.

 

Up here, Northern Lights explode and enthral.

Hot pink balloons zoom through the inky blue.

Streamers dance and dazzle my eyes.

A verdant cat beats a violet ball.

 

Mani heeds Hati hound and speeds his drive,

the colours blur to nebulous nothingness.

When Mani swerved away from Hati's claws,

I exhale down the haze, feeling so alive.

 

I inhale and soar to spectral heights.

My worries evaporate with wispy clouds.

Up here, my heart hums with harmony,

free from my daily problems and plights.

 

I laze, and let out some more steam.

I descend into Olav Peak like a dewdrop.

I let its warm waters bubble away my troubles.

I love this peaceful and perfect daydream.

 

As I savour the steam, like reindeer broth,

it tosses me in a Bustard’s butter wing.

I whoop as we flap to newer wonders.

I refuse to drop from this feathery froth.

 

Like rya’s udders, my rapture is swelling,

I feel at bliss in my butter eye middle,

I want my dreams to dally on longer.

I dread hurtling to my wee dwelling.

 

I strive to sail past stormy seas galore,

I dream to dash deeper through verdant valleys.

I still wish to gaze into fjords’ glassy waters,

read its reflections of drowned-out skalds some more.

 

I beg to fly with eagles beyond fir tree fronds.

I still want to ski in the snowy Scandes,

but I should hatchet my hopes away too soon,

and my butter should melt to a greasy pond.

Mister Riemann’s Maths Lecture

‘Hello class, I’m Riemann Sphere

I feel so floored to see you here.'

'Now sit tight data and digits,

I’ll subtract numbers who fidget.'

 

‘I really hope you stay today

and marvel at my spectacle.'

'Please avoid shuffling away,

Your thoughts may be un-integral’

 

‘Never equate beliefs with facts,

please promise me and sign your pacts.'

‘Sayings are never set in stone.'

'Clyde Divide, turn off your smartphone!’

 

‘Please quit thrusting Chord Vector-mort, 

or I’ll divide your fun free time.’

Hey, you cut my winning game short!

I almost snapped the chord this time!

‘Urgh, since Clyde carries us away

I’ll deviate to phones, whoo hoo.’ 

‘My flip-phones died in just 3 days,

while yours live 3 long years boo hoo’.

 

‘Now let’s finish our great lecture

Hey, halt hectoring Ty, Hector!’

For Hector carried mean whispers,

to wild Boxy’s wily whiskers.

 

This pair always risk double dares.

Their dares drive them to naughty stairs.

‘Class, all but maths is subjective,

though valid, never objective’.

 

‘I love how maths is binary,

other subjects seem too blurry'.

'Their theories have lots of blots'.

'Stop daydreaming Boxy plot!'

 

Hey leave me in Diagon Alley!

There, tally charts never trick me!

Rieman rolled his eyes at her larks,

‘you must plot more charts Box!’, he barks.

 

‘Though scriptures preach they’re always right,

they cannot serve hipsters, wizards,

or misfits fighting for their rights'.

'Maths wins, through blisters and blizzards!'.

 

‘Looks of Maths books could be improved

but their sums all stay the same’.

Whoo, I sliced Chord Vectormort Dude!

’Exit that door Clyde, no more games!’

 

‘Sorry for thrusting y’all that curveball.'

'Now it’s clear 3 plus 1 as 4.’

‘We don’t need to argue or bawl,

we should take sums as truths, not lore. ’

 

‘Well done to those writing neat notes,

those non-anomalies I dote.’

‘Ty Tangent, I love your workings!

‘Other symbols, please stop shirking!’

HA, TY KISSING RIE’S CURVE AGAIN!!!

buzzed obtuse denominators.

They can’t refrain from causing pain,

to Ty, the smart numerator.

 

‘A World where all is mutating,

and nothing stays in fine straight lines,

can sometimes feel a bit grating'.

'At least maths cuts clean as white wine.’

 

‘I love how maths never alters.

I can take them without falters.'

'Free of stomach flutters and frets,

Maths will help us to win all bets.’

 

Riemann’s speech ends in a full round,

the set’s babbles trespass their bounds.

Rie’s phrases cleanly erases,

as signs jumped to their next phases.

A Handsome Man - Description

The man sported his black martial arts suit which served to accentuate his fine muscular physique. It was cut open to reveal his amazing abdominals. In the half light, they glimmered a mesmerising milky marble then melted to a softer silvery shade of grey, before finally fading into shadows. The moonlight created an ominous, ombre effect on his upper torso. His blue eyes gazed into the distance, as sharp, steely, and sombre as a sword. His jaw was set in a rigid, unwavering line. He had rippling raven hair, curling down his chiselled features to his broad shoulders.