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Details | Bombay Poem | Create an image from this poem.

They walk amongst us

They walk amongst us, but in silent ways, spreading peace and love without any praise. When thunder roars and lightning strikes in rain they watch over us, healing bleeding pain. Yet we do not see their celestial light, nor do they shed feathers within our sight. Happy to hide behind unknown faces, empathy guides them to deprived places. Heal and soothe, they prevent tears from flowing, touch our hearts to leave our spirits glowing. From Sydney to London, Rome to Bombay, provide moments that take our breath away Their acts of grace form a ripple effect, kind gestures that help people to connect.
Silent One 25 October 2018 Dedicated to all those who go out of their way to make others smile and light up their lives, without wanting anything in return. They walk amongst us.. This sonnet is not Iambic pentameter, but I did stick to 10 syllables per line.


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018


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The Bombay Grocery-NC-w

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)


Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2010


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Late Summer Nights Dream at the Cat in the Hat

  
    It was way after eight, at the Cat in the Hat.
    The whole plaice was swimming, quoth the mackrel to sprat.
    Though the milk was upset, she still stifled her cry,
    So sorry i spilt you, mumbled poor humble pie.
    My joints are the bees knees, squealed the honey roast ham,
    And the apple agreed, she was better than spam.
    Then red herring denied, he had something to hide,
    Like a small Bombay duck, is a fish that is dried.
    While tasty choux pastry, bared her soul to an eel,
    The mock turtle announced, i believe i am veal.
    And the ice cube was crushed, as she played fast and loose,
    For an orange refused, to be part of fruit juice.
    As warm rhubarb crumble, melts in custards embrace,
    The sour gooseberry tart, wails she's taking my place
    Then a voice in my head, spoke it's all fantasy.
    Your table awaits you, said the waitress to me.
    I glanced at the menu, it was all a la carte.
    I said,bring me everything, but let's start with that tart.
    


Copyright © george seal | Year Posted 2017


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PamelaKaye

There's a gal named PamelaKaye
Her writing style, poetic buffet
A sweet Texas tart
Who has a big heart
And a buttocks the size of Bombay


Copyright © Dawn Drickman | Year Posted 2005


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A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013


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The Wound That Never Heals

Science can’t save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare’s 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers’ eyes.
Which is why we call it “the wound that never heals.”
Or the lesion that’s always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It’s not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your little mind (realizing of course it’s just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I’m
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry—also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that’s what this February’s been.
All to the good, for someone it’s the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway.
That was Shakespeare’s message: even tragedies are comedies. 
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who’s Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does it relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not effect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don’t get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife’s grandfather’s inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I’ll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private sexual acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities–angels, ghosts, aliens–are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you’ll feel.


Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015


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First of May

"First of May"


When I was a child I ran away
To live with the circus in Bombay,
Where all things were new
And possible, too!
So, for this they called me "First of May"!

I started out selling concessions:
Hot! Popcorn! Hot! Peanuts! Confections!
But in my spare time,
I'd secretly climb
Into the Great Cannon--for missions!

My costume and cape were blue and grey,
Spark'ling like stars with each flight--Away!
By day selling fare--
Nights--Fly Through The Air!
Dreams do come true when you're "First of May"!*

deborah burch©
4/28/2012

*Note: "First of May" is a circus term used to describe 'newbies' who come to the circus...it means that everything is new,exciting, fresh, and anything/everything is possible! :)


Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2012


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Baseball Trash Can Cats Vs Downtown Stray

Listen to poem:

Here we are fans this fine summer day,
to watch Trash Can Cats, versus Downtown Stray.
The field is grand in this deep wooded glen,
pitchers are warming up in the bull pen.

Pitching for the Cats is Crazy Legs Lynx,
his pitching fast and usually sinks.
Throwing for Strays is lefty Greyhound,
he’s tall and lanky but throws very sound.

Dogs take the field, Manx cat at the plate, 
the balls streaking by, he’s swinging too late.
Three strikes he’s out, Greyhound’s having a day,
the Bobtail cat will be next up to play. 

First pitch is low, ump calls it a ball,
the next one’s inside, a very close call.
Greyhound next pitches a ball with great speed,
Bobtail cat swings, bat up to the deed.

High into the air the baseball did soar,
Rocky Retriever swift ran to the chore.
Over the fence it finally had spun,
Cats have the early lead zero to one.

Sam Siamese next hit to first base,
Billy Beagle was right in his place.
Tagged Sam Siamese, out by a snout,
going to be a tough game without a doubt.

Black Bombay was next to at bat,
this was a dangerous black batting cat.
Greyhound threw three balls, speed lighting fast,
Black Bombay cat was not long to last.

Ok fans, Trash Can Cats take the field,
Downtown Stray, the bat skillfully to wield.
First up at bat will be Pauly the Pug,
he’s a bit short but oh boy can he slug.

Crazy Legs Lynx lets a ball go,
Pauly Pug drew back but was a bit slow.
The next ball was placed for Pauly just grand,
Pauly bunted, on first base he did land.

Freddy Fox Hound will next take at bat,
eyeing the pitcher he’ll cream that fast cat,
The next pitch did come blazing toward him,
curving left to right his chances were slim.

The crack of the bat and off the ball went, 
into left field the ball, quickly, was sent.
Left fielder Maine **** cat ran for the ball,
Pauly Pug on first base never did stall.

Pug rounded the bases, a cloud of dust,
running for home plate, as he knew he must.
Russian Blue cat was catching home plate,
Maine **** cats throw just a bit late.

Pauly Pug crossed the plate, the score was tied,
Freddy Fox Hound gave that ball quite a ride.
The next two Stray batters went down in smoke,
an epic baseball game, this is no joke.

The afternoon wore on, battle royal,
both teams competing with highest moral.
Pitchers dueling in highest degree,
all of their skill for everyone to see.

We come at last to the bottom of nine,
Trash Can Cats now weren’t doing so fine.
The score in the ninth still tied one to one,
if Downtown dogs scored the game would be done.

Springer Spaniel up to take his turn,
three times passed Spaniel that fast ball would burn.
Dan Dachshund followed, next in the order,
three pitches all strikes, right on the border.

Bulldog next up, last hold out of hopes,
with slow confidence, to the plate he lopes.
Bulldog practices a swing, thunderous might,
set not to go home a loser tonight.

Stepped to the plate, gave the pitcher a glare,
planning a hit with no mercy to spare.
The first pitch a blur no chance for a swing,
went so fast, he didn’t see the darn thing.

Next pitch was low and they called it a ball,
he stepped off the plate, the pitcher to stall.
Here came a pitch it curved to inside,
Bulldog took a big swing, losing his pride.

Then two more balls were to follow that day,
three balls two strikes on the count they would say.
Next pitch coming, he could see the darn thing,
he reared back and gave his most vicious swing.

The crack of the bat shocked even him,
the Trash Can Cats future now looked dim.
Howe Himalayan cat ran at top speed,
so hoping to catch this game winning deed. 

The crowd were all standing, waiting to see,
the out come this blast from Bulldog would be.
The ball flew so high, then began to fall,
finally landed way over the wall.

The crowd gave a cheer and shouted as one, 
the Downtown Stray had successfully won.
Both teams met in the middle of the field,
shaking of hands, their friendship was sealed.


Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©


Copyright © Robert Stoner Jr | Year Posted 2016


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For the World's Best Boss

Calm and composed to the core…
What from a boss could I ask more? 
Humble, patient always gentle,
On your ethics, you can never fumble!

Path of peace is always your road, 
Come what may, you never explode!
With "Just hang in there" your favorite line,
Provided comfort, made me feel fine... 

My emails, calls, you would never revert,
Made me feel isolated and lost in a desert,
Untill the day I realized that Lee "Does",
And “actions” things without a buzz!

Boss, friend, mentor, guide! Who are thee?
You always supported me! Thank you Lee!
Complexities- you take in your stride,
You help with grace and zero pride....

You are as special as is today,
Sending you wishes from Bombay,
Today-The last date of this century, do celebrate,
Please accept thanks and wishes from your sub-ordinate!!


Copyright © RIMA ANIL.NAIK | Year Posted 2012


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The Store

I
The rising sun burns like a solar pyre
  from Carenage to Guayaguayare,
that brings to an end sleep's tranquil hold
  and dreams of serendipities of old;
to rise again these feet of clay
  from my slumber where I lay.
Then downstairs to my breakfast sit
  and listen, as if from a pulpit,
theological instruction in white livery
  served hot with my bacon, eggs, and tea -
Barzey, Miss Yvonne and Miss Jocelyn 
  feed body and spirit lest you sin!
Soon lanes and byways beat soca and reggae
  and all roads lead to Broadway,
where the smell of molasses, oil and grain
  perfumes the air in Port of Spain,
there a tangled human thread weaves
  vagabonds, beggars, merchants and thieves.
Feel the African diaspora in the street
  where East and West meet -
the sailing boats that passed this way
  from old Calcutta and Bombay;
so blows off gulf and port and river sand
  the winds of trade where the land
reclaimed the sea its depths to keep -
  where still waters run deep,
now all that ebbs and flows there in the end
  are the fortunes of my countrymen.

                        II
Drivers and porters, cashiers and clerks
  begin their stationed daily works -
traders and vendors, loud cries and laughters
  echo through dusty steel rafters;
with tales and urban legends evermore
  like their fathers and their fathers before!
In logs and ledgers orders to fill
  on old bound handwritten pages still,
where a handshake and a bill of sale
  bears the stamp of GL Trestrail.
Soon loaded-up cigarette vans roll
  riding every bump, crack, and pothole...
me, and old Yankee riding shotgun
  head for bandit country on our morning run;
in the hills of St James outlaws to steal
  or ambush badlands of Laventille,
where in the dark shadows lurks a peril
  looking down a smoking barrel.
Or perchance make my island rounds
  up the Eastern Main Road town to town,
under meridian blue sky wide and far
  past the tanneries and abattoir,

                       III
or lighthouse shifting sands dockside
  beyond the La Basse oft we ride...
in-country out of the Dragon's Mouth
  on the Princess Margaret Highway south;
to plantation, farm, estate and yields
  of the burning gas and oil fields.
See immortelle flowers twisting in the breeze,
  royal palms and yellow poui trees...
at week's end Friday a silent rage -
  bags of coin from the cashiers cage
for the sick and poor who limp and crawl 
  but their beaten faces tell it all.
My home, my roots, I did come to find
  but I am a stranger to my own kind;
mine is a New Age time begot -
  I know not who I am - just who I am not!
Yet its broughtupsy I can't deny
  in the burlesque street that passes by,
see the King of Broadway, Mr Ali,
  hold court at Trestrail & Company,
that Little General - my "padna" in ole talk,
  a puppet master on the sidewalk
he's safeguarded for nigh on forty years -
  his voice still ringing in my ears!

                       IV
From the air-cooled office gaze
  Y and J through the glass always
till off home to lunch they go and do
  and from a hot bowl sup callaloo,
or eat with a jug of cold water and ice
  salt fish, plantain, pigeon peas and rice.
All day long, Yankee and Stowe
  load their dry goods barrows to go
on old post-war flatbed trucks that come
  town and village all corners from:
Vat, Old Oak, Angostura, beer and whisky
  and containers off South Quay.
Tobacco, cane sugar, salt, flour and grain,
  gas lamps and refill canisters of butane;
bay rum and Harveys Bristol Cream 
  and walls of paper by the ream.
Silton too, a working man sheepish still,
  like a smiling minstrel does his will;
now inescapably slowed (the passing years),
  a lifetime of service proudly bears.
All memory and fate near and far
  remind us of who and what we are,
and I am but a spirit echo to its past lilts
  like moko jumbies on their stilts!
Yet I was born and bred a son of Trinidad
  and verily so for that I am glad;
so is my brief testament to what I saw
  in a day in the life at The Store


                March 1990

            


Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014


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Limerick: Once a measly Miser in Mumbai

Limerick: Once a measly Miser in Mumbai

Once a measly Miser in Mumbai
Liked watching dancing girls on the sly
He went to Bolly-Wood
Though he felt jolly good
His loot sucked by Bombay Ducks well nigh.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2013


Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013


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Bombay Duck

Bombay
The gateway to India
Sadly now Mumbai
Where is my Bombay
duck
Who now passes
through these golden
gates


Copyright © Nigel Fox | Year Posted 2014


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haiku 16

a rangoli pattern 
in a Mumbai courtyard --
oil lamps flicker

*Mumbai /m?m'ba?/, also known as Bombay, is the capital city 
of the Indian state of Maharashtra. 

**see ABOUT THE POEM


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012


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BAWDY BEVERAGES

JACK DANIELS met JIM BEAM at the CANADIAN CLUB
to discuss their upcoming trip on the CUTTY SARK.
They were planning a vacation to a Caribbean cove
to get some SOUTHERN COMFORT.

JOHNNY WALKER, who had a disagreement with
them over their SLOE GIN game, wanted to 
give them a SAKI. "VODKA ya think you're doing?"
chimed in GIBSON, who was a BEEFEATER sitting nearby.

"It's not like EARLY TIMES...so just wipe that
SMIRNOFF your face."  A brawl would have started,
but a beautiful woman came in.  "Look at them
COURVOISIERs,"  said the MARTIN MILLERs.
They noticed her ring with the BLUE SAPHIRE from
BOMBAY.

JACK DANIELS immediately lost interest in the argument,
and asked if he could sit with her.  She agreed and he sat 
down. He noticed that she had a B & B monogram on her blouse. 
"I've not seen you here before...what's your name and where 
are you from?"  he asked.

In a charming southern accent she replied, "Ma name is 
MARGARITA, Ahm new in town, and Ahm from HENNESSY."
When the waiter came over, they ordered two MINT JULEPS.
It was the start of a relationship that the DEWARS of them
enjoyed, especially when they bowled SCOTCH doubles together.


Copyright © Dan Cwiak | Year Posted 2015


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A Bucket List for Two

See a play
On Broadway
Spend a day
In old Bombay
Riding on an elephant

Fly up high
In the sky
Birds pass by
As we hang-glide
Falling in love on our descent

Take a tour
And explore
A little more
From the floor
In the Louvre of Gay Paris

Bare it all
In a waterfall
Lovebirds call
And we guffaw
On the big isle of Hawai’i

Spend two nights
And delight
In the sights
Of Northern Lights
Up in the cold and Arctic North

Take a cruise
Sip some booze
Throw our shoes
At the alarm clock snooze
As we go sailing forth

These are the things I want to do
And I want to do them all with you
I am sure that you already knew
It would be my dreams all coming true


Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012


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Rumor Has It

Returning to India, with a prestigious Award,
From USA after a long period of three years.
Some friends in Bombay desired and insisted
That I should stay at Bombay for a few days.
They insisted I should throw a garden party
To celebrate the Award and to meet old buddies.
The Party was arranged in the garden of a friend
Who was from film industries, my best friend Ravi.
I left everything to Ravi for party arrangement
To inviting common poet friends and the menu. 
It was a small party around twenty poet-friends
Who wrote in their vernacular lingo and English.

I started welcoming the friends who arrived in time
And Ravi was just about to give his introductory speech
A not so fair a lady all of a sudden rushed into the garden
Followed by a huge crowd in great rage and anger.
Everything was turned upside down, including the delicacies
And there was a great peace after the battle.
Ravi apologized; he invited her as she was a celebrity
In the *Bollywood and a fair song-writer and a dancer.

The reason why the angry crowd followed her was 
A rumor has it; she declared that she will pose naked
If India won the World Cricket cup, being played in Bombay.

*Bombay Film Industries

                         +++++++

August 1, 2014
Form:Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Contest: Rumor Has It by Judy Konos





Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2014


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HE WAS A FLOP

Sally met an old bloke from Bombay They both fancied a roll in the hay He whipped out his todger All ready to Rodger But his blue pills had run out that day! 11~20~16


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016


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I Am Happy and Gay

There once was a man from Bombay
Had a computer matched date on Valentines Day
When his date did arrive
He was shocked and surprised
Misunderstood the American meaning of “gay”


Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2011


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Gods, Rains and Traffic

A new day arrives; I'm waiting for the morning sun.
Rains pissing on me, God must be having fun.
I crawl myself out of bed & move to the bathroom to take a shower.
Sipping on a beer Lord Shiva tells Vishnu, “Bro, do you want to see my power"?
Some songs on my playlist, I step out of house, heading off to work.
The sky goes black and suddenly the rains go berserk.
Lord takes one more sip and says " Bro, let’s have a little more fun"
Let's jam roads from Borivali to Andheri, even if the clock's at 1.
I keep waiting for a share cab for 30 minutes, but to no avail.
Finally I take the Expensive Samosa (Rickshaw) to start my trail.
Rains pouring in, the journey starts at a snail's pace.
It's the Lord's 3rd peg, for his entertainment he made this human rat race.
We climb the flyover or should I say we crawl over the bend.
Oh the road’s on a mend! Or it is that they pretend.
Traffic my love, I hate to live and especially living with you.
I want to kick you and slap you, as I feel your life is overdue.
I look at the share car besides me, people crumpled in their seats.
Shut the music down, this is the time to dance to the honking beats.
This is the everyday saga; everyone is stuck in traffic every time.
Because of it we can't climb the job ladder that helps us make a dime.
Finally I reach work, drenched in sweat or is it the ****ing rain.
Lord's bottle is empty now, and so is his daily game.
He winks and says, “Dude, chill out and just enjoy the speedy life in Bombay"
Tomorrow couple of bro-gods are joining in, and for you it will be another day


Copyright © Rohit Pandey | Year Posted 2013


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The Bombay Grocery


Shyam*, finds cat food at special rate near the door. Goes to check out to manager of the grocery store Doubting manager asks him 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 asks the manager to put his hand in the bag down to the end Manager puts his hand and shouts “Pooh, Doodie pure” Shyam says, “yes, sir, I want the toilet paper sure”
+++++++ March 23, 2014 Dr. Ram Mehta Form: Rhyme Sixth Place Win Contest: Collaboration by Jared Pickett Collaboration of Ram Mehta and Shyam Mehta The poem is partly a fictional write. First Stanza is a real event but the second stanza is fictional. But I wanted to test my grandson's rhyming talent. So wrote the first stanza and asked him to write second stanza with fun and humor, of course with my suggestion that suppose he goes to buy toilet paper and the owner needs a proof. * Shyam is an Indian name. He is a 9th Grade student in Charlotte, NC.


Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2014


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winter's film star

You're the reason I rise on a winters day .
You put that glint in my eye and a smile on my face.     
Your my Hollywood hero a star of matinee. 

You're  the girl of my dreams my ideal castaway.
Those smiles that you give me,  your just ace.
You're the reason I rise on a winters day.

You're the moon and the stars reflected on a wind swept bay.
In a race for my heart you would always get first place.
Your my Hollywood hero a star of matinee. 

I  would walk on hot coals from here to Bombay.
To be by your side, and see that smile, face to face. 
You're the reason I rise on a winters day.

People may frown but you'll be mine one day.
Your  my favourite member of the human race. 
Your my Hollywood hero a star of matinee. 
    
I would whisk you off your feet and take you away . 
And every day your beauty I would showcase.
You're the reason I rise on a winters day .
Your my Hollywood hero a star of matinee. 


Copyright © stephen pennell | Year Posted 2016


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Right on Time

I think about her everytime that the sunset and sunrise

She just a piece of *** to some guys

But she's more than, loyal, the type to hold your back

Stepping to her man and she's down to scrap


Met as strangers through halls of school, just passing by

In the same class just a couple hi and byes

She had her head in books while I was letting the smoke swirl

Cute with brains like Topanga on Boy Meets World 

My heart was like Cory's, approached her with my story

Saying feelings are sincere 

Then i started thinking about you everywhere

Your fine wine these other broads are beer

You on higher level the rest can't compare

Wanna elevate you, all these haters gonna do is talk and stare 

That's what they do to royalty, What's a King without his Queen?

Your last rook took an L, let's see what this relationship could bring

To my new state of mind

Spend every minute with you, cause your right on time

 

Dealing with these problems on these lonely streets

When I've fallen, she's the one to bring me to my feet

After a long day, we take a shot the Bombay

Politic about life while cheifing on a bomb J

She opens up about her how present is reflection of her past

raised by a single mother, barely saw her dad

Only when it was visiting hours cause he was busy with powder

So in these crooked cats she was looking for that

Somthing deeper than an object

A Maya Angelou poem with a meaningful concept
-Quincy Cannon


Copyright © quincy cannon | Year Posted 2015


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Two Pairs of Shoes

Two Pair of Shoes

My Loafers wandered out one day
when I (too lazy) chose to stay
home alone and drink Bombay,
one evening in the Spring

They came upon a pair of Heels
that walked the streets in sexy squeals
composed of skin from river eels,
one evening in the Spring

They danced the night away that June
underneath the bright blue moon
As Frank Sinatra slowly crooned,
one evening in the Spring

But when the sun rose in the morn
the pair, exhausted and well-worn
tiptoed home, alone, forlorn
one evening in the Spring

Nine months later, dressed to kill
The Heels appeared and stood quite still
to present to Loafers…an Espadrille
one evening in the Fall


Copyright © Judy Valko | Year Posted 2017


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The murder of Civilisation

An Englishman lost in afternoon tea,
Memories of a lotus flower love
Rajas and elephants in Delhi
Livingstone the explorer
Religion to convert

Laurence of Arabia
A leader of men
The Boers and the Zulus
Gordon and Khartoum
These are the things that shook the world

 Silk and Cotton,
The wealth of Empire
Earl Mountbatten our man in Burma
The cry of Bombay and Ceylon
Oblivious to a young man’s dream

England was the world
Her Empire was great
For the sun never did sett
On her wealth 
The jewel in this noble crown

Yet History was not kind
Exploitation her crime
Though civilisation came hand in hand
For Freedom we planted
Democracy you chanted
The union jack you did burn
And what have you learned

Greed breeds poverty in silence
Sectarian dogma your anthem
Murder by the chosen few

How flourishes your tree 
When your morals all flee
With bombs in the souk
And murder by troops
Education restricted
The poor evicted
To make way for corruption
And tyrants consumption

Look to the horizon
For there lies Britain
It's empire gone
But our pride lingers on

Can your freedom say the same?
Or is oil to blame?
Who shall we accuse?
For your freedoms abuse?

Not the British
Love us or hate us
 England brought you civilisation
And civilisation lives on
In this green and pleasant land




Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2013


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Darrin's Troubles

Business executive Darrin Stephens has a life
with a good paying job, a fine boss, and a great wife.
He’s employed by a large advertising agency.
Darrin and Samantha should live with complacency.

However, when anyone sees them, that’s not the case,
some strange phenomena occur often at their place.
They have a nosy neighbor who’s named Gladys Kravitz.
She cannot prove what she knows, and it gives her some fits.

It is easy to determine Darrin’s troubles cause.
He has a bunch of witches and warlocks for in-laws.
His problems are many since he married Samantha.
Darrin’s mother-in-law goes by the name Endora.
It is an encumbrance, and certainly not a joke,
when Endora can turn him into an artichoke.

His father-in-law Maurice, his cousin Serena,
the jokester Uncle Arthur and old aunt named Clara,
cause plenty of problems for him and wife Samantha.
Darrin and Samantha have a daughter, Tabitha.
Daughter Tabitha has the power of a young witch.
Mommy and daddy keep telling her she must not “twitch”!
Whenever Samantha becomes ill on any day,
they call on a witch doctor quack named Dr. Bombay.
He often contributes to Darrin’s situations
with his magical spells, potions, and incantations.
With all of these things, why has not Darrin gone crazy?
These things make a funny situation comedy!

Robert Pettit  "Bewitched"


Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2011