Category Archives: Folklore

The Rheumy Eyes

a poem by

This balled of a nymph,
Who paid the price for vanity and thwart
Came when the judgment day,
Trembled against the creator’s wrath.

Immobile became the gods
Seeing her splendid face
And statuary became the creations,
Witnessing her statuesque grace.

She thought she was the only
Lord’s display of artistic splendour,
And no one till timeless eternity
Will step on earth to match her grandeur.

But behind those big hazel eyes,
She was all cruel and vile
Non like her was known in heaven,
Neither on earth for thousands of mile.

She hated the ugly
And loathed their very face,
To live on the same land as she,
Considered her charms disgrace.

She had a dangerous secret,
A secret that she hid forever
That she was formed immortal,
Die will she solemnly never.

She considered the other maidens
Inferior to be her mate,
Stunning she was yes,
But devoid of love in her fate.

Haughtily she told a damsel once-

Don’t dare call thine pretty,
That word’s not for thou,
On this planet only I have the gaiety
And no one in my tow.

Thine beauty is only time’s play
And in a sweep of tide it will vanish,
Then you’ll mourn on that day
When mine will cease to diminish.

Then lifting her hands towards the sky,
As if challenging her mentor,
Declared she was the loveliest of all,
More dazzling than her own creator.

Then one day, from a land faraway,
Arrived a handsome king,
Who was traveling far and wide,
For a lovely bride to bring.

So she ordered her admirers,
To poison the river
In which the maidens bath,
So caught the kingdom a fatal fever
And she smiled at her malicious thwart!

The moment the king saw her when,
He was truly mesmerized,
He married her only then and there,
As if totally hypnotized.

On the auspicious wedding night,
No one knew of the hushed conspiracy,
Since at dawn the people forlorn,
Saw their king struck with palsy.

No one appeared on her coronation,
And now she was heir to the throne,
Hue and cry struck the kingdom,
For she was the most tyrant ruler known.

On her royal orders,
The ugly where beheaded and
The attractive were made her slaves
Unknown the sins she created
Unknown she dug her own grave.

Then came the judgment day,
To free the people from her terrible fray,
As a blinding dazzle, outside her castle,
Made her come out, to witness the hassle.

Then said an unearthly sonoration-
You caused suffering to my creation,
You are such a virago,
And you’ll suffer forever in limbo.

Now you’ll wait for death, in such a state
Which no longer will you dote,
B’coz in time you’ll find
Thyself uglier than the behemoth.

Due to thine barbarism
My birds no longer sing,
Wasn’t it you, you vain creature
Who killed the gracious king?

No use writhering like that,
For I have no pity in those tears,
Lest should I create another like you,
Is what my eternal fears.

Henceforth unheard will go thy cries,
And no longer will you descend the throne,
Hearing this curse on you, oh rheumy eyes,
No mankind on this land shall mourn!

Power Prevails

a poem by

A big elephant was loitering in woods in leisure;
A tiny small mosquito silently entered into his ear;
Small mosquito thus committed no small murder;
All animals were witnesses to mosquito’s torture.

The jackal filed Public Interest Litigation appeal
Before the Highest Branch of Jungle Rule of Law
Against mosquito community to leave the woods
And prosecute against the concerned mosquito.

The largest-ever bench of peacock, crow and cat;
Monkey, donkey and squirrel; cuckoo, cow and bat;
The sparrow, fly and hippo; wolf, buffalo and tiger
Discussed jackal’s plea, judgment ready to deliver.

Lion appeared on scene, roared fiercely in anger.
Bench was vacant; all disappeared in His Honour.

Let Santa No Silicon Boobs

a poem by

Have no taste for impositions.
Neither any taste for brain washings.
Nor taste to see big boobs on Santa Clause
Tempting and seducing.

Let Santa Clause remain in all dream
The kind old man in red robes
Riding on a sledge come shouting
Ho! Ho! Ho!

Through the stills of night
Fill heart, children’s with goods.
Vehemently against

Silicone breasted female Santa
Hold globe in perverse pose.
Seeing such vulgar overdose
Wonder what children

Of today
Would grow into-
What, with what memories
Not far from

Hoardings, advertisement-
Vamps and villainies
Rapist, killers
Prostitute glares.

All open doors of
Pseudo idealisms

Hick’s Barrel

a poem by

Mark Hickin has a barrel.

The barrel is 3 feet high and 2.5 feet in diameter
And was made in 1817 by an unknown Midlands cooper
It is a proper copper oak construction with a wooden lid
Held securely in place with 19 hand made iron nails.

Mark keeps many things in his barrel.
In fact Mark keeps everything in his barrel.
Scotch eggs. Bread. Oils. Marmalade.
All of his clothes and footwear and also bed linen,
candles and nightcaps
for Mark Also sleeps in the barrel.

When Mark seeks something from within the barrel
for example a cigarette or a pint of bitter he uses a claw hammer
to jemmy open the lid, removes the item he requires
and then carefully and firmly hammers the nails back
to secure the barrel from piracy and itinerants.

The barrel also represents the only functional piece of furniture in Mark’s daily life.
For instance, when Mark attends a restaurant and is seated at a table
he invariably seeks a space nearby so that he can dine from his barrel
using it both as a seat, a table and furthermore as a plate.

It is worth noting also for anyone likely to come into contact with Mark
that it is highly inadvisable to refer to The Barrel in any way.
Mark himself has never made reference to his barrel
and can quickly become violent and extremely confrontational
if any notice is brought to the existence, function or content of his barrel.


a poem by

Krishna is He
who charioteered
Arjuna to Dharma,
protected Draupadi’s honour
stole hearts and butter
of the Gopis,
taught Bhima to strike
at the enemy’s weakness,
all the while,
he gurgled the universe
in his soft baby mouth.

Krishna is He
whose name brought
blossoms to blush,
whose dark sensuality
created jealousy
to the smouldering
brilliant Sun-god,
whose tiny finger,
held up a huge mountain,
to shelter the poor
from the storms,
whose kindness carved
a bungalow for
his poverty-ridden
friend, Sudama.

Krishna is He
whose flute is played
to awaken our
dormant hearts,
to awaken sleeping
petals of our
whose purity
is nothingness, yet complete,
like residues of
burnt camphor, leaving
no blemishes.