poems

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock
The Warlock is all too cheaply brewed.

The aspect is truly wonderful,
But the nastiness signs the show.
Heaving is the buxom, rash ashes and crucibles
Havana for [                ], against the strain
Of a percentile.

That reptiles don’t claim.
A climbing frame is sought
An abacus is bought
The wielding of a sword is salacious
If Guinevere is Calvary for Lance’s hiatus.
Malory wasn’t malign,
Gawain wasn’t fined,

Computer time: The serpent winds
Wands in the Wood.
Women that could.
One day, few will own the many…
A lady seen today is conspicuous
Individual realms non-dueling
The gold prospecting
Aspects of dancing
Today is a day to celebrate
Next year we need to excel.

If a girl could do well
Shanti would read.
Saraswati delivers a letter
A liver seeks a lover for and water,

Rivets in Navratri,
Nine times she is denied with Indian daughters.
The Hills Have TMZ
Eyeshadow
Mascara
Black boasts of Kali clones
Sweating this small stuff: Rudra with paint.

Nature is quaint to know the bones of Alas! I knew him.
Be well with Yorrick
(Was?) the free house of Hindustan, ‘47 @ 1851
Origin:
The great McBride Mahabharata
But not for me.

AI Summary

It’s a poem where medieval romance, Indian divinity, celebrity culture, and personal disillusionment collide — Guinevere and Gawain sit beside Kali clones, Navratri refusals, TMZ, Havana smoke, and the ghost of Yorick. The speaker moves through swords, serpents, wands, daughters, dancers, and post‑colonial echoes, exposing how myth and modernity both fail to offer a clean destiny. It becomes a portrait of someone standing between epics — Arthurian, Indian, cinematic — and realising that none of them quite claim him.

Riddle Me This

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Riddle me this, riddle me that
What is the poetry, of a pious little twat?
Safe in his house, and not crushed on a cross
By 3 Nails.

Who is the third that walks beside a narcissist?

What have you done to the Gospels’ account?
Did you dish the book out?
Are your Marxist leanings weaning?
Is you a capitalist with the strength of a black fist?
Can you dance like a Punjabi with swords in Penzance?

I am a music man, I come from Pakistan…
And it isn’t droned. Drone?
The Dronacharya.
Acharya.
Acharya…
.. E. I. … Ooolo Ka Patha!

The finery,
The Winery.
Slimer’s ‘Ghostbusters’ Slimer same and the old story.

Radio and the new wave.  
The subtle things that ‘God’ does not know.

AI Summary

It’s a poem that fires questions like darts at religion, politics, identity, and performance — mocking piety, interrogating power, and mixing scripture with satire, diaspora humour, and pop‑culture ghosts. The speaker ricochets from Gospels to Marxism, from Punjabi sword‑dancing to Ghostbusters slime, exposing how belief, culture, and ego all collapse into one chaotic riddle. It becomes a portrait of someone using wit and provocation to peel back the subtle things even “God” doesn’t know.

Midsummer Renaissance

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Poor is the morale of the visitor who eats
Porridge close besides the ridges in the Grand Canyon.
They may be in his heart,
He may have walked a lonely imagination to his home from it
But is the food worth being taken?
The talent is now in the hands of the beholder
The gold residue is apologized for
It was meant by blessed bleedin’ intent
The frogs the vision the Pharaoh.

A locus of the mind’s  eye,
A sewer rat caught on
Sing a song… as you can.
Did _ crimes of passion?
Fashion of Women of Mass Dicks.
Ask again and I’ll end the pain
[        ] the alpha and omega strain.
It’s not the same without you,
Where’s HaitiGlobalised.Com? Investment in Kali 4 Never Cajun
Cages @ California is not my home!

Now stay there.
Cages and soul.
There is no point arresting a toad
Who wanders from his hall drunken
He will not live like a sparrow on a tree branch
And thanks no-one for the noon of Midsummer Renaissance.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about someone standing at the edge of a vast inner landscape — Grand Canyon ridges, porridge bowls, Pharaohs, frogs, rats, cages — trying to measure the distance between imagination and exile. The speaker moves through visions, shame, humour, and refusal, exposing how a person can feel trapped, misrecognised, or drunkenly wandering yet still fiercely alive. It becomes a portrait of a soul that won’t be arrested or domesticated, even when the world feels like a cage.

New Day

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Ghostly shadows chase me down the alley way of my dreams
Appearing and disappearing in the fraction of a second
The half-remembered faces of undergraduate days
Self-reflection and awareness all rolled up into one.
The trembling vibration of the frequency of my brain
Mirrored in the corridors of knowing in my mind
Promises of perfection and tabletop lunches
I am undone in the failure of my forties
In the presence of such alumni and esteemed gentlemen.
When will I get a chance to succeed again?

When will it be my turn at the alter?
There cannot be so many bad days ahead of me
Lost to the unfolding fracas of frenzied want and desire
A familiar forlorn lust for more and more in the tiredness
Of my turned over plans from yesterday.
The safest place to live in regret
Where the bets are stable and the winnings are to others
Those who prophesied my downfall and saw it coming
Like the antichrist of ambition clamouring always for more.

Sure to be the second place loser in the rally of competition
And without coffee mates for dates, I am expectant of more failure
Until the rescuer comes and the infinity of the universe is known
Fortune over favour for the freshest scent of a new day.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about being haunted by the ghosts of youth — undergraduate faces, old ambitions, the perfection once imagined — and feeling the sting of mid‑life failure in their presence. The speaker moves through regret, longing, competition, and exhaustion, asking when success will return and whether the universe still holds a place for him. It becomes a portrait of someone standing at the edge of despair yet still hoping for a rescuer, a fresh scent, a new day.

Land Tract

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

There’s a secret that I share with those who come near
About a land tract and agreement with someone very dear
It is my little cat and his predatory prowling
That keeps away the foxes and all that howling.
We compartmentalise our land and take it in turns
To find a way to get about our daily grind and burns
Finding it useful to see each other’s itinerary
Safe from the dispatch box of letting off a litany
Of abuse and neglect about the way things should be
Aside from green like the garden grass and the various shrubbery
He likes his corners and keeps to his edges
I just want to fix those holes in my collective hedges.
I take time to water the plants that he tramples
And cut the lawn so sharply when he is away collecting samples
Of other people’s gardens and how they let him sleep
Until he needs his food and comes home to collect his keep.
This predator marks his land and sits on the top of the steps
Lest we ever forget to keep things the way he left them
But in the end we agree and make time for a kiss and a cuddle
Should we ever find our cohabitation turn into confusion and a muddle.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the small, sacred treaty between you and your cat — a shared territory negotiated through routines, boundaries, trampled plants, fixed hedges, and the gentle choreography of two creatures living side by side. The speaker watches this predator patrol, return, claim, and cuddle, turning an ordinary garden into a map of affection, compromise, and mutual understanding. It becomes a portrait of cohabitation as a soft, wordless pact: a land agreement written in pawprints, patience, and love.

What am I doing wrong?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Where do I err?
Flailing at the railings of my life’s swimming pool
Reaching for the safety of the security blanket covering me
What am I doing wrong?
I am too close to the divide.
Strangers in my mind unkind to the findings
Recent excursions into the deep unknown
Asking too much for the receipt of familiar consciousness
Cups of tea and the drinking of an occasional latte
What is the breaking point of my mind?
Too close to the ether, too far away from electrical vibrations
Time is like a nation of zombies awaiting my pornographic reinvention
Standing naked at my front door.
I have been here before
Forgetful of the greatness of building my character
Like stepping stones across a frozen lake in my heart
Darting across the temporal void in avoidance of one more bloody conversation
The inner journey of man
The planned intervention
The existential cartography of my soul
It seems like we all need a common goal
And mental health is the way forward for the masses
Something to join the meditation with the mediation of higher and lower worlds
The frogs of the cauldron and the skulls of the pirate ship
Something I shoot straight from the hip
As a western cowboy in the Indian deserts
Land reclamation expert number one
Ask me where I belong and I will say it is right here
Where I stand defending my hand
Leading the leaderless with a magic marker and slight of my pen
Something again and again to drum out the pacing of seconds
Minutes away from the hours we share as our blessings together
Poets in tune and in the rudeness of awakening
Settling down for some more slumber party to rejoice in.

AI Summary

It’s a portrait of a mind standing on the threshold between stability and overwhelm, trying to map its inner storms with honesty and humour. The speaker reaches for grounding—tea, memory, character—while feeling pulled toward vast symbolic, spiritual, and existential currents. It becomes a meditation on surviving intensity by naming it, tracing it, and refusing to look away.

Justify

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Justify
The wrote
Hens and chickens weren’t there
It was, however, Christmas time:
You’ll never forget a family rhyme.
Like the snowfall
That never landed on Baby Day.
The month’s TV was
An Islamic fine
The [              ] is no good game crime
How 20:20 of you to thank me
Now that the time is going blank.

Grandmother wasn’t collected at the market
She sareed herself accepting the Id of [                ],
Where have the cops been?
Concerned about her health
After family dinners.

It’s just not going to get with you,
Their lines are no good.
The old tidings that are missionaries
We’re dissenting you now that you are rude.
Aim at me, canon all around
That is the karma of a family learning things that are proud.

The east has food that the west thus accepted is the best,
So never never never
Never never never
Erm (… Newsnight?!? Paranoia- Panorama)
– put my love to the test, Ma’am

[ And we conclude USA-Stylie
‘     ‘ ]
Grand Ma’am.    

AI Summary

Your poem, in essence, is a fractured family‑memory ritual: a collage of Christmas, media paranoia, cultural misreadings and inherited shame, showing how a family’s story becomes scrambled by silence, suspicion and diaspora dissonance. It captures the way love, identity and tradition get warped by the noise around them, leaving only half‑spoken lines and unresolved symbols.

It Makes Me Look Back

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

It makes me look back
The track record of vinyl Birmingham
The lessons from school and skipped songs
Veritable fashions in rationed book cupboards
I don’t know what to see
All that music is about me
The times I listened the times I tried
Some of it even reminded me of when I cried.
TDK cassettes and a hairy CD Walkman
Items for the rarity shelf today if ever there was one
Unicorns of delight and sea nymphs of error
All sorts of enjoyment when the music was high school terror.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about looking back at your Birmingham childhood through the music and objects that shaped you — vinyl, cassettes, Walkmans, school corridors, and the emotional charge of songs that felt bigger than you were. The speaker recognises how sound became memory’s first language, the place where identity formed in private before the world had words for it. It becomes a gentle, aching portrait of adolescence as both refuge and reckoning.

Yogaville

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Wall St crash test dummies
Yoga is for yummy mummies
Balancing the towering pose
Concentrating on the tip of your nose.

Chai and obsolete oat bar allowance
Top marks for managing stomach’s gestation
Acid and mood(s) imbalance
Rolling prices, roaming charges
The first class is free for the sleazy man next to me:
Celebrity mandalas, sale of the century
Causes and effects
Stretch please, we’re British
Get yourself going at the gym
We mean you no harm
This might be the Holy Ghost v The Dharma
@BeYourself.Com
Celebrated trance, techno dance

Virtual Yogi
Personal Jesus
Stretching on the mat
Something for the 3 of us
Family is down
There are State Laws
So he impressed upon me
Shaolin Tree
City of lights
So many fights
Corporate laws
Showing my flaws
Mothers and fathers
The technology goes farther
To stretch to the valley
Of Ambe and Krishna-Ji.

Downward facing dog pose
Blow a hole through Jonah’s whale
What time to exhale?
Take some milk and cinnamon
Have a good bath
ENJOY your night’s sleep
You’re free from Kali’s wretched wrath
{Buddhas v Devis}
Modernising that which is unsure
Generations of love at your door.

The Nothing Brigade

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Scene reflected
Want defected
Hatred refracted
Lately will become de-compacted.
The original thinker
It is for //
Love!
A remainder girl.
 
Hollow halls knew your latent fame
They remember my name
Did you think I would blink?
my (new) day,
untimely fashionable poem
Far sooner
intense open corpse like 51 courses in a landfill site library
Boots and all.
Looking for a drainpipe despite campaigning for nations
Somewhere to pout about
Looking for business for last week’s door knockers.

An empty teacup in the window invites tearful visions
Imagist and surrealist combination messaging
No more telly tubing about the leaves of harassed and at home
This is the door number for you to leave the past rejections alone.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about confronting the echo of past rejection and the strange theatre of self‑recognition — a mind watching scenes refract, distort, and finally de‑compact into something newly alive. The speaker moves through hollow halls, landfill‑library grotesques, imagist flashes, and surreal domestic objects, trying to leave behind the old wounds that once defined him. It becomes a portrait of someone stepping out of rejection’s shadow and reclaiming the right to name his own day.