One monsoon, lightning and thunder,
One rainless here I feel flustered.
One monsoon, you’re wet with water,
One here, I’m hot in midsummer.
One there, you’re all lush leafy green,
Here, I get autumn-like slimmer.
One there, you are a late comer,
Here, I wait as early comer.
One there, you in Alkapuri,
Here in Romadri I suffer.
____________________________
Ghazal | 12.07.2026 | autumn, love, monsoon, rain, summer
Note: The monsoon that this ghazal talks about does not quite refer to rainy season, rather to heart feeling dry without love. There is a dialogue between ‘you’ and ‘I’, one feeling wet, wet with monsoon rains, the other experiencing dry and hot season of summer. The last stanza refers to Meghdoot of Kalidas (3rd century CE), but talks about the twosome. In Alkapuri, the paradise where the love object of Yaksha resides, whilst he suffers pangs of separation at Ramadri where he is cursed to be, and from where he sends message of love through clouds, monsoon clouds playing the role of a Meghdoot. The ghazal is inspired by one of Karsandas Luhar, a Gujarati piece.
you mean monster cookies, right? Asked Danny
No, I think I meant monster Granny
But she’s making the cookies, right? asked Jim
He did not like any dessert better than them
Do they have chocolate chips? Asked Lee
Yes, yes, yes, Pa and Jim both did agree
And oatmeal and sugar and molasses too?
Yes, and we will taste them when they’re through
But big fanny granny looks like a monster today
Her face is flustered, a greenish gray
That’s how she looks when she is the kitchen heat
But those monster cookies can’t be beat!
easy
easygoing
easy mark
easy peasy
easy rider
easy street
easy here
easy there
easy peasy everywhere
easy going, not a bit flustered
easy mark, few fools clustered
easy rider, a sycophant
easy street, a treasure hunt
easy going, easy mark
I ride my easy in the park
The Lego of a little boy was scattered about.
Unsuspecting feet would land followed by a shout.
Oblivious to the fuss he caused as well as frustration,
Those tiny Lego pieces fueled this boys imagination.
His eyes full of Amber hopes and dreams that he would be
The greatest builder and designer the world was gonna see!
On his annual trip to Lego Land his mind would explode.
He'd go back home inspired with ideas by the load.
He'd push together different shapes. Occasionally he'd hiss,
Flustered, for some wouldn't fit or pieces he would miss.
Throughout his entire life his Amber hopes would flare.
Although he did not live his dream, his Lego is still there.
Some may think he's childish, but is it so bad?
The old man loves his Lego, for at heart he's still a lad.
Jealousy never did aid me in any accomplishments
Under the horror of too many emotions, I get flustered
Given problems to solve, I am stifled and stilted
A quintessential blubbering shuddering mess of myself
All the resources in the world could not free me up
Did you take the last candle? I thought it might solve this puzzle.
You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
Asinine Asymmetry
abysmal
vapid
pedagogue
impulsive
advocacy
with FLUSTERED TORRENTS
blindly
indicting
scapegoats
subpar
dogmatist
in DEMONIC DIATRIBE
eschewing
impartial
testament
veracity
disparaged
Asinine Asymmetry
raucous
sweeping
presage
emanating
palpably
from VEHEMENT ESPOUSER
flagrant
vacuous
utterance
neurotic
trivialist
with FATUOUS FLAMBOYANCE
underpinning
risible
posture
detachment
anathema
Of this limp sail, a calm bay's
The rough-blown sea
So flustered, as to express
A cursed bitterness
Its pale drooped faced replica
Comes into view.
Life's own whirl to sink upset
What as wretched had met.
The somber sky falls flustered,
wrecks the crown of bejeweled night.
The sickle moon slices its glow,
dissolving at the brink of blue.
In the depth of opaque onyx
ground hears the footfall of stillness.
Glacial sense of chilled passion congeals
the exposure of lonesome secrecy.
The broken wings painfully curled,
can’t fly in the lacerating chill of winter,
enfold the frosted psyche,
fervent warmth freezes unfelt.
Frail emotive candle flame flickers,
the wind of cold abandon blows it out.
Morose mist enwraps the winter nights
within desolate distress innately framed.
The sky of longing falls frozen
on the permafrost of arctic silence,
with the icy torrent of the forlorn heart,
buried deep in the gelid blue of seclusion.
Sitting quitely in the evening,
The hard days work done and dusted,
Stillness reminds me I am still grieving,
Airing my feelings leaves me flustered,
So many questions of how and why,
Two vibrant souls gone just like that,
Stunned and bereaved I break down and cry,
Searching for meaning I fall flat,
A world I no longer recognize,
Nor the self I once knew,
Pick yourself up and dry your eyes,
Begin again, I search for you.
I love you.
Last year we planned a new kitchen
And went to the glossy showroom.
There were choices many,
But not flustered,
I was keen on slate grey and mustard.
The man too had a vision
Cupboards new, clean finish.
Then he spoke of the washing machine;
“I think they look best integrated,
Hidden behind closed doors.”
It made me pause…
White goods, classified
Too unclean to be seen.
As if in shame of her duties mundane.
Our domestic goddess,
Taken for granted.
Her duties -
Fed weekly and meekly
She takes on full loads,
Tumbles and turns,
Delivers, and births us clean clothes.
I knew how I loved her.
I chose not to hide her.
And she stands there,
Proudly on view.
Integral, dependable,
She’s a giver of time.
Present.
Eyes lose their way
in the neon and the numbers.
Departing, arriving,
mid-flight fright,
rushing between
one panic station to the next.
In-transit tremors of doubt.
Flight departure gate changes,
Delayed – no, confirmed - leaving now!
Sometimes he just wants a name tag,
a label like for a child -
to be led safely through
the turmoil of his own
insecure nervous system.
For a moment he slumps
among strangers,
double checks boarding passes
with other flustered passengers.
He steadies his racing mind,
tries to imagine
calmly passing through
baggage-collect with no hitches,
his suit is not crumpled,
he arrives breathing normally,
a calm well-seasoned traveler
who walks confidently
out of his own
discombobulated chaos.
Dates and times.
Shapes and forms static.
But I’m as grand as a shower curtain.
Things pointed out to me.
Time didn’t occur.
At some point, it just became “me, my thoughts, collapse.”
A chart to explain everything to me.
Got thwarted by the bursting tennis ball of nothing.
When I see calendars?
I could believe them but then I spoke to myself.
They just are lines of lines of numbers.
And I am a fluttering being.
Dates and times exist as I do.
As glossed over, rambling, jumbled, and ran out of pencil lead.
The grotesque nature of time is a quest to me.
Whether it is 2025 or 2011.
I do know what year it is when I’m crying.
When I’m flustered the scars unravel.
And I know what year it is- the year of mistakes.
I think I can time travel if they let me.
And they won’t.
Time exists as.
I would’ve lived on
in a life composed of shades—
Black, white, and million kinds of gray.
Pulsing hearts rarely made sense
when even blood was
the shade of cooled cement.
That’s why you’re a mystery—
Your eyes are vibrant, water dancing
in a grace I cannot name.
They look like celestial crystals—
like if heaven has a shape;
Your hair warm, like autumn
before wind grows chilly.
It reminds me of maple leaves
I inked to seal fall’s harmony;
Your smile stirs—something
in my paralyzed soul.
Like a gentle thunderstorm,
but instead of rain you leave petals.
The camellias caress every
fiber on my skin, the electricity—
Then I knew:
You are color.
You are poetry.
You are the flustered butterfly
whom I felt across the sea.
I’m summoned to a baby shower
The mum to be’s flustered and dour
As her waters just broke
In front of shocked folk
Her baby arrived in an hour
I cleaned up mum and baby Ted
And lifted Ted above my head
No diaper, I'm cursed
He piddles, - nowt's worst
No wonder my face turned bright red
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