Nobody is an idiot
Each of us acts like one
On occasion
Some choose
To stay in character
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.