The [C]Harmer

He minces words
with his sharpened wit.
with his appealing humour,
he's a perfect fit!

He knows what dressing to use
what elements to avoid, just in case
he is met with a client
who's easily annoyed

He's brilliant with spices
for they're his best device
they're in his disarming gaze
and his naughty smile

he can cook up lies
like they were part of a feast
a dirty look, a critical word
bother him the least

he's the salt in a dish
the life of a party
you'd notice him even as he breezed past
he's just that crafty

with his amazing and tasteful life
you'd almost think he's a culinary wizard
but be not mistaken, for poor girls are
swept off their feet by this blizzard.

The Magic of words

for those who love to write, do -
for it shall complete every part of you
but if you write, look not for acclaim
write not merely for money or fame.

write for the heart and the soul too,
write for those around you,
for those with a voice they cannot use,
those with choices, but who cannot choose.

let loose the angels of a happy day
on all the demons that prey
on lives full of joy. open all doors
and let all emotions splay onto the floors

no care for the world's fury
nor for any judge nor jury
for those who judge know not why
they see, for they don't see beyond the eye.

for there are many lives to inspire,
through words and thoughts that transpire
there is much to say and do
and it all starts with you.

flight of the Phoenix

of all the things she left behind
that she didn't look back twice to see
she knew she'd miss, the eternal bliss
of saying "this place belongs to me"

of all the memories she had shared
with those she's known for ages
she kept those, she could hold close
and free herself from the cages

of all the love she'd gathered from
those who were part of her
she took it all, to later recall
the affection and the cheer.

she leaves today not to be free,
but to be bound for it would be long
until she'd see the old fantasy
to which she once belonged.

one last look into her history
takes her back to days well spent
among her peers, amid all cheer
but with tears she was sent...

only to grow, only to live
only to live a life anew
she walked out into the sunshine
and into a new life she grew....

he wrote on...

inspired by those who wrote once upon a time, those who shall write, and those who still believe that they can...special dedication to poet DH Lawrence.



he had no words to his credit,
nor lyrical expertise,
yet he wrote, on and on
with a careless, abandoned ease.

no subject had he definite in mind,
no untimely past to leave behind,
no song to sing, no lamentation had he
he wrote, on and on, for he was free.

no critic to shower him with praise,
no one to say which piece they loved,
for he wrote, on and on
without two hoots for the world.

too hoots he didn't care, nor give
to those who only lived
for things that they could control
and so he wrote, on and on, for his soul.

and for his soul he wrote, with
all his might and yet he never
stopped for breath, and as if for ever
he wrote on and on to his death...

dedicated to valentines day singletons - unpicked

here i sit, unpicked
and gladly so
these days were never meant for those
who choose to go beyond the rose

here sit i, unpicked
and proud to be so
even though, a reject in the row
this smile remains unflicked

i'd rather be here than there
see the sun rise rather than set
and what better bet
than seeing love grow than tear

i'd rather feel the rain
than let all my care and joy
all meant for one [maybe even another] boy
go down V-Day drain, for it was never worth the pain.

so here's to those who enjoy their drink
solitarily, without another thought
to the other side of the day they never got
for there's more to life that's worth a think.

and here's also to those who chose
to stay true, to the tradition of a day
who's motive is to take all the love away
to bloom for the day, their rose.

Untitled...

I haven't written in a while and i only have myself to blame. it does not take circumstance to alter our devotion to a particular interest. the level of devotion is easily adjudged by the fight we put up against the circumstance. and i haven't put up anything of a fight. not even an inkling. no iota of my energy has been spent in cultivating a piece of poetry, or prose in my head, something that i used to do on an hourly basis. is it just a maniacal roller-coaster ride to disaster or just a phase? i cannot tell. i know for one that i can still write. but i don't know for sure whether the amount i was devoted to it earlier is the same now.

this state of confusion disables me from writing at all. so far, i've erased close to 5 different ideas, 3 prose, 2 poetry. i've switched 4 titles and a 1000 moods in trying to find something to communicate. i think the catharsis is necessary and so it must be done. but has anything out of compulsion or more ever been as good as something of passion and inspiration? i doubt it. but the need to express becomes so overbearing sometimes that even writer's bloc cannot contain. frustration mounting, thoughts buzzing, mind wandering - not the most conducive state to pen [in this case, type] the purest emotions. but perhaps this is the only breakthrough.

but this is applicable to everything, or almost everything, in life. i think when one reaches a breaking point, its builds up all the tension inside which needs a release. that release, usually being reckless, is in my opinion, the most sensible thing one can do. unless you do not give yourself a vent once in a while and wait for the "right time", it never will turn up. opportunity usually knocks on one's door but at times, you need to take that step forward, even if it means tripping and falling into a pile of dirt. at least it doesn't rest within you that there was something you wanted to say or do and never did because the perfect occasion didn't come by.

so with this, i leave you with the thought of being able to just do something, out of impulse, because its probably the best release to any sort of pent up feelings. and with this, i did just that.

=D