IN ACTION!

TECH PLAGUE

The rage of the age

is  the ,  ‘Tech  Thingy’.

 Wireless generation

engulfed in  meshes.

This “Tech Thingy”

 has stunted human race.

 Brainless brains and senseless senses,

an island of  ‘gizmos’ and ‘gadgets.’

This  “ Tech Thingy”,

Is a craze for many.

Virtual is real, 

and real  a haze.

Humans, it seems, are twisted in the head

to think this “ Tech  Thingy”

Is ‘groovy’.

 Who cares for odds?

 Pre -snows, erupting volcanoes,

burning forests and  sliding mountains ?

Who cares! Who cares!

This “Tech Thingy” 

has devoured sensibility. 

LYRICS TO SCARBOROUGH FAIR- SIMON AND GARFUNKEL

Are you goin' to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt (On the side of a hill in the deep forest green).
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground).
Without no seams nor needlework (Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain).
Then she'll be a true love of mine (Sleeps unaware of the clarion call).

Tell her to find me an acre of land (On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves).
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Washes the grave with silvery tears).
Between salt water and the sea strands (A soldier cleans and polishes a gun).
Then she'll be a true love of mine.

Tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather (War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions).
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Generals order their soldiers to kill).
And gather it all in a bunch of heather (And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten).
Then she'll be a true love of mine.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine.

Metropolis

Metropolis, oh, what a bliss!

Those ‘neon’ flashes

are 'luring'  promises

of dreams dreamt

and aspirations sought.

Yet, before you dare,

be aware

that a ‘lot’ happens ‘undercover’

and you could be devoured by ‘insatiable’ hunger.

A multiplicity no doubt

with beautified cityscape

that makes you ‘gape’,

where millions throng

with hopes clung.

Yet, again,

remember,

beauty is but skin deep,

cut throat policy  and duplicity

are  behind that plasticity.

You’ll be intrigued

by the games  played

in million ways.

There'll be a battle of the senses

inside your head.

You'll begin to ask 

if life is a game

My story in the New Asian Writing Journal 2011

Link to my story published on the 14/ 3 /2011

 http://www.new-asian-writing.com/?p=436&utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+NewAsianWriting+%28New+Asian+Writing%29

Poems composed for the 3rd Emirates Literature Festival.

Take Comfort, by Roger McGough


Take comfort from this

you have a book in your hand

not a loaded gun or a parking fine

or an invitation card to the wedding

of the one you should have married

but were too selfish. Always imagining

there would be someone better out there

but there wasn’t, and you missed the boat.

And now you’re pushing forty, what are the chances

of your finding that perfect elusive partner? Highly unlikely.

Like an empty glass on a bar room counter, loneliness beckons.

Not an empty glass, or a bottle smashed on a bar room counter.

a photograph of the one you will always regret not marrying

not a letter from the hospital, the results devastating.

After the disaster, the dust and the screaming

a child’s arm thrust out from the rubble.

You have none of those in your hand.

A dirty syringe or a deadly scorpion

a Molotov cocktail or an overdose

not a loaded gun or a parking fine

you have a book in your hand.

Take comfort from this.

Knight of the Tribe, by Dha’en Shaheen

He is the master of our passions; the voice for

All our sounds; the start of all beginnings;

He is the light of the morning;

He is the Knight of the tribe.

With no rest he’s saddling his horse in our troubled universe.

Racing against time, water and wind,

he’s coming to heal our deep wounds,

leading us to fresh pastures and Spring’s

green shoots.

O you are a master of time, passion

and sound.

A massive web of misfortunes is besetting us.

Those who drooled their sympathy on orphans

and women, left with their horses.

We survived a misery-ridden night;

All the households were listening to the

knocks of despair at their doors;

The chants of angst were heard everywhere.

Here’s the voice of “Layla” being libeled

and betrayed.

Here’s the beginning.

An alien voice far away is heard,

Echoing through the corridors of our lives:

No matter how diligently we strive,

No matter what we do,

Blood will continue to be shed.

But despite the distance,

You shall cross the way.

And come to limit these dreadful days.

I swear you shall come,

Soon you will come.

Saddling your horse in our troubled world.

I saw your boat pass not far from our sun,

Saving our wishes from being sunk,

Assuring the brightness of our lives is not gone.

O master of our time:

Our lives are thickly sown with thorns.

We’ve dreamt too much;

We’ve cried too much.

We slept listening to the sounds of the seagulls

Cawing from the East,

Luring us into ethereal lands of spacious lawns and calm,

Where we could whisper our secrets in the mist.

Oh our dreams: we’ve lived and slept plenty.

But our dreams dissolve in the blind darkness of

night, blocking the morning’s rays.

Living the exile’s life has left the traces of the

torturer’s whip indelible in my eyes.

But still do I have this flow of purity in my heart.

My laboured poetry strives to weave this bond

of loyalty to you,

Revealing your voice,

Resurrecting your continued inspiration that fills

us with zest for life and passion.

I am destined to long for you

Longing only for you

LOGOS HOPE: SPREADING HOPE AND KNOWLEDGE