Those heads!

What's with the dunderheads?
those war mongering  puppet heads,
dancing to the call of shrunken heads,
that create chaos  just to get ahead!

Then there are those being endlessly fed,
of the same vile disguised as french bread,
They gulp and bobble their misguided egghead,
And their friends join, who are equally unread.

I sigh and shake my round-damn-head,
Am I the one, the mistaken deadhead?
Should I take my worries to bed?
May be I'll just vent here instead.

aeroyogi
31/3/2017

The 90's dad..

Short and dark, ordinary as all,
he wiped his brow, as if he had a fall;
He knew more work awaits,
even as he approached the gates-
of the little square of brick and mould,
that was his household.

The engine of the mighty Explorer,
rumbled as he slowed down,
The mumble so familiar, always drew me out,
dropping the pencil, knocking everything about.

I darted to the gates without a frown,
every single time, like a seasoned clown.

He saw I was prepared, to not let him in,
despite the beads of sweat on his chin,
I pester him for my daily ride 'round the town,
atleast a mile on the dusty roads brown.

His ear lobes stopped his wide, wide smile,
he said with a thump, 'let's explore, more than a mile!'.

Stalls of icecreams, pickled mangoes, and corn,
Fighter jets, temples, and policemen with a scorn,
theaters, bridges, fairy lights, and towers,
parks, playgrounds, the markets full of flowers.

He talked about buildings that he engineered,
we circled around the skyscrapers that leered,
he told me the tales of the great ancestors,
of the minister, the artist and the court jester.

Always a shout-out, always a cheer,
to the man at the petrol bunk so near;
atleast a humble toast at the bakery,
never went home without something savoury.

Two decades later, I sit in an office,
missing this man, and everything he offered,
especially on his birthday so esteem,
I reminisce the 90's like no other dream.

I feel the air that tried to untie my hair,
The dangling feet that reached nowhere,
my arms wrapped tight around his waist,
on the bike of a glorious era with no haste.

I have no treats, only poor rhymes,
I call briefly like a summer's wind-chimes,
His smile still spans beyond his face,
Happy birthday, dear appa,
You are my saving grace.

aeroyogi
25/3/2017

A line or two...

A rainy day stirs my eyes
away from reality's fire and ice;
the steady droplets hammer my thoughts
that crumble into benign little knots.

Many a men, many a women,
wield their sword, dagger, and pen;
envy, lust, contempt, and awe,
punch a crater in my jaw.

I know no art, no science, no law,
can count in myself, a hundred flaws;
but one thing in the end might change alright,
if I stirred my spirit day and night.

For it shan't last, for it can't last,
the failure, shame and ignorance so vast;
every week, you shall see a line or two,
from the psyche unknown, in a different hue.

aeroyogi
24/3/2017