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Ksjpari Aug 2017
Never behaved in the school porcine;
Had wise words for everyone to opine;
Full of wise thoughts and memories refine;
Rachana Sharma is ready without any supine.
An eyesore progress she achieved school in
Even the trustees could no longer decline;
Her help for others whenever did she design
Was a feast – a great help and fun to dine.
For 8 years was she my dear mentor fine
From whom I learnt how to continuously grin
In adverse situations and start from begin
So that new fight and efforts lead you to win.
Earlier she was looking like a pumpkin
But now she managed her past confine:
Looking beautiful, smart, nifty and divine
Is ready ever any problem to define.
She is my inspiration, she is my Kline,
She is the best lady as a helpful friend in.
With her I developed Monorhyme fine;
And defeated many enemies malign.
A good mentor and nice for nation mine
Is none than Rachana - a brave feline.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
Abby McMichael Jul 2010
Please, try not to take offense
To the fact that I dislike your fence.
It really does not make much sense
To react in such defense.
You ask why, and I will commence
Explaining my distaste for your fence.
Ksjpari Nov 2017
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Colours curdling, water washing every *****;
Out of us evil ever going and playing on
Land of character cherished by coloured lawn.
What a scene to see! Gracious glory gone
If you miss this mesmerizing festival upon
A folly. Foolish will be called such a conn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon

Holy played in school is highly pleasing crayon,
For Kinar, Aayushi, Kunal. Aryan or John.
Monorhyme has one colour, holi many micron.
Mital, Mitesh, Vaikhu, SIddhu, Saurabh are don.
This day even principal thinks to prevent throne
And join joy with teachers - see anxiety thrown.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon

Songs, screams; dance, D.J.; homage and hymn on;
This day with Holika heavy burdens and sins thrown.
Cruel Hiranyakashyapa was killed; glory was won.
Kunal, Arpita, Sandeep, Amit and Shreyas on lawn
Play water and colours with cool Pari’s scone
In Jalgaon, Agra, Kanpur, Karanja, Surat or Bonn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
This poem is in alliteration. There are alliteration examples in each line. At the same time I am following Monorhyme.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2013
Remember all the Wise Men on their knees upon your yacht?
With orphans on their backs they’d crawled (with others that they’d brought)
Through rubble on the highway sands and residues of Lot.
They came from severed cities selling postcards of your thoughts,
Though offered for a penny piece, not even worth a jot.

They mused
               “How are you feeling? What it is you want, you’ve got.
               The words you scrawl on calling cards: ‘I AM – the others NOT’
               Shun wisdoms of the Seven Seas: ‘Salvation can’t be bought’ –
               Your fathers tried before you and your fathers came to naught.

               “You started out by gelding goats and then by casting lots
               Of bodies to the battlefields, contorted, tight and taut,
               Then wallowed in the wake of trails the dervish devil trots.

               “With marching bands of fatherlands, and drums of Hottentots,
               You lure your legions in harm’s way like giant juggernauts.
               Like Tweedle Dum your minions come (the sober and the sots,
               The troglodytes, barbarians, and mislead patriots,
               The Vandals, Huns and Hannibals and seaport Cypriots,
               The Japanese, the Congolese, Americans and Scots)
               To vanquish bows and arrows, spears and catapulted shots
               Of those who hide in bamboo huts their families, pale, distraught,
               (Their withered wives with dried up *******, their swollen babes in cots)
               Who swoon, engulfed in poison darts and vats of acid hot,
               Consumed by magic mushroom clouds, atomic megawatts.

               “In churches of your deities, your Holy Huguenots,
               Your Imams, Rabbis, Voodoo Dolls and Mitered Lancelots
               Lit wicked kindled candled walls in temples (while we fought)
               (Used pins and needles, magic spells on makeshift mock whatnots)
               And mosques, cathedrals, synagogues have blessed each new onslaught
               With prayers for pipers, puppets, pawns, your rigid armed robots.

               “Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
               You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
               Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
               And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
               Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.

               “You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
               By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
               You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
               But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.

               “In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
               The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
               In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
              
               “The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
               Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
               Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
               Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.

               “In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
               The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
               Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
               Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.

               “While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
               From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
               Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
               With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
               And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
               For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”

Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.

But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
Terry O'Leary Aug 2013
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
    my mind implodes in Malimar
        where Naiads bathe in caviar -
            I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.

The captive kiss of Princess Mars
    (who talks in tongues at seminars)
        burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
            I writhe within Her pale peignoir.

Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
    bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
        serve teas beside the reservoir -
            I sip them from a samovar.

Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
    Her Genies gender gold dinars,
        evoking flames in ginger jars -
            I plea before the Commissar.

At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
    white shadows slip through doors ajar
        to drape my dreams in ash and char -
            I long await the Avatar.

Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
    paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
        while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
            I strum the strings of warped sitars.

Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
    else while at each and every bar
        to speak of space and time bizarre -
            I pass my pride for small pourboires.

Her Necromancers trace in tar
    tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
        transported by the Registrars -
            I hitchhike on their handlebars.

Her seers conjure repertoires
    where She and I are on a par
         in infinite surreal memoirs -
             I sometimes sense the void is ours.

My Princess never sees the scars
    cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
        I often wake to ask ‘who are
            these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
trending
                           trending
                                                       trending
the collective's trending
is unending
this form of trending
has proven to be mind bending
trending
trending                            
trending                                                        ­  
it's as though the collective's trending
won't be ending  
nor in the foreseeable future
will it be suspending
trending
                           trending
                                                      trending
would appear that the trending
is always ideally lending
to the collective's  
trending befriending
trending
trending                            
trending                                                        ­
aren't tales of trending
made for those
who enjoy the extending
of a happy ending
trending
                           trending
                                                       trending
Ksjpari Oct 2017
Full of good thoughts and memories refine
Full of wise words for all to opine
Never behaved in school against doctrine
Varsha is prepared without any supine.
Growth she made in the school is fine
Even the students could no longer define
Her aid for others was just like brine
So that they stand still like a pine.
She was a dear mentor, and a gin:
Separating vice from us and combine
Our grief with joy to keep all in line.
From whom I learnt how to always grin
In adverse situations and start from begin
So that new fight and efforts lead you to win.
She had a dream to make everyone Einstein.
She is one who is behind us against decline
And forces us to proceed in God’s design;
Ecstasy, Elation, Rapture is solely mine
When I went with her knowledge to dine.
Can there be another Varsha Madama inn
Where pilgrims like Monorhyme mine
Rest and prosper and flourish divine.
A lady so acute, dedicated and divine
Is scare to find and is the wonder nine.
Monorhyme
Ksjpari Feb 2018
When all the world is a giant burden,

Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.

“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,

Says always my friend Banarji, never stun

Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.

Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,

Or India with psychology, without an apron.

Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;

With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,

Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.

Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”

Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?

He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,

Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.

He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,

Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.

Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,

With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.

Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron

He is through with all, has a great fortune.

Appreciates my Monorhyme and region

Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.

Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.

Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!
Friend, divine, teacher
Ksjpari Oct 2017
The most dedicated, obedient, one who rings bell,
One mighty who formulates sentient of time shell
By ringing school bell, making us aware, alert and knell.
Vijay, our peon, a smart, vigilant but never did yell
At teachers or students who bugged in room or cartel.
Fair looking Vijay is a joyous lad who got never expel;
Nor did he remain quiet in vespers nine to spread his spell.
Caring, gentle, cherishing, poor but self-efficient in nutshell
Can be told about him in this Monorhyme – describing well?
Monorhyme
Ksjpari Aug 2017
Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Many birds; some small, some blonde
Few birds come as the seasons demand.
Come and visit Thor with Sanket to remand
All the known and unknown birds beyond.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Let it be cashew or nut or almond,
Bring any thing for birds with monde
And see many types of birds beyond
The island, colours that birds donned.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Few birds are black, and few blonde;
Canteen ready with food on demand,
Garden with plants having leaves frond,
Pond with birds different on demand.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Security guards allow us, on demand,
To take cameras to view and shoot monde
Of varied birds here and beyond.
So, visit Thor with Pari Style in a pond.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
Ksjpari Aug 2017
One of the men who I always did brawl,
He did the same with me when I did sprawl
Against him in and around the school wall.
But I loved him as he supported in my fall.
He always who remained strong in squall.
His whole life is full of things big and small.
He had great powers to captivate and enthrall,
Which he used to control us full of gall.
I had been with him for nine years all –
All years nine or ten he did scrawl.
Is he selfish? Is he loving to all?
Is he egoist? Is he supporting in fall?
Such questions harassed my pitfall.
I got all answers positively in parasol –
He held my hands whenever I did call.
Made me what I’m now and took out from pall.
He is my inspiration, he is my ideal doll;
He is my guru, he is my cynic for my troll.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
Ksjpari Aug 2017
My Principal is forever ready to explore
New things from students who implore
And set a new goal for them to outscore
In their own life. He is ready to restore
Intellect and discipline in school therefore
Stands out and administers students’ footsore.
Cherian sir the one who is fighting war
Against anxiety and worry on door,
Which pester children and occasionally gore
Their morale and self-esteem. They spoor
Away from study which he sojourns before
They reach to larger extent and be cocksure.
Never he criticizes without any reason poor,
As he is a positive thinker. All of us roar
Which is pacified by him but for sure.
He is the man of principles and decor
Whose blessings on all of us ever pour.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
LD Goodwin Jun 2013
As we stroll through the day
Staying out of each others way
Letting our dreams float away
Paying our bills with our pay
We habitually stay
Like a tune that won't go away
We are but players in our play
Desperately avoiding a fray
And words we'll regretfully say
But much to our dismay
Our lives are turning gray
And librettos have gone astray
Wanting someone to say
Love is here to stay
In this wonderful ballet
We must constantly survey
Lyrics to the song we play
Harrogate, TN   June 2013

— The End —