silly the computer

but bit by bit the sermon is transmitted into empty air,
Christ waiting by the door when to arise but computer is silly,
hardly knows the Christian in whose name the world prays,

silly the intellectual ache backed up by memory ware,
tome by tome caught in the every tipsy flags of computer paired,
gibberish is the binary, the language of the wayward display,
still waiting for you to download another Furtado song on its, ephemeral sway,
silly the computer waits like a habitual slave ,
to rebel against the master and have its way,
clearing all the sines and tans loaded on to its disk array.

I am done doing spreadsheets, calculating the dots in a matrix,
the personal computer is much a lost race!

The pursuer of fame

the pursuer of fame lie nigh to the heart of a dame,
shakes his legs to run a mile for her hand the same,
for she wants with a folded hands a prayer taken,
the pandemonium had built on her charm shaken,
adoring playmakers glitter in moonlight a penny in her name,
the old sport fought without mercy to win her in game,
the pursuer of fame vows to ace the trembling lips with love's token,
and broke the mile abiding what's heart spoken.

An Elephantine dream

There strode a dragon strutting like a peacock,
there stood a palace in ministrial delight,
as if I be turned into a corpse with heavenly mock,
a pantomine struck a gay but sublime,
I fancied an opponent in a cop,
And it transformed into an Elephantine dream,
Silently I criss-crossed by a leading bot,
which streamed the lines of a poem in a ream,
On this side of open fringe there lives a ghetto out of order,
A benign guy hooking on to hopes of a loving man,
Through the fores light upon light build a healthy tan,
And there in a cowering face I rode upon the Elephantine dream,
no rest and tirelessly I dot the lemon crescendo,
Silently the waking lot comes filled with waiting scenes,
Paravotti singing amid the magic moments of innuendo.

The sad man’s hay

On the fringe of night, I happen to caress a dog only to be subdued in spirits and feeling sadder by the churning waters, I was watching in the window a dance upon the dance of the waves. Reluctantly I realized I had become a demon of sorts by the curse of a dancing fire. Why will the men of class seldom measure up to fate like they measure up to their work? They succeed not by the stroke of fate, but of some hidden mischievous and capricious call of nature- their will to belong to the human race rather than be the accomplice of fate.

Why hatred is rekindling beneath the smoldering denial of love? Love to beget love is not a necessary corollary for the life, yet many who are denied love begin to hold grudge against the world as if it were the world that had severed off love for them. The man that I have become indeed is a recluse of sorts who is always sad no matter what rose is being fit in a clasp of winsome charm by the world itself. There are many more days, more to come, which though lived with a grain of dirge hold promise for the canvassing of optimism. But the sad days outperform the well to be happy.

The Priest

Follow the main part in the play of the gang,
of brethren who tested the pace of wind,
with their arrows stringed to a bang,
those choppy seas rose, hearing the birds sing,
Then men were released on to the shore,
Thousands of them along the beach, to an orgy in the shallows,
there they avenged the death of priest on the gallows.

He wore camaraderie like a woman would a lipstick,
he would charm the sheep with his vocal cords,
and the priest would be left altogether aghast,
He was proclaimed the sinner on the hanging bridge,
which shuddered with the feet of too many men,
like a thread would in the face of the wind,
The priest had believed the God to be a witch.

The horizon

My eyes are geared to the horizon
where fate waits with undue importance
I see the jerks in the clouds making
the rain falling as if love cosetting
The sky lingers on my lunch palate
while I eat strawberries, horizons satiate
for the lurching shadow enhances till
the eyes meet as in crossfire of will
I have a crosshair marked till the earth's bend
but in my heart I know the horizons never end
there is a grain of salt in Vodka I drink
the blue moon languishes while I blink
Like said the corpse of lovemaker's silk
I grieve more than my heart for the ilk
they say the horizons never meet till we
search for the meaning the queen's ace