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With all the bravado of its president Trump, America is increasingly getting exposed as a paper tiger in the world today.
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O ye paper tiger,
Dare me not with your sham roar,
I know your horoscope in full--
From which tree pulp you’re made,
By which mill, to what grade,
Why me, all the forest knows this,
You were made from old papers,
From dog-eared books recycled,
Your yellow shade bares all that aloud,
The dull stripes your family root shows,
Brag not nor wag your tail,
Keep it tucked to your hind,
False bravado no one’s esteem wins,
Go deep in wild forest
To know what it means to be a true tiger
And what, just a paper tiger.
Anyone can twist your tail, ride on you,
Stop that goat-like mien, it only reveals you.
Should ye still for a fight spoil,
I will, to burry you deep in soil
To give you a rare chance
To grow as fresh green tree in a wood,
In woods dark and deep, true tigers flourish,
Not a recycled pale tiger like you.
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Happenings |16.07.2026 | forest/wood, tiger, satire, USA, free verse
The bastioned confidence of quarried pride
Conceived no ingress save by iron decree;
Yet vesper-dew, where noiseless graces bide,
Tutored the adamant to clemency,
Till lichened liturgies, by increments unseen,
Unthroned the obdurate from its sovereign mien.
The littoral catechised the granite's bone,
Not with assault, but sacramental wear;
Each undeciphered ripple, one by one,
Absolved the precipice of all its air,
As though the meekest ordinance of tide
Could loose what catapults had never tried.
Thereafter—vision trespassed into sense:
A child, ungarlanded by name or throne,
Inclined his silence with such innocence
That altitudes remembered they were sown;
The mountain, recollecting elder birth,
Relinquished all pre-eminence to earth.
Then every fortress, founded upon weight,
Began to expatriate its ancient claim;
The stars themselves postponed their sovereign state,
As though eternity had altered name;
And what no conflagration could dissever,
One feather of the Infinite undid for ever.
Gurgling stream invisible,
drawn to its blithe bosom,
by edge of dawn kismet,
whose loiter and lurk in,
my peep of day ear satin,
taunts drowsy pallette vein,
with velvet sonic swerves,
unique, unseen, unfolding,
conjures a deep sensory,
whiff of innuendo imaged,
blurred eye phase paused,
red sun sears sleep crust,
salt gust imp tickles twitchy,
nose, my loyal guide dog,
whilst morning slumber,
thaws in trancelike mien,
to shed blind spot tramp,
a faint backwash swoosh,
now flags receding eddy,
near rapids hazy vision,
one can intuit in a blink,
but not quite glimpse!
I perceive her as fire, not too smokey
But glossed enough to burn my desire ,
This back street pleasure filling empty pathways
Isolated by moonless eve... guarded by egg shells :
Only the waves know this rapture,
Only the stars hear loud groans,moans...
Although this warmth or heat is rented,
My own misery or angst dissolves
As her skin waxes on mine ... slow
Then fast in restless grind of hours.
We take tingling drops of wine
Before sunlight gleams to rise over sheets
Now crumpled by lust, maybe an ounce of love--
She, draped in mannequin's thin wrap
Is delicate and tough with a heart unbidden :
How in this moment, her flaming eyes
Flirt with my demons... and yet her cunning mien
Restrains surrender of constant ardor--
And while I button her second-hand dress
Our next rendezvous is done, again--again
The comfort of my scourged loneliness,
Allayed by the harlot of my nights.
A Pint of lager.
I did my best
To be a middle-class person
Drank good wine
That is what people of elevated taste do
I never liked wine
Upmarket vinaigrette
I only drink beer these days
Finding my way back to my roots
Those days, when we drank big glasses of lager
And criticized a fine writer
Someone as holy as Knut Hamsun.
We wanted to impress the girls, so I wore
A French beret, a serious intellectual who read
Every article I could come across before
Voicing an opinion
So we said many stupid things
But you cannot be wise if you have
Never been a dolt.
I have lost my precious
mien, it is so
Tiring to be serious about oneself.
Eyes engaged her essence, freed ebullience;
The shelled release evokes observers' mien,
Altered beliefs reverberate cadence:
Poised effects externals, trade tales between.
Exemplified unveiled ether's ventures,
Exchanged entreat emergence, tweaked, performed;
Sweet ripened seed, exposes her dentures,
Appeared edgy yet sleepy decorum.
Perplexed, envisioned perspectives best bent,
Derived encased enterprise defined yield;
Enters the challenged endeavors event,
Coffee express delivery, appeal.
Excused episode, Excedrin tablets
Were real sleepers, next time, chocolates.
I sure would feel ill till the end,
Resigned to it still till the end.
If admit I can’t till the end,
Sorry for sure feel till the end.
They, slumped in too much me and mine
Endure its mien will till the end.
What I feel for and call it love,
I must with it deal till the end.
Pain subsides sooner than we think,
Strange, we dwell on it till the end.
She implored: forgive, forget me,
And still, what a drill till the end!
Hard to keep love and ways of world
Both, on even keel till the end!
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Ghazal |19.09.2025| feelings, forgive, love, pain, world
The round table spins,
all is a roulette wheel,
now I am the favored Knight.
Yesterday I was the least,
children made sport of me,
scrawny curs snapped at my heels.
The King's favor is fickle.
The Queen shades her eyes,
her demure down cast mien
a façade, a veil beneath which
simmers a flame we both have ignited.
Today I ride ahead of the throng,
my banner tall and straight.
Tomorrow is uncertain
the table will turn again,
for what can be, may not happen,
and what may happen never be,
better to let the world spin on,
for even kings and queens know
that any gambit is just another
uncertain gamble.
This gamming table
goes around,
and just where your feet
touch firm ground
or slip
none may predict.
The bloodshot moon merged into the dark, hazy night.
People wandered aimlessly, avoiding a fight.
A sultry bar still open, dispensing hard stuff.
Bootleggers were abundant till the game got rough.
A man sat in a corner observing the scene,
The boozers drank too much like goblins dark of mien.
The quiet man went to a phone booth and whispered,
The platoon was ready, their commands were answered.
A large police squad arrested the offenders,
All were fined, and none offered any false contenders.
Did they learn their lesson and mend their wicked ways?
Go to nearby villages and consider their days.
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye
is that one of those ruined effigies
is a fair facsimile of myself.
He (a god/king of some minor something),
looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly
his sour mien.
At last, I am processed meekly
back onto the tour bus, where predictably,
my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
It cocks an eye at me.
I recall, as a boy, I stood
by a window looking at a sparrow
just like this one.
Every feather could be the same,
even the mien and stance
– the same.
I had never thought of myself
as a tree, yet all my life
I’ve been branching away from first roots.
I'm still changing into something else,
but not this little bird,
it has perched itself on a branch
of my life,
and is caught within a timeless lens
forever.
I only ride the subway
To a doctor or a show.
When teaching, that was not the way
To work I used to go.
Today, though, in the morning rush
I had to take a train
And I expected all the usuals
That make the trip a pain –
Delays and crowds and people whom
You wouldn’t want to meet
And cars so packed that naturally,
You’d never get a seat.
Instead, there was a transit worker
In a neon vest
Who smiled and shouted, “Welcome, people!”
Like she was possessed.
She clapped her hands and greeted all
With such a joyous mien
That commuters sported grins
Where mostly scowls are likely seen.
Just think of it – one person can
Spread happiness around
With just an upbeat attitude,
A lesson quite profound.
Mine is a wild spring step,
shoe heels dash leaf strewn path,
I spy wrinkled driver’s,
rueful rush hour grim mien,
from sleek chrome cars crawl as,
my drained feet moult traction!
Mine is a wild spring step,
shoe heels dash leaf strewn path,
wrinkled drivers sour mien,
from rueful rush hour toll,
as sluggish cars inch by,
my drained feet moult traction
In tattered stacks I sought my way, through dusty tomes of lore
To trace the steps of yesterday, reflections of a time afore
Where apparitions haunt the mist and tarry for a while
To sadly rue the curs'd path of follies artful guile
A shadowed figure paused paying heed to my regard
And from the silent mien I collected my reward
Oh how the heart in hopeless grip doth dwell upon the fear
Reflected in those empty eyes afar and yet so near
They told of tales aplenty, grim in ways unmatched
Of fated days to come in distant memories past
Of portents and of omens, of misgivings dour repast
In ancient times afore those held in futures grasp
There I marked the warning in somber tides of woe
There I gained in mourning the tears of sorrow left unsown
With heavy heart and troubled mind I went upon my way
From tattered stacks and dusty tomes to seek the light of day
With weary steps I trod the paths so many trod before
Of follies dark and artful guile from curs'd days of yore
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