Psychopath

Microfiction. Warning: Please don't read if you are offended by or do not like psycho-thrillers. Some language may be offensive to some people. Not suitable for young children.

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I am a psychopath. It's their fault really. I cannot help myself. It's just the way they make me feel when they strut about in front of me. They got to my stuff, one time. Now, I don't tolerate no one getting to my stuff. So you see? It's not my fault. They started it.

I have my weapon cocked and ready as I sit in the silence of the darkness, waiting for them. I know they will come. They always do. It starts at the twilight hour and it goes on and on into the wee hours of the night.

Sometimes they come in singly. Sometimes in pairs and I see them making out. Making out! Can you believe that? Right in front of my eyes! Making babies, just like them! To start the cycle again! Vermin! One time, I discovered a whole lot of their babies huddling together. I fed the whole lot of them to the birds.

For the adults, I usually use my weapon. They are pretty slow, so usually I get them in a couple of tries. Sometime I slam them against the wall. Sometimes I simply water board them. But they still keep coming. I dream of the day when I will rid the universe of them forever.

Wham! Down goes one more. My weapon is better than any anti-aircraft guns. Die, pantry moth, die!  I am almost all out of plain vinegar in my spray bottle.
For the next batch, I will use some orange peels in the vinegar. No harm in making the home smell divine while I get rid of these pesky pests!

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Rani Lakshmi Bai

This in response to NaPoWriMo's prompt number 29 to write a clerihew or a double dactyl. Apparently clerihews are biographical poems with 4 lines using the AABB rhyming schemes. Rani Lakshmi Bai, the queen of Jhansi was one of the last bastions of the first war of Indian independence against the British. For more on the Rani of Jhansi click here. For Subhadra Kumari Chauhan's wonderfully rhythmic poetry about Jhansi ki Rani in Hindi, click here.

Rani Lakshmi Bai, Queen of Jhansi
Fought Hugh Rose at three and twenty
Riding with women trained for the attack
Slain, alas, by a dagger to her back!

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100% Blank

In Response to "100% ----" prompt at Poetic Asides

Harsh April tropical Sun
Shining search lights through eyes,
Turning inward, etching prosaic
reality into sharp relief, too strong for poetry.
Nope. It's no use
I turn up 100% blank,
Not blank verse, as I intended.

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NaPoWriMo - 2012

Last year I joined an interesting poetry writing movement, called NaPoWriMo, where the goal was to write a poem a day during the month of April. It seemed like a good way to get back in touch with writing. Creative writing was the easiest thing for me, back at school. And I started by writing poetry. Mostly stuff that rhymed. Things that, on retrospect, seem rather self conscious about rhyming. Then completely out of the blue, I wrote one that did not rhyme and had no conscious pattern. For some reason it had to be the way I wrote it. Since then, I mostly only write free verse whenever I write poetry. Here are the poems I wrote last year, for NaPoWriMo. Here are some of the other bits of creative writing that I have done over the years: Humour/Humor, Fiction and just random stuff. I must say I am better with prose than poetry.

This year, I have signed up again at the NaPoWriMo site here.
Not sure how much I can do this year, because I will be busy dealing with some of life's toughies for the month of April. But who knows, may be poem-ing will be just what the doctor ordered to de-stress. Or may be not.

So here goes nothing....

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The Black Cat

Writers' island prompt on superstition.

The Black Cat

Silky soft and inking death
on folds of a witch's skirt.

Harbinger of evil,

yellow eyes flashing
premonition of doom.
Stop and turn back
When he crosses your path,
Lest you lose the gamble of life.

Black satin ribbons
criss-crossing the land
Harbinger of yellow
flashing eyes
roaring down, spelling death.
Stay off the black ribbons!
I lost my brother to it,
crossing the black ribbon.
He wasn't black,
they didn't stop.

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Beggar Man -- Revisited

The Story of the Post: The original poem was written in 1991. Following a Big Tent prompt, I revised it. The original is here.

The Beggar Man -- Revisited

The dusty road meandered

past old worn out, dried trees.

An empty tin can rattled;

the only coin in it seeking company,

like any other lost soul.

Lost in the darkness of a void.

A void so unfathomable and frightening.

A pair of feet passed by.

He sat there, still,

very still;

the wizened old man with

pain dulled eyes

staring unseeingly into

little clouds of dust raised by feet.

Feet scurrying to and from 

Infinity.

The tin can picked up courage,

voiced its complaint.

Still more feet.

Denser cloud.

Courage turned to boldness.

Drawing forth a louder protest

from the very core of its essence.

The listless eyes in the wrinkled face,

focused with difficulty on the legs.

Legs busy.

Legs uncaring.

Legs unfeeling.

The can now pleaded.

Pleaded piteously.

The man's voice reinforced the plea.

Not with a word,

Not with a cry -

but a mere, almost inaudible grunt.

Old worn out hands

Shaded the now pleading eyes,

as the upturned face caught the full

wrath of the morning sun.

Feet. More feet.

Now rushing, almost at a run.

One trod on his stick.

From somewhere above a

hurriedly flung apology

was lost in the crowd's hurry

and the man's senile reflex.

The tin cried now. Openly.

Feet flew past.

Clouds thickened.

The eyes blinked.

And then it all subsided.

The final cry, waning slowly

into a small "clink".

Then...

Silence.

The clouds settled.

No more feet.

A whimper from the disappointed throat.

The eyes again unfocused.

The dusty road meandered

past old, worn out,

exhausted trees.

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Letting Go - NaPoWriMo 13

Today's prompt at the Poetic Asides is to write a "quit doing what I am doing" poem. As usual, I will also be posting this at Writers Island.

Letting Go

I need to let go,

unclench my fingers

clinging on to the exposed

under-roots on the river bank.

I need to drift like

a bright yellow leaf 

and explore the curves 

and dips of the stream

I need to bounce off 

of the boulders,

rub shoulders with flotsam 

and negotiate bits of

left over debris from 

old broken boats

I need to feel the sun

on my face, to battle 

the rain that tries to drown me.

I need to quit holding on 

to the tail ends of old 

experiences. 

I need to take the plunge.

I need to live again.

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Only One -- NaPoWriMo 12

This was inspired by today's prompt at Poetic Asides to write a poem about "The Only One.." I have four only ones and here is a tribute to them. For more on these lives in my life, you can go here, here and here. I will also be posting this poem at Writers Island.

Only One

The Lady of the House

Only you can square your shoulders,
step bravely in front of me,
defending me from the threat that
I haven't the sense to perceive
and yet
nervously circumnavigate
the harmless manhole covers on the street!

Only you can give me
the "Make Me!" look
when I call you in too early
and yet
unbidden, sidle up to me,
matching my stride pace-for-pace
through unfamiliar woods.

Only you can splatter rain puddles
and snow melt, studying the

Lord & Master, Resident Hydrologist

flitting patterns of sunlight
for hours on end
and yet
act like it's bloody murder when I try
to wipe you down with a damp cloth!

Only you can wake me
in the dead of night
insistent that I feed you,
right this instant
and yet
forget hunger for hours
teaching me to play with a string!

Only you can make me shudder with
every thunder, making me wonder

Class Clown and 'fraidy Cat! Look I can sit on people!

if you are safe and not fearful
and yet,
saunter up and down
a steep, slick, rain washed cliff
like it were nothing!

Only you can try to melt me
with your eyes, trying to pour
your essence into me,
so I can take you everywhere I go
and yet
can't stand the heat of my closeness
when you know I am not leaving!

Only you can be unfazed by
cancer and surgery and the

I have to go out and meditate!

ensuing limp
and yet
need an emergency medical visit
in the middle of a raging blizzard
because I would not let you out
on a bone chilling winter's day!

Only you can be trained
to sleep with your head on my arm,
body parallel to mine, like a human child
and yet
refuse to learn your own name!

Only you four!
Only you can love me the way you do
Wordlessly, but in a thousand languages!

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You Intoxicate Me --- NaPoWriMo 11

This is in response to the Two for Tuesday prompt at Poetic Asides. The challenge is to write a love poem and an anti-love poem. This is the love poem. I will also post this at Writer's Island.

You Intoxicate Me! (The Love Poem)

I did not ask to love you.

I was just lounging around in the grass

Living my everyday life,

When your scent wafted in,

Extremely intoxicating.

Like a vampire at the scent of a human 

I gravitate towards you

Obeying some unknown dictat of my cells

You intoxicate me and I sink my tooth

Into your juicy foot.

You shriek in horror and

Wrench me away with a pair of tweezers.

You do not believe in inter-species love.

I am just a lowly arachnid to you!

To you, I am just a tick!

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Doing Laundry -- NaPoWriMo 10

My second attempt at doing the WD Poetic Form Challenge at Poetic Asides. My first attempt is here. This is also a response to the prompt at We Write Poems on writing a poem beginning with the line "I do my laundry..", which I modified slightly. This time I used this site to count my syllables. 

Doing my Laundry

I'll do my laundry when I'm good'n ready.

Really, whenever else would it be?

You didn't think I'd be doing laundry

When I could spend time at the library,

Spinning this yarn with lines that barely rhyme

About my poetry and my laundry time?

You actually think I'd do my wash
when everything is in sunlight awash?

Ha! Amazing! Really, now? Nice try!
I'll do laundry when pigs begin to fly!

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Message in a Bottle -- NaPoWriMo 9

In response to the prompt du jour at Poetic Asides. I have added links to some of the potentially more obscure news stories.

Message in a Bottle

Hello Wayfarer!

Pick me up. Uncork me.

Put my mouth to your ear and hear

As I whisper stories from far and near,

Of how I rode the waves that rose over ten stories high

And came crashing down on a city nearby.

Of how oil gushed out of the ocean bed, 

following greed and leaving destruction in its tread.

Of men that took hostages of ships on the seas, 

to wage wars that brought countries to their knees.

Wait! 

Before you throw me away in disgust

Hear also of these, that may restore your trust

Of a people who still valiantly persevere
Through an almighty economic mire.
Of a people who fought for their right
overthrowing a man of awful might.
Of ordinary people that work each day
to help in their own small way.
And so before you leave the shores of this ocean
would you please drop me in the recycling bin?

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ad nauseam -- NaPoWriMo 8

This is in response to the Big Tent Poetry prompt for this week -- a poem about repeating myself. The third stanza was inspired by the Wiki article on immiscible metals. This also works for the Poetic Asides prompt "Like (blank)".

ad nauseam
OR
Like Water on Lotus Leaves

Like water on lotus leaves,
my voice curls up and rolls off the surface of your ears.
Walls swallow up my refrain, imbibing the hurt silently,
The hollowness inside echoes in the foundations.

Like liquid mercury,
my words roll off you and disappear forever.
Too insubstantial for your attention or your grasp.
The poison invades the insides of our world.

Like immiscible metals, we cannot alloy.
We freeze and separate into layers.

How many more times, before I am finally heard?
How much worse, before it gets better?

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Freedom in a box -- NaPoWriMo 7

This is in response to the WD Poetic Form Big 10 Challenge (write a poem of 10 lines with 10 syllables per line) posted at Poetic Asides. I think this poem will also work for the first prompt at Big Tent Poetry for the week. The poem describes what's going on with me this month work-wise. I tried to use words that normally imply freedom (like anything to do with motion, speed etc) to go with a sense of being trapped and words that are normally used to show restraint (ten by ten box) to imply freedom. Do let me know if this works.


EDIT: This poem has been modified, because the original did not always have 10 syllables per line. Thanks to vivinfrance for pointing this out. I used Syllable Counter to count syllables this time instead of the other program which did not work well. I don't necessarily like the way this new one sounds, but I guess I will get back to it another time.

Freedom in a Box

Deliverables! Deliverables!

Flying through deliverables, deadlines!

Relentless shooting at moving targets

Fast foods, frayed nerves, febrile activity

Racing against time's unstoppable march
Willpower playing hide and seek against,
well, you know, will-not-power! While I ? I...
From soaring tempers and rising pressure,
I seek refuge on the Internet and find

Freedom in this ten by ten box of syllables!

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Monsoon Rains -- NaPoWRiMo 6

This poem was written to one of Big Tent Poetry's prompt of the week. This is my ode to Monsoon Rains. This poem also works for the 29th prompt at Poetic Asides.

                                                    

Photo from: http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/gallery/2008/sep/09/1?picture=337451501

Monsoon Rains

The breeze brings in the scent of freshly quenched, far away Earth, 
a promise echoed in the dark gray clouds on blue-violet skies.
Diamonds ripped from their silver-gold setting
flung at the feet of the Earth,
crowning her with a thousand tiaras.

The Earth drinks to her heart's content,
healing her chapped brown skin.
The wind lashes at the lanky palms.
The ocean churns herself into a frenzy,
upturned umbrellas whip up to the heavens,
released in hasty, unintentional thank-yous.

Gaggles of giddy school girls giggle in unison,
shivering in their drenched skins.
School bags become makeshift umbrellas.
The whole world is an impressionist's canvas!
The Monsoon sings her song,
cascading in melodic destruction.

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3:00 AM -- NaPoWriMo # 5

This is in response to two prompts. One from Poetic Asides to write about a time in the day and the other to write about writing a poem. Unfortunately I can't seem to find the place where I found the second prompt! If anyone knows, please do leave a comment, so I can properly thank the prompter! This poem describes the creative process as it once was to me!

NaPoWriMo 5 --- 3:00AM

It's 3:00 AM and I am wide awake
Listening to the loud rumblings in my head
The wispy word clouds of the day listlessly buffeted
around by the winds of the conscious mind
have bided their time
and using the stillness of the night
have formed dark, heavy nimbus clouds
ready to pour their bounty out.

Circling around each other,
Dragging their oppressive weight.
Electrically charged synapses,
Snapping and crackling at each other.
Shallow-breathed and bunched up shoulders, I wait for it.

First a bright flash
Illuminating every corner of the mind.
Then the thunderclap
And then the sheets and sheets of rain
The fragrance of freshly drenched Earth
Wafts up, releasing a misty warmth.
The parched Earth is quenched
The page is written.

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What if? -- NaPoWriMo #4

This one was triggered by today's prompt at Poetic Asides: What if?

What if?

What if? What if? What if?
What if this or What if that.
What if up or What if down.
As Frost once said, it's just a road not taken.
What is, is. What if, is just a mirage
Which may or may not be;
Or may or may not have been.

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Requiem to my Lost Creativity -- NaPoWriMo #3

My third poem of the month for NaPoWriMo. In response to the prompt "something that no longer exists" at Big Tent Poetry.

 Requiem to my Lost Creativity

Oh! But would that I were able to write as I used to!
I search the cobwebby corners of my cranium
For that first elusive word that will set the ball rolling,
Call others forth in a gush of poetry.
Nothing.

I stare out the window at the not-yet-dawn sky
One word. One phrase; is all I ask.
One ray of sunshine to cut through the fog.
Still nothing.

Then gratingly, grudgingly
A few words make it out.
And arrange themselves reluctantly on the screen,
Rust still visible around the edges,
Their ragged ends snagging bits of memory and verse.

My requiem to my lost creativity.
An ode to my adult life's obligations
Here -- my poem du jour for NaPoWriMo.

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Spring is here! Spring is here! -- NaPoWRiMo 2

This is my second poem for the NaPoWriMo. I will also be linking it to Writer's Island.

Spring is Here! Spring is Here!

The woodchuck in the yard and the foraging deer, 

The sunny daffodils and the blue hyacinth spear,

The yellow forsythia bushes, shouting loud and clear 

Proclaim this to me: spring is near, spring is near.   

The gold and the green and the red fuzz on trees

The tell tale scent of magnolias in the breeze

The throbbing greens under the dry-brown leaves

Proclaim to me: spring is near, spring is near.

But what leaves me in no doubt, makes me absolutely sure,

Is the pounding in my sinus and the clicking in my ear!

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All for the Want of a Little Afternoon Breeze

Story of the Post: This poem is in response to the weekly prompt on (broken window) at Big Tent Poetry as well as an attempt to join the National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) craze, which I just stumbled upon. So, I am going to see if I can actually come up with a poem a day for the rest of April.


The event described in the poem actually happened.  I tried to write this along the lines of the nursery rhyme "All for the want of a horseshoe nail", because, well, the whole event seems a little silly. Like a nursery rhyme.

All for the Want of a Little Afternoon Breeze

For the want of a breeze, the A/C was turned on
With the A/C on, the windows needed shutting
To shut the sticky windows, a wooden rod was used
To use the wooden rod, I leaned over bushes
I slipped.
The rod rammed.
Crash.
The window was lost.
And all for the want of a little afternoon breeze.

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The Wait -- A very, very short story

The story of the post: This is a story I wrote when I was in 12th grade. It was when terrorism in Punjab was headlining most news papers. Six years later, I submitted this story to a competition where it won the first place! Although the context is old, unfortunately, it is still relevant. (BTW, I do not think 35 is middle aged any more! :)

The Wait

She was sitting there, in front of the idiot box, all senses fine-tuned, her eyes sunken with worry and anxiety writ deep on her face. She looked middle aged, 35 one might say. Far from it. She must have been at least ten years younger. Endless worries had blotted out the melted gold of the sunshine forever from her sight.

Ramya was her name and it suited her well, until some one year back when her brother was transferred to Punjab.