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Jill 7d
Tim lived at five one two
Caraway Lane with a
dog and lawn that was
hard to maintain and three
goats with no names
Two bankers came
Crisply dressed, repossessed
Caraway lane

Paul had tried every trick
through thick and thin but he
couldn’t make rent when it
went on cheap gin and he
hated the taste
Fated to waste
Downing and drowning in
Crown-clouding gin

Richard was shy with an
acne-pocked charm and a
look of sick shock as he
watched in alarm as his
paycheck ran dry
Couldn’t tell why
Money tree entropy
ended supply

Tim was quite pretty, clown
-witty and warm with flash
city-smoked glints and fresh
country-stoked draw, with his
cheekbones and jaw, and the
charm he had, strapping lad
dressed in plaid shirts he would
flirt with short skirts or a
dress or long pants, really
anything worked

Paul was quite petty, and
yet he had steady ad
-mirers in heady and heal
-y-tripped love, he was
shunned by wronged songbirds, he’d
stolen their sweet words, his
perfect pitch, descant-rich
Transcendent vocally
Elegant poetry
Angel-conferred

Richard had first-degree
Self-esteem vacancy
So, on occasion he
Self-critiqued shamefully
Good for perfectionist
standards which nurtured his
six-string-chord skilfulness
Master accompanist
Metronome rhythm-prone
strong instrumentalist

Each in a fix when a
-lone but the mix would be
known to eclipse what was
shown on the local bar
circuit you’d know if you
heard it, a joy to un
-earth it, so worth it e
-merged as the trio with
alchemy, beauty and
blasphemy, moral and
mortal-tinged humour a
-cademy, heaven-sent
harmony, rather be
here to see, them than be
anywhere actually
this is me, heavily
suddenly, readily
falling in love with three
men in one melody
©2025
Ken Pepiton Aug 2024
Such tellings as are catalogued folk tales,
and sorted on similarities of plot or character,
from child holdings realized as old, stories, reready
common creatures come alive, the Bremen Band
led by a *******, is all I recall,

then this old cat that comes around
come to mind, ai winking
but as Al exists to recall it all,
"What's got in your way, old beard-cleaner?"
asked the donkey,
as a significant kind of character,
direct descendant from Balaam's, who was
predecessor to Francis the Mule, who was last
of the eloquent *****, less famous nowadays,

magic is not what it once once was, supposed,
posed superior to lesser knowings, proposed
to be the very instructions from the knowing
tree forest whose reach into the tombs,
breathes gaseous weforms from earth wombs,
once once
seppuku - no, Hopi navel of the world- aigotit
Sipapu - spirit forms become Katcina

we see and say so using idle words you own,
and we trust our assisting intelligences own
means of translating our merged minds own

original intention, was to be renowned, famed
for slaying dragons of any non Christian kind,
daemons and demons unionized, to assist
using the psychology of the guy on
Christian radio, Dr. Dobson, dare to discipline,

oh, there, thence rose daddy wounds, perhaps
five long generations deep, military minds run
down this branch of my family tree,
chthonically rooted back to Phrygia,
flip the dime, who holds both sides?
how were these magic dimes made so?
By cleansing the sillohuette of old John D.

"Buddy, can you spare a silver dime?"

When the March of Dimes began,
all dimes were silver dimes, all values
were redeemable in silver, but those days

and those ways, do not function efficiently,

ef-fort effi fine-ancially fiscal police rules,
fi- gimme a reason
hard currency, abused since ever was a magi
with a convincing story told invitingly,

come and see,

Let us order our days from today,
while it remains today, to and fro, let us go
upon the face of the world, the home of our we,

we, in spirit form, find ourselves in words and music,
mused first, of course, in sequence of humane events,

we agree to become, not feminized, but wise, using
Wisdom's feminine form from all ancestral knowings,

she seduces wise men ***** by glorious old boys,
whose only war was Kriegspiel - we all can be heros,

or so the hero makers say, follow us, learn to **** at will,
on demand, you know the drill, onward, Christian Soldiers,
into faith as strongly wrong as your own, sincerely

what sin, the idea first fit to a word, once made
sacred, original intention of the sound chata makes

means error, does not fit future need to know, do over,
glitch, try again, Cain, chata is always possible, hamartia
claim blame, fame and shame
aitia, we invent in mind games, as a she formed from Wisdom,
modeled by sheform statues
of Freedom in Phrygian caps,
on County seat town greens
all over preboomer America,
all meaning lost, until today.

Liberty nods.

I may have made a child that I never met,
and whether ever has a fee for that innocense,
I chose to think I don't believe I know, for sure.

Imagine that, in magical terms, in my bubble
being edge wise superior from every point,

never viewed from until the tech we have today,
left preceptual connections where disconnects,

are as commonly real as
back when Grace Murray Hopper
lived in the upper crustean realm
of education, time records a genius Sidis,
coabode on Earth with her and Bucky Fuller.
William James Sidis, self normalized,
to collected trolley passes,
and let the bosses be bosses,
and that is all,
we know we may yet
imagine the mind used to live true,
whose gaming mind may imagine,
the opportunity,
to visit each trolley ride, in this
version in Sidis's philological vendergood voice,

fourth dimensional assisting ***-umphed if I'da
known, focus on the navel, really, think it through,

we yawn, and wonder,
how long a tale is told, tells a lot about a tale's use.

We reckon, we re co know agnostically religamental
right usual working ways we try, you know

to spy an eye in time tuning spacy gazy lazy
let's see, when last we came upon an option

go, or stay, think it through, or edit the art part,
make it meet the American Rhetoric of 1968,

Cathy sent me letters from the convention,
she was still mourning Bobbie, I was in Long Binh,

being crazy enough to shoot, back home, here,
I was the guy burning actual ****, in the rear,
there then,
I could see the jail go up in smoke from here,
me and the Papasan's found it abnormally strange.

Recognizing a stoner survivor's version of riches
from the total shitshow through to this one today,

across all potential four dimensional codes,
we signal something sibilantly whispering, see.    

Well, imagine imaginary people,
beautiful mind alternative points
from which any fractal forms a whole

truth held self evidently, for show,
to prove, you know, you did go,
you did pay for going, your choice,

bet your life, at any pre myelinated
phase of cognitive natural fructifity,

presume resumption was begun
passively requiring secret rights,

the  hand shake, with out the thumb
nailed it, dead serious, sincerity
definitely now we both know this:
Sincerely
There has been a temptation
to see the first element
as Latin sine "without."
But there is no etymological justification
for the common story that the word means
"without wax" (*sine cera),
which is dismissed out of hand by OED,
Century Dictionary ("untenable"), and others,
and the stories invented to justify
that folk etymology are even less plausible.
Watkins has it as originally "of one growth"
(i.e. "not hybrid, unmixed"),
from PIE *sm-ke-ro-,
from *sem- "one" (see same) +
root of crescere "to grow"
(from PIE root *ker- (2) "to grow").
De Vaan finds plausible a source
in a lost adjective *caerus "whole, intact,"
from a PIE root meaning "whole."


----------------
Whole truth original intent…

Entertaining lost minds,
following trolley tickets

to find the genius in Sidis,
to retrace those long ago
trolley tracks, in old down
towns, not the status tracks

those were the tracks that ran
by the slaughter houses and
packing sheds, south of town,

out in the boondocks, swhat
some called wrong sides of towns,
uptown and downtown, one stop light
on the Mother Road to California,

there, is a sip-appertaining to news

adapted to, fret not, some fail now,
yet today remains today every where
at once, each time you pay mind, here

is where what we are come alive.
One reader makes it work,
a we thought flies free.

We laugh, or we worry.

All the players in the Bremen Band
were old when the opportunity arose.
Where else can one not fear rejection and so, sow such unorthodox seed?
Ashwin Kumar Sep 2023
What's life without a role model?
A Slytherin without ambition
A Hufflepuff without loyalty
A Ravenclaw without curiosity
And finally
A Gryffindor without courage

All of us have role models
Well, maybe not those poor souls
Who aim to achieve as much in their lives
As have done Bermuda
When it comest to cricket

Well, I know I will be asked
Who is my role model?
It is the one and only Harris Jayaraj
A musician who produces magic
Which sweeps you off your feet
And transports you into a whole new universe
Where all your dreams come true
And every unhappy memory of yours vanishes
With just a lazy flick of his wand
A wand that can be bested not
Even by the legendary Elder Wand

Dear Harris Sir,
You are my inspiration
The key that unlockest the door
Beyond which, lies my true potential

The sheer variety of music
Which lies in your repertoire
Doth make proud
Even a Hans Zimmer or a John Williams
Therefore, it cometh not as a surprise
That one of them is your idol

Everyone heaps a ton of praises
On your captivating melodies
Which, of course, is thoroughly well deserved
However, it is your background music
Which, according to me, is the gamechanger
Because it doth transform even the most boring movies
Into a spectacle of entertainment
Recall the famous India vs Australia Test match
At Eden Gardens, Kolkata, circa 2001
From a certain innings defeat
To a glorious victory
Was a transformation par excellence
Thanks to the sheer magic produced by three people
For whom the word "impossible"
Doth not exist in the dictionary
Thou hadst achieved the same
With a snooze fest of a movie, known as "Vaaranam Aayiram"
Thy BGMs playing the role of the Pied Piper of Hamelin
A movie that deserved to be a flop
Ended up becoming a hit
Thanks to Harris, the one man army

Dear Harris Sir,
You are my inspiration
Not because you have achieved many a success
But because you give up not
In the event of a failure
And even that has happened not
For want of trying

Dear Harris Sir,
You are my inspiration
Even if your fame has reached the mighty skies
The word "pride" doth not exist in your dictionary
Your greatness truly lies
In your sheer simplicity
Not to mention, your acute awareness
Of yours strengths and weaknesses

Dear Harris Sir,
You are an inspiration
Not only to me
But also to millions of aspiring artists
Because there is so much to learn from you
And it is not all about music
Your hard work and dedication
As well as your willingness to learn
And keep on learning
No matter how far you have progressed in life
Sets an example for all of us
I would like to end on this note
Once a Harris fan, always a Harris fan!
Poem dedicated to the inspiration of my life - music composer Harris Jayaraj.
Ashwin Kumar Mar 2023
When you are stressed, upset
Angry, sad, depressed
Or just not in a good frame of mind
You usually turn to music
In order to calm your mind
And uplift your soul
Well, it is the same for me too
Except that just any music won't do
It has to be music composed by Harris Jayaraj
He comes up with songs
For almost all kinds of situations
Action, drama, suspense
Romance, love failure, family bonding
Comedy, friendship, school life, college life
Tragedy, war, crime
Urban, rural, semi-urban
The list is endless
His music has an undefinable charm
That makes you sit up and take notice
And appeals to the masses
As well as the classes
The softness of the instruments used
The variety of playback singers
And the unique fusion of Western and Indian music
Separate him from the rest
However, what he truly excels in
Are the melodies
Just listen to a few of them
And you'll feel like you've entered a different world altogether
You'll forget all your worries
And just live in the moment
In fact, that's how life should ideally be
Of course, he will also make you dance to his tunes
Just like a snake charmer
Except that the snake actually doesn't give two hoots about music
Rather, it focusses on the movements of the snake charmer
Anyway, coming back to Harris
For me, his music is the next best thing in the world
After trains and the mobile video game "Choices"
It always makes me feel better about myself
Like I can do anything in the world
Without getting swayed by the opinions of other people
Of course, there are other great musicians too
AR Rahman, Ilaiyaraaja, Hans Zimmer, John Williams
And top bands like Linkin Park, Evanescence, Boney M etc.
To name a few
However, as we say in Tanglish
Harris Jayaraj is "vera level"
And will always be
Another poem dedicated to my favourite music composer - Harris Jayaraj.
Ashwin Kumar Sep 2020
Music is a wonderful healer
It has soothed many a troubled soul
And cheered up many a depressed soul
There is something in music
That endears itself, to one and all
Something irresistible, so much so
That it feels, frankly divine
Something that distinguishes it
From all other forms of art
There is no greater joy
Than watching a master musician at work
Maestros are one of a kind
Around them, is an aura so powerful
That nothing can stop them
From weaving their magic
Slowly, but surely
And leaving us spellbound
At the sheer symmetry of it all
And we cannot speak about maestros
Without speaking about Harris Jayaraj
His music takes us into a whole new world
A world full of hope
A world full of infinite possibilities
And most importantly
A world where we feel liberated
Whether it be the softness of the instruments
Or the extremely catchy tunes
Or the clever choice of singers
There is no doubt
That his music has cast a spell on us all
Of course, there are haters
Some of whom call him a copycat
However, actions speak louder than words
From Minnale to Kaakha Kaakha
From Ghajini to Unnale Unnale
From Vaaranam Aayiram to Ko
From Nanban to Anegan
From Yennai Arindhaal to Kaappaan
Harris has delivered hits time and again
His records speak for themselves
And what's more
We can love or hate Harris
But we can't deny
That his music affects us all
For better or for worse
Poem dedicated to my favourite Indian music composer - Harris Jayaraj.
Music doesn’t belong to me
It never has
I thought I’d discovered it

Well, actually I did
It’s just that others
Had gotten there before me

I wanted it to be mine
Because
It made me feel
Special
Resplendent
Alone but
Less so

So many dead musicians
So many unborn
So many much better than I

It’s ok

Because I
Discovered music
Mikel Jul 2019
Pour your torment on the page and let the sound leak out of you

Your music bleeds out of your veins and it’s so personal, so emotional, how could people keep from resonating with it?

So now, you get to perform the same recurring nightmare every night. Reopening the wound you couldn’t heal.
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