Step aside please,
The white gull has caught a worm
you can read this face sideways too
the eager eyes are not transfixed
onto your unshaven chin
rather the batting eyelashes are battling myopic
bus numbers on the map behind you
that proud curve of the red lips fascinating you-
a mere hand -me -down relic
from a long dead grandmother
passed on after years of vigorous use.
But can’t wait and explain things further
I need to see if my gull is still there
then I must catch a bus too
do read the ‘not available’ blurb on the cover
close your mouth too.
© Reena Prasad 9th Jan 2013
Been mulling over inane love stories- real and bollywood and this is what results 🙂
Two for joy
Two tigers lie
outside a log cabin
licking paws, scratching themselves
amiable in the sunlight
till they spot her at the window
tips of their tails twitch and jerk
the thought runs around
who gets the prey?
the one who loves her
or the one she loves
her fate the same either way.
©Reena Prasad 10th Jan 2013
They sat in neat lines
heads turned towards the left
sitting as they were put
that wriggled its bottom
twiddled its thumbs
rocked on its bum
and created a disarray
forcing the tidy ones
to rearrange themselves
around the mess
in a bid to hide
and the sore thumb
then out loud
and was still laughing
when they threw it out
and formed a new order.
© Reena Prasad 18th Nov 2012
I do catch them
just like my mother did
I did not know why she didn’t just swat them
with the blue plastic swatter
when I was small.
Now I do not have a swatter
And my little girl tells our friends proudly
“No one can catch a house fly
better than Mummy”.
As I freeze in my tracks
my hand cupped, to catch a stray one,
in the moments it takes to settle on the gas knob,
I write another poem
or analyze why I do not want
a fly’s blood on my kitchen floor
and a smashed carcass
on a rolled newspaper,
why I respect its freedom
to live and fly about,
why I grab it from my space
and hurl it out
of the window
into another’s space.
©Reena Prasad 31st oct 2012
10:10 in the morning
of another November
October hangs upon the wall
Waiting to be turned
but too inanimate to do it itself
No one told the sparrows
They are probably still a month back
trying to stretch out their lives
The potted plant too doesn’t know
Nothing in the way it leans upon
the centre support
or the way its tendrils droop
indicates that it cares
Must get up and do it myself then
Turn October into November
as if it will change my air
©Reena Prasad 1st November 2012
“Be not affronted at a joke.
If one throw salt at thee,
thou wilt receive no harm,
unless thou art raw.”
Prayer: “May God keep us from meeting one or becoming one”
The FB stalker
He is ‘friends’ with all the lovely ladies on screen
Making them fall for his self-pitying humour and eager beam.
He rushes everywhere at once pacifying them all
He”likes ” your every outpouring barely reading a word at all.
Remains on top of your friend list, yet you hardly know him
You keep getting his notifications, even when you restrict him.
His weird messages make your hair stand on end in a shivering bout.
He comments on last year photos, you have forgotten about.
He sends messages strange, to every possible victim
Beware..he lurks behind every tag, clingier than a leech’s bloody bin
Do not click the “accept” box, his evil grin lurks inside.
If you meet him online, just pretend to be rude and blind
He stands just outside your window, waiting for any minute sign.
He is Your FB stalker, a creepy crawlie online.
(loosely adapted from 7 signs of being stalked on FB)
A bird on my window-sill
she flutters her tiny wings
buried under the chewed cud of time
A paper flutters into the present frame
A letter thrust into teenage hands
Unwilling to take any casual blame
The writing neat but almost Greek
I still struggle to read the name.
Flabbergasted, I slowly realised
Trembling under the sudden onslaught.
It was a love letter from the school wrestler
The shock arrested my carefree thoughts.
The grass was green, the cows content
Yet a hungry one sauntered near the cycle shed
before I could act, a long, rasping tongue wrapped
and swallowed my first love letter, still unread.
The decision taken for me by the grazing angel
to let childhood linger for a longer page
Yet I wonder what if he had written in English
not in my ‘consistently failing’ third language.