Channillo

Today I released my first short story series on Channillo. It runs concurrently with my poetry series. The Gulmohur Tales Sand In My Parfait This is certainly helping flex those writing muscles. Whatever it takes, I suppose. 🙂

The Pursuit Of Happiness

Is happiness some quarry we pursue Embedded in material desires? When did it cease to be a part of you And turn into an object that requires Pursuing? Is our devolution done? Do we exert ourselves from dawn till night That we may travel miles to find the sun Then swim a sea of gadgets for delight? I understand that leisure must be earned But let there not be madness in such earning Before we find our minds and bodies burned For such pursuit has elements of burning. How odd to be pursuing what is found With us if only we would look around. – – – How happy are you in your pursuit of happiness? – Sh. Amin Kholwadia

Evergreens

In the shade of evergreens Longevity scents Wanting imaginings

Overcast

It stormed all night When I look out I see dark clouds Floating about I know that they will pass For now they hang around I scroll on through The daily news Of persecution Death and who’s Been tilling poison ground I know that they will pass For now they hang around

Uncaring

There’s another guy With an ultimatum Unbothered unshy Uncaring who’ll hate him

Listen

When you think the obvious May have been stated, Search for a reason It was articulated.

On His Trumpness

He labeled every Mexican a rapist, And blacks and immigrants as murderous tramps; He mocked a disability, will stay pissed At Muslims who he wants to put in camps; He said a fellow-candidate was ugly, And spoke about a moderator’s menses, Said P.O.W.’s were lesser, smugly, And wants to stand up walls and barbed wire fences; He quoted Mussolini; he has stated He’d lose no backing if he’d kill a man; I could go on about the stuff he’s hated, But wonder in conclusion if he can Convert the greatest nation on this earth Into a land of negligible worth.

Driving

The time we spend driving, Instead of conniving, Should be more deriving A means of arriving.

The Hearing Dead

No more can I see, Touch, smell or taste, Death strikes to free All I’ve embraced. But know: I can hear The flow of a tear.