Category Archives: Humour

A small mischief

a poem by

In a lonely Villa
On one darksome night
There was darkness everywhere
There were thunder bolts
Rain was pouring everywhere
It wasn’t important
What I felt
What I did
But what I experienced was morbid
I tried to avert the gloominess
By lighting a candle
But to my astonishment
There was someone else in my Villa
It’s shadow began to dwindle
I tried to figure
Who it was
In that darkest hour
But to my surprise
I saw a purring kitten
In the night
I dread it when I was unaware
But I had a sigh of relief
The mischief that a small kitten played
That I couldn’t forget but still gave me respite

An Indian Marriage Scene

a poem by

It was a show in a marriage hall,
Stuffed with the invitees all,
All the chairs were found full,
No more vacant chairs to pull.

The Bridegroom poured,
On the Holy Fire sacred
Melted ghee over its head,
As mantras the Pundit read.

The smoky air all around,
The pipe and drum sound
Of the party at the hall end,
Made it noisy, we all found.

Over the noise of these rituals,
The shouts of boys and girls
The chit-chats of everyone
Shook the hall up and down.

To tie the three knots nuptial,
The Pundit alerted the couple,
Close around them in a circle,
All were asked to assemble.

It was a moment of tension,
All gave their prying attention.
Once these knots were done,
Then showered flowers like rain.

The piper then sang a melody,
That brought tears to everybody,
The tears of joy and sorrow mixed
At end of this ‘Muhurtam’ fixed.

Tears of joy because of union
Of the two bodies, but Soul as one,
And of sorrow for their separation
From their erstwhile relation.

His show the piper wound up,
For meals everyone rushed up,
The hall became empty soon.
The couple left for honey moon.

With a sigh of relief for the parents,
They started tallying the accounts,
The total spent by them how much
Minus gifts received how much?

Woes of Man

a poem by

Oh! Man

The woes of man is woman
Woman – woos a man, and after
These woman – say!!! We men!!!

Taking pronunciation in to account,
Woman=Woman, and plural of woman
is women,
Women is pronounced as ‘We Men’

The pronunciation is itself a
So… is it woman liberation!!!


a poem by

They are on the verge of extinction
Now in reading them there is no fun
Electronic media rendered them redundant
Yellow journalism made them defunct
Like a beggar they hanker after ad
Their glamour of late has begun to fade
Editors now grope for thrilling news
And fill-up columns with their own views
Letters to the editor lack vigour
There is dearth of good articles
For contributors are meagre
There are no incentives for columnists
So they have begun to opt for tv superhits
Print media is virtually on oxygen
Even by its erstwhile fans it has been shun
Its news are dull and stale
And it survives solely on blackmail

A Paper World

a poem by

Watch humanity chasing paper all the while
With inhumane fervour

Quite like its nature it wraps a person
Completely till he’s unseen

Neither scissor nor fire can quell
His pangs

Neither hell’s fires nor earthly dungeons
Tame his desire

With beady eyes, he looks around
For more

Imagine a world where there is no paper
Green beauteous virgin

Imagine a world where people are human
Paperless, but truly rich

Saddam’s Trial

a poem by

Who brought me to this cage
Roars the dictator in rage
Then says in firm voice
I’m free and I have my choice
So I do not obey this court
As judicial norms it distorts

(Pointing at Mohammad Amin):
I hold this Kurd as my subject
And most vehemently I object
In this matter his right to adjudicate
For Kurds are naive and dunce
And what do they know about jurisprudence?
I crushed them, curbing their insurgence
And subjugated them at once
Now this Kurd has audacity
To ask me my identity
Who gave him such authority?
A subject asking his king his name
Such rude manners is matter utmost of shame
For this insubordination
Deeming it as act of treason
I can inflict punishment most dreaded
By getting him publicly beheaded

And how am I to be brought
Under the purview of Kurdish court
Where both the plaintiff and judge are Kurdish lot
In no way this is a fair trial
But mockery of justice
And its clear denial

Where is my Skud where is my Skud?
I wanna make these Kurds swim in their blood
These repulsive Kurds are shrewd Shylocks
Rude and revengeful folks!
They want from me pound of flesh
“Alas, by night armies ignorant clash”
Where art Thou O Great Matthew Arnold
To Mephistopheles my soul I have sold

I am Marlowe’s Faustus in Eternal exile
Who hath to Lucifer mortgaged his smile
Perpetual death awaits me on gallows
As the charges are being read by these fellows

Oh no never should I repent
My valour is not yet spent
I can still kill Bush in single combat
And in fencing Blair I can beat
As a sovereign ruler of a State
I am not free to experience feeling of guilt
But instead should have my hand on sword hilt
Why this world rewards me not for my bravery
Didn’t I fight a lone battle against allies
By punching hard in their bellies
Shall no one bestow upon me accolades
For my glorious victorious acts
Or confer upon me the title of knighthood
For Gulf war’s mauves and strategies shrewd

Instead of turning vindictive why my foes do not follow Christ
Who instead of revenge on mercy emphasized
Didn’t Jesus forgive his assassins
Saying: ‘Lord, forgive them for they know not what they do’
But my adversaries relish and enjoy my waterloo

To you all I earnestly urge
Appoint some Christian priest as a judge
To whom I can confess my sins and for mercy plead
The priest carrying Holy Bible in hand
Can at least my enigma understand

These Kurds build case against me brick by brick
Hearing the charge sheet I feel sick
We can never redeem the world of sins by hanging assassins
Mercy will herald the dawn of love
And will please the Lord Up Above

Poetry and Prose

a poem by

If I would write a poem
Be it on a rose,
It would rhyme gently
And would not read as prose

I am not a poet
Neither I pretend,
But I have a way with words
To make one understand

My thoughts and inner feelings
That simmer night and day,
I’ve seldom had an audience
On rendering yawn away

Oh young aspiring poets
Do write your verse in rhyme
If it’s too much of an effort
Abstain, It’s not a crime!

I chose to be a Jackass

a poem by

I chose to be a jackass
For I didn’t have a clue,
What there was in it for me
When I meekly said ‘I Do’.

I Do, I did and in doing so
I’ve toiled half my life,
Working merrily all day long
For the one I call my wife.

She came, stayed and took control
Of house, hearth and all,
Granted liberty too, I am
With children I play ball

Shopping, chatting by the day
She merrily spends her time,
Waits eagerly then for me
To end her(!) hard days grind!

Her chatter then begins again
Oh there’s so much to tell
All that happened here around
From which tree who nearly fell!

The evenings are no longer mine
Her plans for it are made
Into the trapdoor guided then
That’s there been so well laid

Not the only one my dear
That didn’t have a clue
Plenty FOOLS you’ll find around
Who innocently said ‘I Do’

Medical Prescriptions

a poem by

To teach kids about hieroglyphs
We can show them doctor’s prescription slips
For this illegible version
Exactly tallies its description
Medicos scrawl letters with awkward curves
And to read you’ve to strain nerves
While reading the prescribed drugs
Often a dispenser sneers and shrugs
The prescription of ‘pheniramine’
Often gets misread as ‘amphetamine’
If they write ‘ethambutol’
It reads: ”Thy death toll”
And when they pen ‘dexamethasone’
It appears like ‘desist my son’
Many die of fatal reactions when dispensers
Misread doctor’s prescriptions
Handwritten prescription has become
A potential health-hazard
Which requires urgent and immediate safeguard


a poem by

When I peep into past
And recall life’s early morn
Present life stings and pains
Like sting of cactus thorn
For a while I get lost
In sweet memories of playful days
Little playmates and their funny ways
Tops and marbles and kites
Petty squabbles and fist-fights
Eyes wonderous, colored objects
Burlap bags and fragile slates
But like brilliant night of fullmoon
This flashback too recedes soon
And again the cycle of life
Same domestic chores same
Familiar wife

Quack’s progress

a poem by

Arriving from unknown somewhere
He set up clinic in the market square
Declared he could cure any disease
Using herbal drugs of plants and trees
Townsfolk being credulous

Soon to his shop began to rush
Diabetics, rheumatics, asthmatics flooded
None over his degree brooded
A few weeks later, afloat was this rumour
He cures for he rightly detects the humour
Realizing that every client is a prospective fan
He talked in technical terms even with laymen
He would expose his victims to numerous medical terms
Also trade-names, contents, firms, diseases and germs
Just to exhibit erudition and sound philosophy
Without occasion he embarked on learned topics
Often dwelt on sedatives and epilepsy
Or discoursed at length on tumor and biopsy
Then in a torrent of rodomontade would relate
Histories of cases cured with specific names and date
Discourses full of references to Ayurvedic treatises
Madhv, Charak, Susrut and other varieties
To prove his point he recited aloud original excerpts
As a result ,he soon won the epithet: “expert of experts”
“Discourteous ingrates! They even do not thank
Though I give ‘em new life” exclaimed the mountebank.

Always eager to spar against allopathy
At the slightest provocation he would lecture on allopathic hazards
Or would lament on untidy hospitals and unhygienic wards
Boldly averring: “To hide anything from patients is a deadly sin”
Within no time he became a celebrity
His tricks worked and brought him publicity
After a year DHO came to see him in person
And sought his counsel for his sick son
A minister’s car at his doorstep halted
Just to enhance libido and weakness treated
He gave the minister powerful mercury dust
Which triggered his vigor and inflamed his lust

Then to CM’s ears reached his fragrant fame
Who called him secretly telling him not to declare name
MPs in turn heard of this rare phenomenon
And turned up to consult him one by one
Director drug control came to seek his advice
For chronic dysentery and perennial bronchitis
At length PM had to send him his compliments
For service to nation and “particular patients”
The whole world acknowledged him as master of his craft
But a person knew his truth in his own staff
His compounder knew his master was a fake
But he swallowed the secret for heaven’s sake

Live Forever!!

a poem by

Poets will come and poets will go.
But their poems will forever flow.
Therefore poets shall write poems.
Only after that, should die and go.

That is the reason why I am on it;
Day-in-out, even on eating I write.
Even at night, I wake up for a pen,
When I am gone my poems live then.

In past, there were only few poets.
Dead, yet alive as Poets laureates.
This knowledge is spread wildfire.
Millions have become poems writer.

Latest census is out and it shows:
All writes poems, none reads those.

Shades of Life

a poem by

Let me sing now something new:
My words are just a few,
Lasting words- good for ever,
True, these words uttered but never.

Life does often look like a puzzle-
Clueless mystery almost a riddle
The key is amiss; it still lies,
Down and deep buried in the middle.

Life’s colorful, so full of gaiety
Splash of colors- a celebration of variety.
Complexions all: fair and dark
Diversity becomes Nature’s hallmark.

Bewildering shades with much to view
Right from violet, indigo and blue;
Up to green, yellow, orange and red
Colors are countless as they say,
Yet colors are just sanguine or sad:
Lively and blithe, bright and gay;
Colors can be desolate, dark and gray.

Colors narrate the story of life:
In harmony we grow; our life’s delight;
Cribbing about the worldly strife,
We decay like a captive in mortal fright.

For, Mother Nature, like a great prism of sorts,
Touched with the ray of light Divine,
To beget these countless colors of Life:
Colors that can’t fade or cease to shine!

Cricket Cacophony

a poem by

It’s always a cacophonous crowd
That speaks out loud
When India loses a match
Or a fielder misses a catch
There are over three billion analysts
Who vehemently argue with raised fists
They talk about batting order blunder
Or announce sudden change of player asunder
Many find faults with the coach
And with impunity his private area encroach
“Players are not in form” someone shouts
And loudly asks captain’s whereabouts
The time we waste on analysing cricket
If we invest the same in creative endeavour
India would soon become a superpower!


a poem by

A time for wooing voters
Selling dreams
Floating manifestos
A season of paying whirlwind visits
To the farthest corner of constituency
Time for defacing walls with posters,
Polluting public mind with party propaganda
For buying ballots with petty gifts:
Blankets, wine bottles, currency notes
A carnival for double voting, shanghaiing,
Murdering rival candidates-
A platform for indulging into polemics, mudslinging.
Demagogue’s favourite festival