On a small boat
Made from
My own thought
I sail the river
Of my breath
Until the thought
That I brought
Dissolved gently
Into a thoughtless sea
Sailing, oh sailing!
To a thoughtless sea
Row, row, row my boat
Without thinking
Anything within me
The river of my breath
Has now taken me
To the very depth
Of a thoughtless sea

I came across a poem
Not liked by anyone
For many a day
Many had read the poem
But no one had liked it
Nor loved it, even a bit
I could feel the pain
Of the poor poem
And the striving poet
Whom no one had liked
In any definite way
And remained
Unloved and unread
For many a day

Do I need a reason
To love you
Should I need a reason
To cherish you
Why must I love you
Only if I have a reason
Why can’t I just love you
Without any reason
Such as being a good person
Or having good qualities
Without any impurities
Why can’t I just love you
For being you
I just want to be with you

LACHESISM

When everything is going good
And everything bad I have withstood
My mind then seeks the negative
Imagining bad scenarios so tentative
When a loved one goes away
I fear they will die and wither away
A premonition of impending doom
Accompanied by a lot of gloom
But then these thoughts so irrational
Which make me dysfunctional
Do not affect the actual
When the loved one returns so punctual
Envisaging disasters which aren’t there
Will not get me anywhere
Lacheism is my imaginary bad thing
Now about it I do here sing

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl loved classical music so resounding
When she was eight years old
She wanted to learn and practice singing
But Papa refused and he did scold

The girl loved classical dance
When she was ten years old
She wanted to learn tantalizing dance
But Papa considered it an art of harlots old

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl loved the guitar
She found it cool and fine – sounded sweet as wine
She wanted to play the guitar
But Papa felt it was a waste of time

The girl loved writing poetry
When she was eleven years old
She did write her first piece of poetry
But Papa couldn’t appreciate and was cold

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl entered a competition in poetry
At her school during the same year
She knew she did have a talent for poetry
But Papa felt education would suffer

The girl wanted to learn painting
And so saved money to buy water colours
She had both talent and longing
But Papa’s writ over all still towers

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The Girl wanted to dance at her school’s annual Day
So she practiced hard to be the principal dancer
She hoped she could have her way
But Papa was more destructive than a Cancer

The Girl wanted to study fashion designing
After she completed her high School
She sought her Papa’s permission and blessing
But Papa wanted her to study Law which she didn’t find cool

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl is now a full fledged adult
No more a girl but a very beautiful woman
She wants to be treated as an adult
But Papa is indeed a stubborn man

The girl has written more than four hundred poems
And many more lovely short stories too
She wants her Papa to appreciate her poems
But Papa doesn’t even know that his girl can write too.

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl turned woman started attending music classes
Without anyone knowing she had mastered the art
It was said her voice was much better than the braying masses
But Papa never knew the difference between a note and a ****

The girl stealthily attended a school for traditional classical dance
She was so good; her teachers wanted to nurture and promote her
She was flooded with offers to dance free lance
But Papa  didn’t recognise her talents nor encourage her

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl turned woman has turned twenty six now
But Papa will still check the messages on her phone
He tells her he is doing it only out of love
Even if she does in despair cry or moan

The girl turned woman is working now
But Papa expects her to be in bed by ten
He will tell her what to eat and how
As well as what to do and when

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl turned woman is most misunderstood
Her tastes remain unknown and her likes unimportant
Never once did Papa even try to learn her favorite food
For Papa’s wishes were more important.

The girl turned woman is not permitted to make any decisions on her own
Papa chooses her car just as he does her friends and her life partner
She can never go out unescorted by family into the town
But yet no one can tell her to rebel or make her

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

The girl turned woman is not even allowed to go alone to the Temple
For she is made to agree that only Papa knows what is best for her
This girl has been conditioned to be meek, submissive, docile and gentle
For Papa choose everything for her; even from school bag to life partner

The girl turned woman cannot come out and be independent in this world
No one even knows that she has a little heart and someone else lives there
But whatever it is she still loves her papa more than anyone else in this world
For she doesn’t want to break her Papa’s trust in her.

The Girl child wanted to do things differently
But Papa wouldn’t just let her be

JOUSKA

Talking to myself
Just talking to myself
Debating the pros and cons
Within my own head
Keeping myself amused
In my own bed
By talking to myself
Within my own head
Duality exists
As two thoughts in my head
The good and the bad
Trying to gain control
In my stupid head
As thoughts do patrol
Opposing thoughts in my head
As I talk to myself in my bed

What is it,
That makes me live?
It’s Air, it’s Air.

What is it,
That permeates everywhere?
It’s Air, it’s Air.

What is it,
That constitutes my soul and mind?
It’s Air, it’s Air.

What is it
That makes me follow Karma?
It’s Air, it’s Air.

What is it,
That makes me write this piece?
It’s Air, my friends, it’s Air.

Naked Truths
Aren’t always pretty
Some of them
Even have a flabby belly
But the truth
They will always be
Even though they are
Most times ugly
So I don’t like to
Dress up my truth
Let it all hang out there
Fat and so loose
For no one expects
Truth to be pretty
When the lies win
Beauty contests aplenty

This is a place of many illusions
We live within the biggest illusion
Called this blessed world
Where yet another big illusion
Fools us all the while
We call this illusion as time
Our body is not what we see
It is just sound and light you see
The five elements are just the crust
And will soon turn to dust
Our soul is a flower
Which is so soft and tender
But who will believe me
Until, past these illusions they can see
The wildest illusion of them all
Is my ****** poetry so small
For it is not really mine or thine
Just falling onto my paper
From whence I cannot decipher
Life is another illusion
A blessing received by this pauper
Death yet another illusion
While we actually live forever
This is the place of many illusions
Leading to people with delusions

My Doctor ordered me to exercise
So I now walk through my poems
Many a ghost I now do exorcise
I write poems to burn calories
While eating all sweets and savouries
I read poems to exercise
Enjoying words so sweet and savoury
Many years later, I’m still obese
Even after writing to burn my calories
My doctor now wants me
To step out of my comfort zone
So now from writing verse
To writing worse prose I do turn
All my effort just to burn calories
Not playing to the galleries
But for me and my calories
Without earning any salaries
Prolonging this causes calamities
All just to burn a few calories