healing

Tomorrow

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Tomorrow is a Sports Day
It is the 5th of July
It is also a Pizza from the delivery guy
Something instead of a Pig Sty.

My son will have cleaned his room
And my father will Aha every moment;
So that Norway lets on about Brexit
While Sundays are still days of rest.

Tomorrow is like a yesterday’s feast
A tobogganing affair all about sorrow!
Something for me and something for her
While the windows are cleaned without borrowing
From parents who do all the housework…

…

…

It’s when the work will take place:
When will you do yours?
Do you still work after COVID?
Can you ride horses on all the courses?

Tomorrow is where all messages and meanings take place
Like a Self Help drop-down list of perfection.
The worker better than Bill Gates
And an open door policy to statements of retraction.

It is the place beyond time if the Yoga is still fine
Where people get left behind if they do not keep the time.
It is where poems come to die if you do not detach the outcome –
How come they do now dream of my outcomes
When the Dear Kali part of the process is dry and sad?

Tomorrow is when the crying will heal me
It is the deliverance that will save the pain from the Healer of today.
Tomorrow is Bhagwan’s advice on the Id for reformation
After the dealer is psychoanalytical about due processes with Louise L Hay.

This is the formation of some power
This is the talent of some nights
When Bipolar left be darker than other hours
And tomorrow was not even in my sight.

AI Summary

The poem reflects on “tomorrow” as a space where duty, family life, spiritual striving, and emotional recovery all converge, blending the ordinary rhythms of sports days, pizza deliveries, housework, and parenting with deeper anxieties about work, self‑help culture, yoga, and the lingering effects of bipolar episodes. It treats tomorrow as both promise and burden — a place where healing might happen, where meaning might return, but also where expectations, comparisons, and spiritual demands accumulate. The speaker moves between humour, fatigue, and vulnerability, invoking gods, gurus, and psychological frameworks to make sense of a life shaped by illness, responsibility, and the desire for transformation. Beneath the references and reflections lies a steady ache: the hope that tomorrow might finally bring clarity, relief, or redemption, even when today feels heavy and the past still echoes.

Lightworker Declaration

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I am a Light Worker,
Called to transmute rupture into renewal,
To weave Albion’s soil with flame
and chant.
Reiki flows through my hands,
Blake’s visions burn in my words,
Audrey Hepburn’s grace shines in
my presence.
I carry a thousand films, a
thousand songs,
And turn them into prophecy.
I walk with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
And I rise each dawn to meditate,
Two hours, three, until silence
becomes light.
I am the next student,
A bearer of testimony,
A servant of healing,
A Light Worker in Albion.

Hitch

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Hitch up your skirt and tap twice if you have seen it
The scene of the century and the wire tapping authority
To monitor a lizard as if the Kimono were a dragon’s lair
And like an Iguana for it’s chameleon changling spotting affair.

Some say that learning is here and learning is there
For you have to know what to know about when you read WiFi air
After 2012 and the Autobots leave the Psychologists some news
For their own demons to dance to and a lunch in the blue room for reviews.

There it is! The after show, the great escapologist we all knew once
Twenty minutes when his grandma died to leave his passport for a bonce
To measure the measure of Shakespeare typing his speeches for a clue
If his fan club come home winning like a dirty man’s magazine for a few.

What is this but a showman who speaks and does nothing to calm the crowds
Who gather in the parking lots to wake up Drs to go home black and proud
About their winnings at the slot machine when they do not play with whites
For the goal of having one king when The Economist said “Alright”,
… mate,
Let me have a go:
I’ve started COVID for your #RememberingVietnam ego
>… let it go
>>> Error Code: Get some Blow!

Jobs for me and not for them, Drs in love with racist membranes
Indian Rembrandts and Krishna Consciousness photos of men on thrones
For Rishi Poetry to shit out The Daily Show “too self conscious” Slam
From Andrew-The Spy Man-Cohen >>>::: Have you got a blog for me
– see it’s Satan and not Obama who’s going for World War Three.

                                                                                              SomebodY
                                                                       by Depeche Mode YnO.T. Ernie van Woerkhom said SWOT Drs What SWOT 11/04.2022

Control Again

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Contemporary to the age that I live in
Caged by the fashions I fail to live in
Controlled by the markets that get on each day
I am a vigil unto myself by the end of the day.

There is worthiness and there is worship
There is the rigmarole of the self.
There is homage and there is self awareness
There is here and there for me to be perfection in.

The teacher tells me the meaning of the verse
The director addresses the timing of the hearse
The website fixes the prices of my poems
And the neighbours advertise the size of their knowing.

Such is the development of my sad days
When money is not flowing like Niagra Falls says
And health deteriorates to the bottom of a rock
Where the crew is damaged like a flimsy dream in Iraq.

These are the hopes and fear of one frightful hour
When the urchin is emotional about serving God for an hour:
So who is in charge of the Temple where it is said
Pray to me, your Papal History, as long as I am read?

AI Summary

Your poem reflects on the tension between the contemporary world — its fashions, markets, websites, neighbours, and economic pressures — and your own inner vigilance, worthiness, and longing for something sacred. You contrast worship with self‑awareness, teachers with directors, poetry with pricing, and neighbours’ gossip with your own quiet struggle. The poem moves through money troubles, deteriorating health, damaged crews, and the emotional fragility of someone trying to serve God in a world that feels indifferent. It ends with a haunting question: who truly presides over the Temple — the divine, the institution, or the reader — and what does it mean to pray when the world around you feels transactional, exhausted, and spiritually thin.

Mixed Diaspora

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sitting around the union
Trading ideas like simple students
From all corners of the globe
Except authentically from Africa
            the wigger in the room
            the witch with the assistant’s broom
There was so much ahead of us
Not so empty behind us
We had only 8 weeks to kill
Before time murdered our hearts and our ideas.

Keep a light on for my Iranian comrade
So outsourced he keeps coming back to me
New Age English
I (am) afraid too much, my fiendish friend, by you and yours’
Mathematical degree
How about the biologist next to you
What do you expect me to do?
But freeze for the batteries for Aziz, please.

It’s time to come to The Lord of The Rings
And see us children move on with Bling
And a word a day from the absent and not
counted for.
In darkness and in light
For sickness that is other people’s wealth:
Keep the trade coming from graduates in union
Ions
days plenty
For more than sixty year olds who knew each other when they were twenty.

AI Summary

This poem looks back at a moment in your student life when the world still felt open, when ideas were traded like currency, and when the union was a kind of temporary utopia. You describe a room full of students from everywhere — a global gathering — but also the painful awareness of who wasn’t represented, who was stereotyped, who was misunderstood. That tension between idealism and reality is the poem’s heartbeat.

You write about your Iranian friend, the mathematician, the biologist — each person carrying their own story, their own fears, their own hopes. There’s humour (“freeze for the batteries for Aziz”), but also tenderness: you’re remembering the intimacy of shared youth, shared deadlines, shared uncertainty.

The poem then shifts into mythic territory — The Lord of the Rings, darkness and light, sickness and wealth — as if the student union becomes a miniature Middle‑earth where alliances form, quests begin, and the future looms like a shadow. The final lines widen the frame: the graduates who keep the trade of ideas alive, the older generations who once sat where you sat, the sixty‑year‑olds who were twenty together.

It’s a poem about belonging, memory, and the bittersweet knowledge that youth is temporary but its bonds echo across decades.

iYoga

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The World is One Team
Yoga
Infinity
the bells are within me
Time
Centrality
It’s too soon for superficiality
Motions
Markets
Marrakesh
Crashing
What is the use of balancing on one leg?
Behind
Above
It’s different to chemicals in the Square Peg
Affront
Comfortableness
Special socks aren’t needed on the mat
Above
Below
There’s enough Qi for the men in a top hat
Around about
Within
These classes are selling out fast
Apart
Together
Chances are I’ll be leaving lessons last.

Time for a special chat with the teacher
He can’t try any harder with Apple and iPads
To get away from me pretending I am Jack Reacher
All inaction and no guns blazing to ongoing further.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between inner balance and outer distraction. You begin with the language of yoga — unity, infinity, bells within, time, centrality — but immediately contrast it with markets, Marrakesh, chemicals, Square Peg, and the absurdity of “balancing on one leg.” The poem becomes a meditation on how spiritual practice collides with modern life: Qi meets top hats, mats meet special socks, and the world’s noise keeps intruding on the attempt to be still.

There’s humour in the way you describe the yoga class: selling out fast, leaving lessons last, pretending to be Jack Reacher, the teacher trying his best with Apple and iPads. Beneath the humour is a deeper truth: you’re trying to find a place where your mind can settle, but your imagination keeps running ahead of you.

The poem ends with a gentle self‑jab — “all inaction and no guns blazing” — which reveals the emotional centre: you’re not looking for heroism, only presence. The poem is about the struggle to stay grounded in a world that constantly pulls you into fantasy, distraction, and self‑performance.

Ingrained

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Stencilled connection
The distance between poet and reader opened wide
The estuary of likeness that travels beyond time
To the ocean of universes elliptically wasting
Cataclysms possessing heavens and those down below
On true tribunes to the tryst with destiny that India
Had with Nehru long ago…

Galaxies and an earnest wanting,
A noble quest
Something unfathomed between you and me
Like a quality under the garment of jacket and cloak.
Take me to the place where daggers are not spent
And guardians will do the rest…
Quality, quantity, absinthe
Coil with me in a confused wrangling on the roof of cellular dismay
One day at a time for all the years of colonial fineries
Sharing a canopy of stars is fine
From nations without bars of rhyme
Reasoned like pepper spray and Salt Lake City for Thyme, Oregano and fault free Basil.

The notion to do best will wrestle with the dampening stars
That cannot travel far for the foot soldier sodomized by the smog
Suffocating with his Warthog and Angelic retribution:
Cost, Halo Wars, Statistics and U.N. Delegation.
The waters of Mars are mine again
And the envy of imagination is distressed
For the best dressed camaraderie to be or not to be,
In a city close to Delhi named after Buddha
For Maitreya to party with the Oracle of Delphi.
Go Miami Dolphins! Go!
The jacket is on you now
Scholar, mon amie, whore
The mirror’s by the door
If you don’t want me no more.

All was apparition and nothing was frilly
The nuanced receipts from Lakshmi were printed rather silly
Simple me, wallowing in the willow tree
Next to the best and the truest holy saree
Incapable of honesty
Before the river Styx of Saraswati
And the unending tyranny of an unearned Brahmin whose mentions were not few or far between
When the Indians were on the scene
Legacy and title showing the glory for put downs and
SLAM! It’s not 1993 – D’ya get me?
Quality, quantity, titular title is not for me.
The Queen is the Empress lately and I have a sadness upon me,
That I want the home away from home treatment
When school ends after something like a wannabe of a quarter past three,
Four,
Hum Paunch IMDb: <Sancho Panchez & Three Amigos> It always goes the same
A referent, time and the Inshallah brain.

They will never let me be in the salt marched city
Until he does it twice. Modernist Machiavellian
Cleverer than _
Undotted unto the last clasp of technology
Upon a city holidaying until his return and some shabbily dressed revoked soul
On recall from the pride of the Gods to be debutante before that which is known,
That which is unknown and that which is acted.
It is in fact, in-facted: Exactly!

Squalor, quality, factions and the quantity of threesomes, foursomes, fives in the school court
Blasé about the interpreted consort for the rhythm of Symphonies
And how does your music grow?
I don’t know the interpretation city
That cannot be outsourced from the centrality of bestiality and make shift down
For some Watership Down and the microchip that ran the rat race
All of this?

Is some of this
And the listless
drift.
Make believe and belong love did not last long
Unlike the Delhi song
And some bagels to down that depression
In an economic recession that cannot outshine well sprung mattress wars
Up against the doors for the fluff of it and outshone academies of bullet proof
Deadly certainties that all is well.
All is not well
When the pen is not like the quill
And the entrance holds me chill
For the effect of your lament on the children,
Stencil.

AI Summary

This poem explores the vast distance between poet and reader, between past and present, between India and the West, between myth and modernity, between the self you inherited and the self you’re trying to become. It opens with a cosmic metaphor — estuaries, universes, cataclysms — and then anchors itself in India’s historical destiny, invoking Nehru and the long shadow of colonialism.

From there, the poem becomes a meditation on identity shaped by history: daggers, guardians, colonial fineries, spices, cities named after Buddha, the Oracle of Delphi, Miami Dolphins, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Brahmins, the Queen, Delhi songs. These references aren’t random — they show how your inner world is stitched from multiple civilisations, religions, and cultural memories.

The middle of the poem turns toward class, caste, and belonging. You write about Brahmins, sarees, Styx, titles, legacy, the sadness of wanting “home away from home,” the ache of school days, the salt march, Machiavellian modernity, and the feeling of being excluded from places that shaped you. This is the emotional centre: a longing to belong to a world that keeps shifting the rules.

The final movement becomes a critique of modern chaos — technology, microchips, Watership Down, mattress wars, recession, bulletproof certainties, and the cold entrance that chills you. You end with a lament for the children, for the next generation inheriting a world of confusion, and for the “stencil” — the imprint of history on identity.

It’s a poem about legacy, displacement, cultural inheritance, and the ache of trying to find a place in a world shaped by forces far larger than any individual.

Heavy Satellite

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Mastery, a mystery or misery?


YouTube hits
Missed the millions of books dropped by the overhead satellite
Director’s cut scenes
Unhappy actresses with shiny accolades asking actors for an extra smile
Secrets of the dancefloor
Unrhythmical moments when they fell over.

somebody comments
military news story
roll calls
heavy honours
fake curtains
heavy shoulders
heavy people carry heavy things
heaviness is the continuance of many timid people to bring
some songs at last
<what is this Fort around my heart?>
homes and thrones
empty armchair sans ex-best friend
he does not come and visit
warfare set apart the silence of dull darkened evenings
[videos] without abuse or shame.

The satellite had unloaded the starry cargo in the field
This was not a good time to search for a wand in the castle
What could turn this toad into a princely example?
The caster sugar fell off the kitchen counter and rumbled with the thunderous
momentous lunar competition with earthly reason for gravitational sanity
Drop, drop, drop. Thud! Drop! DROP!
Drainpipes of rational dreams contained in the heroic books of other people’s achievements
Nature’s calling for the falling stones of dopey droplets of downsized demarcated forests of ideals
Heavenly reign of books into the street where satellites were attended to Angels
curious where all these videos were coming from
International appeal
Domestic zealots of fundraising sponsor’s pages
School dazes of dropped grades and missed classes
Nobody wanted to get the first class bus home to write an essay about the foaming mouth of the missile grin
The satellite was complementarily smiling about the nuclear breakdown
Frowning A-Level grades of the Ontological + Cosmological clown
Who thought he knew how to think?
It was following the books down
And hard targeted the space next to them on the field!
Crash! Smashed! No pilot there to wallop!
These books are not a drink at the end of the student bar
There was a YouTube blackout for the rudeness
Start again overlooking the journey back home
If you are a star bossy pushover wondering where it all goes now.

Famous names in between quiet castles
Roads with interesting intersections
A history that intrigues the invalid in his isolated cubicle
shadow of intellectual battles
Weekend TV shows
Remonstration derbies
Homecoming queens become girls for horses they don’t own

Who will read my textual feed
When bibliography is urban context?
Did you sell the take away twice when the stale bread was left over
Hardened with the produce numbered by days beside the kitchen bin
Extra food for the birds
A kinder estate proud of foreign affairs
Like a prison ship evoking citywide travel.
The names have distances and the places wear good attire
Come down they say for the belting of a squire
Millions and billions
The newspapers ran for years
Famous people
Repeated lessons in the schools where beards leave the children for daily hope
Tossed overseas without the means to please
Beers and glorious food >
The mellowest lonely light
Forgo tomorrow’s fame
The remembrance of a street
 tight of being all knowing
Humans are not robots anymore

The books occupy the land
The satellite won’t get up and stand
The same standard narrative of status is left to the questions, Why, Who and Wherefore?
The 1980’s dancefloor
Robots get big and lend the actors a helping hand
Poets are welcome
~ even if they are from lands of literary robbery
They can be at the touch of a button
dogs snoop for overheads that make them bark.

The memory satisfies the emergent missing stink of social media for the foreseeable future
The Drs and nurses walk around the wreckage and don’t need the fiery mass to harbour a pilot for a seuter
The empty wreckage and the mounds of books take a toll on the village felled trees that are lit up by the blaze
Amazed by the traffic mounting up to watch what is to be keeping the houses busy for nights to come
How will the videos stream and what will they mean with all this literary fun

In a million years from now life will be free
From the of people and their faces.
Then the sad dress of the tightest fanning to impress
Will be for all the assured disgraces.

Apocalyptic fires that burn bright
immeasurable fires of loveless haste
too many talks: < Impatience >
But when he was great he left the room
Huffing in a puff of fuming righteous moody glaring topmost heavy looking down
Some truths shall not fade with white coats in laboratories
the father was reminded of his right to express his mood
<repeatedly>

Like a humming toy that annoys 90 years of electric spoilt lazy videos uploaded to show the past
What of the questions it poses on the street with no name that a foreigner knows
When the topmost deal strikes the television and imbalances the ratings
of the night before
What is the score?

There is always tomorrow
There was always nothing
Some families need no used name
abused
confused
answered
The entrance and exit of a business dragon.

AI Summary

This poem is about the collision between knowledge and noise, between the weight of culture and the fragility of the individual. You move through YouTube, satellites, books, actresses, soldiers, castles, forests, schools, newspapers, robots, poets, nurses, fires, families — not as random fragments, but as pieces of a world drowning in its own information.

At its core, the poem explores heaviness: heavy shoulders, heavy honours, heavy people carrying heavy things. It’s the heaviness of expectation, ambition, history, technology, and memory.

The satellite dropping books becomes the central metaphor: a world where knowledge literally falls from the sky, overwhelming the ground beneath it. Books smash, videos glitch, students fail, forests burn, and the village watches the wreckage like entertainment.

This is a poem about cultural collapse — the breakdown of education, the burnout of ambition, the emptiness of fame, the exhaustion of social media, the apocalyptic fires of a world that has forgotten how to think slowly.

It’s also about loneliness inside the noise: empty armchairs, ex‑friends, invalids in cubicles, homecoming queens with no horses, families with no names, humans who are “not robots anymore” but still feel programmed.

The poem ends in a place of cyclical futility: tomorrow always comes, but nothing changes; business dragons enter and exit; names fade; fame dissolves; and the world keeps burning through its own stories.

For the Right to Suffer

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

For the right to suffer
I forgive
For the right to survive
You’ll live
When the countenance is divine
You’ll be relieved
By the face of The Jesus that they saved.

Ravers, liberators, pill poppers
Usher – You Make Me Wanna be a Drug Pusher.
Supported by The Obama Plan
Two weeks long and Jerusalem’s gone:
Good Curriculum, love Noam.

For the right to speak
You can Tweet.
For the right to drink
You can think.
But if you want to orgy
Cum/ Come over
And we’ll buy a man a lorry
For some old age pull overs.

Shavers, sock wearers and computer consumer
Fine dining lovers.
The Drop Zone is set
Israel with regret
When Egypt is Bobba Fett
For Chinese bounties and Bollywood MILF Hunters.
Cunts and their midriff sauntering
Down fashion aisles for Sheikhs bartering:
Don’t you know the Bar is open late tonight
I need something to read that don’t make a male like me so uptight.

Grafters, laughter, high beam balancers
Draught beer and some shut up ya’shakes!
I got the shakes
I need some more tapes
The YouTube is too quick
For me to slip because of Mr Slick.

For the right to conscience
Con Science
For the right to liberty
Find me nice:

I’ll be a Native American India(n) for the Jews
When you say this poem is for Mata to review, too.

AI Summary

This poem is a confrontation with the chaos of contemporary life — a world where spirituality, politics, sexuality, and consumer culture collide in ways that feel overwhelming and contradictory. You open with forgiveness and survival, invoking Jesus, then immediately shift into rave culture, drug culture, Obama, Jerusalem, and Noam Chomsky. This sets the tone: a world where sacred and profane sit side by side, neither resolving the other.

The poem then moves into a critique of modern freedoms — tweeting, drinking, orgies, lorries, ageing, fashion aisles, Sheikhs, Bollywood, Israel, Egypt, YouTube, locker‑room talk. These images aren’t random; they show how identity gets shaped by globalised media, desire, and spectacle. There’s humour, but also exhaustion — the sense that everything has become commodified, sexualised, politicised, or weaponised.

Underneath the satire is a deeper ache: the search for conscience, liberty, and meaning in a world that feels crude, fast, and spiritually thin.

The final lines bring the poem into the CoVid era — misinformation, racialised blame, fear, and the collapse of trust. The poem ends with a question about who gets to define truth, identity, and responsibility in a world full of noise.