There once was a belle in velvet of jade,
Whose gown swept the square — a grand serenade;
She slipped in the crowd,
Her skirt flared too loud,
She got up, laughed and danced, unashamed, unafraid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The rules are simple,” Wednesday whispers.
“Forget the kale, the quinoa, the virtuous calorie-free green misery.”
“Today, we bow to cocoa, the bean of pure delight.
A square, a bar, a molten river, bathing worries in warm light.”
“Eat chocolate, be happy. It’s less a suggestion, more a dare.
Try to frown with fudge smeared lips. You simply can't. Pinky swear!”
“Guilt? Maybe later. Right now, there's only chocolate,
and the profound understanding that sometimes, the answer is simply…
….more chocolate.
My daughter who was then, just about seven.
The sun had just settled softlty in the Pacific.
We were in Ghiradelli Square, a joyful place,as is heaven.
Into an elevator we went so sparkling clean and spiffy terrific!
It was an elevator with walls of shiniest metal.
I pressed the command button, to take us merrily down!
Alas, the brightly lit buttons, did not work as itheu should.
Its tall, chrome doors shut, but the elevatotr refused to move?
How I frowned!!
Aha! But not to fret, I was intelligent enough to recall….
And reassure sweet Elena, that I would find a way out.
With lightning speed, I recalled the phone on the wall.
And so I could call and smoothly we’d be safe and let out!
My heart filled with joy, to that phone, I hustled posthaste.
I prayed, oh, please, let some Angels be very near.
But finding out the panel was dead, my heart sunk to my waist!
Suddenly, a knock on the door, help had arrined, Elena and I
gave three cheers!!
1/30/2024
Right in front should evil dare, no words still,
Even if beyond you bear, no words still.
In market square a girl is tormented,
You can’t bear her bosom bare, no words still.
In public space two bawdy bullies brawl,
Their puffed up prides need one pare, no words still.
A slavish mind has taken root in time,
Nation’s robbed as never ere, no words still.
Buds and blossoms are brokered every day,
Grieves the green garden’s grandeur, no words still.
When pilgrimage-like parents pine in pain,
Stones get worshipped in all care, no words still.
Exploring vast sea if you suffer storms,
It’s fine you braved to dare, if no words still.
___________________________________________
Ghazal |14.08.2023| apathy, indifference, lack of concern
Based on a Gujarati Ghazal by Rakesh Sagar:
Down the dirt road of the old farm village,
where the sun sinks low, casting long shadows,
each weathered cottage tells its silent tale.
Creaking porch swings, paint chipped and peeling,
invite a rest for those with stories to share,
as the wind rustles through the ancient oaks.
Narrow lanes, worn smooth by generations,
beckon with memories etched in cobblestone,
and the town square, a hub of quiet gatherings.
Hens cluck in backyards, scratching for stories,
their feathers worn like the pages of a well-read book,
while the blacksmith's hammer rings a rhythmic echo.
Chimneys exhale fragrant whispers of hearth and home,
as the church steeple, a sentinel to the passing years,
marks time with a soft tolling that lingers in the air.
Children's laughter, a lively brook, meanders,
through meadows where wildflowers nod in agreement,
and elders, leaning on picket fences, share the day's musings.
In this old farm village, where time moves slow,
shadows dance on the worn planks of the general store,
and the river, a quiet confidant, mirrors the stories untold.
Ever snorted cocaine?
I watched some partiers snort cocaine last night,
in a dark, Manhattan nightclub corner celebration.
But I’ve never crossed that line. The white line.
When offered some, with unctuous camaraderie,
I shrugged and said, “No, sorry, I’m allergic.”
What are you supposed to say, “Crack is whack,”
or “I prefer my coke with rum and ice?”
The white line. I don’t cross the line.
It’s not the first time, of course, I saw more drugs
in high school than I have at Yale. I’ve mostly seen
“study drugs,” there, like provigil, adderall and alza (concerta).
Do they give students an advantage? I don’t know, maybe.
Call me a boxcut or a squarepants, but my parents are doctors,
and I just don’t cross those lines - those little white lines.
.
.
Webster: Unctuous: “an obvious, fake friendliness”
Slang: ‘boxcut’ ot ‘squarepants’ = a square, a no fun party-pooper
*I use artistic license for colors: for instance, adderall can be a blue, orange or yellow pill.
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore —?
Was a boy who wouldn’t shut a door!?
Winter came in that year of yore-?
Sleet blew in and covered the floor. ?
Summer came with its bugs galore—?
Flies and gnats, cicadas and more.
?At last his parents, irked full sore,?
Shipped him away to Baltimore.*
*W. B. Rands Square—a shorter Victorian moral
*Mathematics&Poetry—based on a mathematical square: the number of syllables in a line equals the number of lines.
Life's a journey of many shapes
A square a triangle its all the same.
With edges and curves nothing is what it seems.
Good and bad life goes on.
Never a perfect circle for long.
Everyone has a different shape then before.
Life's a circle that looses shape
depending on whats coming your way
Busy square around me sucking me inside
Keeping me from seeing what's on the outside
Building shell surrounds me squared off like a hide
Standing on a corner; a square; a block; that's wide
Quilted district patterns are mapped across the land
while larger squares protruding shows zoning had a hand
Suburbs of the city squaring boundaries they have spanned
When all that's left are gullies squared by nature that are fanned.