The Bombay Grocery (Indian)- North Carolina
Shyam*, finds cat food at special rate near the door.
Goes to check out to manager of the grocery store
Doubting manager asks to bring cat if he has one
Shyam returns with his small cat to buy food anon.
Next day Shyam comes with a bag in his hand
And ask the manager to put his hand to the end
Manager puts his hand and shouts “Poo,Doodie pure”
Shyam says, “ yes, sir, I want the toilet paper sure”
Fourth Place winner IN
Contest: Grocery Grammer by Linda-Marie, the sweetheart
* Shyam is an Indian name. Shyam also means Black-cloud colour. It is one of the name of
Lord Krishna. It happens to be the name of one of my grandson living in Charlotte (NC)
The aunites gossip back home
About how you've grown
Out of your white cotton frocks
And into red silk saris
They talk about how you're ripe for marriage
About how quickly boys flock to you--
Your family's rich and you are beautiful.
Like a princess but with none of the excess.
Their perfect Indian girl is rather simple.
But, the real you they can never comprehend.
Those brown khol-rimmed eyes with
That understated nose ring confuses them.
They'd rather ignore your luscious red mouth.
Those soft lips were like velvet as they brushed across my lashes as you pretended to blow sand out of my eyes one drunken night on a Konkan beach.
Both too scared to be the first to say anything
We just sat there drunk and giggling
When the aunties speak of you
I can't help but imagine
Things that leave
Little to the imagination.
I am a woman
And you are a woman
We're on the same page.
The boys will wait.
Looking at the peaceful setting,
I look up and quickly realize.
That an image is taking shape,
Forming in a rather large size.
It is the shape of a grass dancer,
Grass dancing on the clouds.
Dancing to the beat of the thunder,
I hear his dance steps aloud.
As the lightening strikes,
The thunder rumbles, and sounds.
His feet tap four times then he strides,
Spinning and pacing around.
Full of strength, his dance is endless,
Yet disappears in the blink of an eye.
I was treated to a dance of cloud stepping,
By the Indian in the sky.
That Indian boy, unwashed, in rags, and black,
(India is, as in Art we say Nobel Laureate; in Might they call it ‘Nuclear State’)
Walked by the Dal-lake’s breezy bank,
Playing an unknown song on flute;
Carrying balloons on a bamboo stick,
Flying high in air,
And around his shoulders a worn dirty bag—
The naughty school boys irritated him,
Punched the balloons
And searched in the bag.
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s Blog ONAM / INDIA
The Indian Rangoli or
Colorful Poetry on floor
This is the story of the poetry of
Ancient Indian Women,
Who were less blessed to get,
The knowledge from the learned Gurus.
They were living before marriage
With their parents,
And helping their mothers,
In household affairs,
Or looking after their husbands,
And his great families,
After their marriages,
In their early tender age.*
Finding no ways to express,
The feelings of their hearts,
One of them took a chalk in her hand
And made a sketch on the floor like an art,
There was no canvas and no brush,
To fill her great artistic skills with colors,
Emotions were flowing in her mind,
Like a rainbow with alluring colors,
The talented one among them,
Collected flower petals of different colors,
And took many flowers to fill and decorate,
The sketches of Rose, Lotus and others, they had made on the floor.
Gradually she started putting,
Color petals in those lovely designed sketches,
And filled all empty sketch figures she had made there,
She was astonished to see that it came out like real Lotus flower.
The painting of petals on the floor was,
So alluring and enchanting that even its,
Beauty and fame, one day reached the heavens,
And Goddess Lakshmi* was too pleased to hear
That some one has made figures of Lotus,
More beautiful and colorful than her favorite,
Seat of sitting on Lotus,
And she immediately decided to visit that house,
Where the young girl had made such alluring beauty of colors
Like poetry flowing on the floor, every where before Dewali*
When she visited that neat and clean house,
Decorated with enchanting beauty of Rangoli
She was so happy that she blessed that girl with
Immense wealth and happiness.
Which always comes with the coming of
Lakshmi or the sign of wealth, every where in the world.
She also said, that day, while visiting the place of that girl
“Who so ever makes and keeps her house neat and clean
Any where in the world and decorate it with Rangoli
Will get my blessings of happiness and wealth”
Kanpur India 18th Sept. 2010
The above is the brief story of the origin of Rangoli, which
must have started more than 2000 to 5000 year back.
Now Indian woman is active in all the fields of education
& social uplifting.
*Although the early age marriages has now been made
illegal but in some parts this bad tradition still exists.
* Dewali or Deepawali is the festival of lights, joys &
happiness, which falls every year around 5thNov.
I met a "God Sent" Indian Giver once
A theater costume manager named Hans
Acting on stage
I felt just rage
He chased me shouting: "Give me baak my pants!"
for Poet Destroyer's Contest "Indian Giver"
Written for my granddaughter, Tahlia Rose, who is half Indian and very beautiful
My Indian Princess.
You should see this girl of mine
My Indian Princess
She has pink flowers in her hair
And I’m filled with tenderness
When she hits me with her attitude
Oh lord that child is sweet
There’s one thing left to say on her
She makes my life complete
Her little mind be all her own
Her temper runs real hot
But when I see my Tahlia
It cheers me up a lot
Sometimes the words just fail me
When she’s there all soft and sweet
The only thing that I can say
She makes my world complete
Oh when she cuddles up to me
When she’s tired and all of that
When she curled up on my chest
Oh man that’s where it’s at
Yes when my princess snuggles up
She feels so soft and sweet
She’s the sweetest gift from God above
And she makes me feel complete.
Where are your pale hands?
Who lies under your smart spell?
Oh, where are you now?...
Your soft gentle touch
The hot blood rushed through my veins...
Until you waved me farewell.
Pale hands, pink tipped as
Lotus that float on water
Where we used to live and love.
I would rather wish
To feel you around my throat
Crushing me, than wave farewell.
Indian say white man speak with forked' tongue
He took land kill buffalo and my young
Great Spirit hear entreaty
White man disregards treaty
Me think he talk heap of buffalo dung
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Entry for PDs "Indian Giver" Contest
You gave us food and we took your land
It's not right to make promises grand
We took all your stuff
Till you said enough --
And gave General Custer his last stand