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Neha D Jan 2018
There was a circuitous girl who had little grace,
But she was demure with a pretty face.
She had never ever been asked to prom,
So she binge watched sappy romocoms.

One day, a good Knight, asked her for a dance,
She leaped up and grabbed the wonderful chance,
She agreed to go with him for a New Years ball,
But it escaped her mind that she can’t dance at all.

The good knight placed his hand on her waist,
and drew her close as they lissomely paced.
He suddenly turned her like a spinning top,
Once twirled, she just wouldn’t stop!

Off she spun, like a merry-go-round,
Upsetting dancers all around.
Windswept like a tornado— menacing,
Her turns were faster than cars in Grand Prix racing.

The good knight, confused and unsure what to do,
Went and helped himself to a piece of chicken or two
While she tossed into a mighty spin,
He went over to the bar and drank all the gin.

Towards the buffet table, she turned course,
Where he sat explaining centrifugal force.
She crashed into the hungry good Knight,
Who collected himself and stood upright.

She stopped spinning and sat quite still,
The knight drew her up with heroic skill.
She looked confused and completely askance.
But our good Knight was also brave, so he asked her to dance.
Neha D Apr 2017
I walked into my house,
expecting my senses to be aroused,
by the aroma of baking bread.
so it surprised me, when instead,
of having my senses tickled by,
the delicious scent of apple pie,
or the aroma of food in the making,
or rice on the stove and turkey baking,
I walked in, instead, to an awful smell,
the source of which I could not tell.

I ventured to the garbage bin,
to see if the source of the stench came from therein,
but the bin was empty and sans any stink,
so I walked over to the kitchen sink,
to inspect and see what it could be,
But sink was spotlessly clean,
glistening almost with silvery sheen.
So I went off to see if the food had gone bad,
food in the fridge, if I may add.

But the food looked splendid so to speak,
it clearly wasn’t causing the house to reek.
So what then, was casing my flat,
to smell of a dead rat?
The toilets was where I ventured next,
to see if my kids had left them wrecked,
But they were clean and pristine,
cleaner than my face has ever been.
So I checked the rooms, to see if I had forgotten,
an half eaten plate of food that had gone rotten.

But alas, the house, to my dismay,
resolutely refused to betray,
the source that caused my home,
to smell like a sewer, from cellar to dome.
Aghast and defeated I called out to my wife,
who is the Sherlock Holmes of my life,
"Oh dearest wife of mine,
there's a stink sending down my spine,
a nasty and distasteful shiver,
like I'm drowning in the Mithi river".

"I cannot stand to stay indoors,
inhaling this vile smell anymore"
"Darling" she said sounding like a lark,
"While the cause of the smell may appear mysterious and dark,
the matter is quite simple and plain,
this smell of which you complain,
is not of rotting eggs or meat,
it’s the smell you've bought in with your feet."
With that, out of the window, she tossed my shoes,
She would have tossed me instead if given to choose.

She then scrubbed my feet with sandpaper
and made me less hideous and more dapper.
Neha D Oct 2015
If I were a man, I'd be free,
To ask a woman out for coffee.
But I'm a woman, I have to play coy,
And let the fieldwork be done by the boy.

I have to wait for him to make a move,
And only show that I approve.
I have to bat my lashes and display a pout,
And behave like a human sized trout.

When he leans for a kiss, I'll have to push him away,
And blushingly say "not today"
As a woman, society wants me to behave in a way,
To be demure, dignified and flirt in a womanly way.

But you know what, let society go for a toss,
This woman here, is her own boss,
I'm going to be direct and forward,
And if that scares you, move along coward.

I’m not going to sit around and wait,
I'll be the one who'll ask you for a date,
I know I know, guys love the chase,
But hey, I'm not a car, this is not a race!

God knows when you'll overcome your cold feet,
So I'll be direct and very indiscreet,
So if you like me, and I get the hunch,
I’ll ask you out to dinner or lunch.

I have no time to waste in decoding your hints,
Deciphering your mind, your glances and squints,
I'm not Robert Langdon, this is not a Dan brown book,
So when you give me that interested look,
I'm not going to ponder and over analyse,
The mystery behind the movement in your eyes.

And if you happen to reject me and say no,
I promise to take it in my stride,
Because I don't involve my ego,
And let indecisive men hurt my pride,
I am free spirited and emancipated,
And do not particularly care if that makes you feel emasculated.
I do not like gender stereotypes. Why should I, as a woman, be forced to bat my eyelashes and wait for a man to ask me out? Why should it always be the dude who sets the pace of a relationship?
Neha D Aug 2015
After a string of my relationships didn't work,
And I had dated **** after ****,
I realized something was terribly amiss,
With the  blokes I was choosing to date and kiss.

So I decided that my standards had to be revised,
And a grand dating checklist had to be devised,
I wouldn't be superfluous about this  list,
Instead I'd cover points that I had hitherto missed.

I will not date a man who is  already dating,
and for whose commitment I'm kept waiting.
I will not date a man who is involved with his ex,
Who turns to her for sympathy & sometimes ***.

I will not date a man who is constantly lying,
Where trust has diminished and is almost dying.
I will not date a man who has been a criminal,
Even if the offense was small and the sentence minimal.

I will not date a man with a violent streak,
Who's ability to control his anger is very weak.
I will not date a man with no career aim,
Who thinks having a physique is cool but a job is lame.

I will not date a man who disrespects his father and mother,
lets face it, if he's mean to them, he wont be nice to any other.
I will not date a man who is abusive and who swears,
Who lacks empathy and who never cares.

I will not date a man who lacks humility,
Who is arrogant, rude and has no civility.
I will not date a man who has been a cheater,
Or a man who is a girlfriend beater.

I will not date a man whose mouth is lined with empty words,
broken promises, shallow tales that he uses like swords,
To cut open my insides and get my defenses down,
only to walk away and never turn around.

Did you see what I just did there?
I will not date a man just because he has glossy hair,
Or just because he has pretty eyes,
because pretty eyes can also tell pretty lies.

I will not date a man who cannot see,
What a flying dragon I am, figuratively,
I am a phenomenally phenomenal woman, that's me,
And I won't date a man who tells me any differently.
Neha D Jul 2015
Near the bust stop, around the bend,
where the bus route comes to end,
Is a lane with buildings replete,
the best of the lot being Paraclete

With round Victorian window panes,
and 16th century structural frames,
It is like a manor on a London street,
This beautiful empyrean Paraclete

Coated in demure pink and white,
and shades of cream, very slight,
a structure of cement and  concrete
Its a divine abode, this Paraclete!

And named after the Holy Ghost,
this building, is home and host,
To a boy, who made my life complete,
He is my advocate, my Paraclete!  

When I sought God and asked for aid
He sent me the best he had made
the boy, from across the street
a resident of divine Paraclete!

But how could it possibly be?
For this boy was younger than me!
Why would God, send to my aid
A boy who 3 years after I, was made?

God replied "it took time to create
for you, a well suited mate,
It took a while to complete,
Your protector, guide and Paraclete"

When all courage had been lost
And my heart turned to frost
my faith had nearly come to deplete
But was revived, by the boy from Paraclete!
Neha D Nov 2014
To get away from the TV set
and the cursed Internet
I sought refuge among the trees
and lunged in natural aired breeze.
I watched the orange setting sun
And clouds drift by. Oh what fun!

I heard a distant sounding moo
followed by some hullabaloo.
The sound of voices was clear now
they belonged to women, not a cow!
Two young women tall and fair
approached my grassy open lair.

Two young women in floral dresses
with auburn, curled demure tresses
and polished docile English air
having considerable savoir fair,
on the grass beside me landed
and a jewel casket to me they handed.

Trying my best not to sound rude
"Who is it?" I asked and "why intrude?"
One of them took my hand and said
"I have written the book you recently read"
"Forgive me” Said I “to not sound shrewd,
but pray tell me to which book you allude?"

The taller one again; the clear leader
spoke and said "oh dear reader,
my book was written in silent prayer,
the ****** of which you are aware
quotes of which, you cite with flair
I am the author of Jane Eyre."

"Charlotte Brontë" gasped I with glee
has come for a rendezvous with me!
My excitement no bounds knew
when the older one of the two,
who had hitherto watched silently
spoke and thus addressed me.

"I have written on sensibility,
prejudice, pride and providence.
I have written on layers of the mind
and family ties that never cease to bind.
I covered events both real & farce-y,
I am the creator of William Darcy".

"Jane Austen" said I with fervour
"I am your greatest admirer.
Your lucidity of language and verse
and the way your characters converse
have helped developed my writing style
which previously, I assure you was sterile"

"This is an honour, a considerable one,
But to deserve this tell me what have I done?"
"We are here to give you treasure
to improve your writing in measure"
I motioned to the jewelled basket,
"Is there something in that casket?"

"Does it contain secret notes?
unpublished poems and anecdotes?
maybe a magic potion or spell
That will make me write really well
Does it contain divine mediums
that will help me conjure idioms?"

"No" said Charlotte Brontë,
"It has what you need, not what you want"
I opened the jewel case with ease
expecting to find a set of keys
and so was nearly surprised when
in its interiors I found a pen

"There are no rules to follow
No magic potion to swallow.
Every accomplished writer knows:
there is no secret method to poem or prose.
So do not cloud your mind with fears
and write with blood and tears."

Birds around me began to stir
and the scene before me; to blur.
Was this a mere delusion?
A dream perhaps or an illusion?
"Remember to put pen to paper"
saying this, the women turned to vapour.

I woke up with a nervous start
and a wildly beating heart.
It was nearly breaking dawn;
I may have slept off in the lawn.
If the women were a creation of my mind,
how then in my palm did the pen I find?
My latest poem is an encounter with two women authors who give me invaluable advice on how to write.
Neha D Oct 2014
He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.
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