Haunting the Silk Road

<For dVerse {Poetics: The Landscape Sleeps, Ekphrastic Prompt}>

Six companions longed for adventure
And so we made ready that night

We sailed to Egypt where pharaohs rest
And had so much to study that night

We then sailed to majestic Istanbul
Safe within walls so sturdy that night

We travelled overland through Anatolia
To Persia we walked steadily that night

We rode upon dark Mongol postal roads
Beset by thieves, things were deadly that night

Lured to go further by fame and riches
We could feel the silk already that night

I saw a child in red dance outside with glee
As we stayed with her friendly family that night

She gave us each three chrysanthemums
And a juniper berry that night

Her anklets rang as she danced for us
A guqin joined the medley that night

Then the girl vanished into the darkness
Things became very scary that night

Years ago, the father said, he’d lost his child
Our hearts grew so heavy that night

While I slept, sick, frightened,  and very tired
I heard her whisper my name ‘Tommy’ that night

[The painting is Japanese, so I’m going to have to think of an explanation for why the travellers stopped at China. Maybe the family were Japanese merchants who set up shop in Western China. I just really wanted to write something about the Silk Road. It’s been nagging at me for a day or two. Also, Thomas is my middle name.]

Later Note: I had not researched this form properly when I wrote it. I don’t think a narrative like this can be called a ghazal. There are so many rules. I will try again later.

Homophones Fun

There was a colonel of truth in this poem
Who thought that everyone was below him
But the spell-Czech wizard denied him entry
Saying that he was not on the list for the part-E
He got accused of being an out-liar
(A few words were all he desired)
He  refused to let go of the door
He was so angry that he began to sore
His Abel cane couldn’t beat away the maitre d
(Although he could have gotten in with a small fee)
He gave up though he was only a clique away
From making it to the screen today

A/N: There was a blogger called Cubby who used to come up with some nice poetry prompts. One of them was on using homophones. I thought that it would be fun to try it again. If you feel inspired to write a poem with homophones, I would be really happy if you posted the link in my comments. I love reading poems like this.

Homophones are: each of two or more words having the same pronunciation but different meanings, origins, or spelling, for example new and knew.

Slipstream Swimming p2 (Chaos)

The Lady of the Depths
Told me to slow down
Laughing at my frown
Did I look like a clown?
“Let’s go
Before you
Have a meltdown”
She snapped
And a giraffe
From a photograph
Lying on the ground
Suddenly stepped out
And grew, grew, grew
I thought it was cruel
But we needed a ride
To go Downtown
And didn’t have a Gray Hound

Holding on for dear life
On this specimen of wildlife
I cursed the midwife
For delivering me
To this world
I was whirled
And hurled
As I rode
Following the tracks
Of Celtic warriors
Wearing woad
All the way
To the Playground

There I witnessed
William Wallace
Shaking his fist
At Mel Gibson
Accusing him of treason
Of not shooting
In the right season
And of various other crimes
While the Lady chanted
Nursery Rhymes
In the background

“So self conscious”
The Lady laughed
When she saw me blush
(As I was in a rush
I had forgotten
To change out
Of my pajamas)
I had heard that phrase
Too often
I thought
While Offenbach’s can can
Played in the background
Followed by
Queen Victoria’s sedan
She stood out the sun roof
Whispering secrets
To everyone
Her words to me
Were drowned out
By the sound of canons
An almost hundred gun salute

“So what do you want to play?”
The Lady asked me
When they went away
But I’d had enough for the day
Being with her
Always exhausted me
“I want to sleep”
“A slap?”
She asked eagerly
Too eagerly
I had done nothing
To deserve this
I felt lightning
Strike my cheek
“Now show me the other”
Being a semi practicing Christian
I did
(I may have skipped Church
For a decade)
The back of her hand
Struck me
Out of her chaotic land
I was finally free
To sleep
I have to admit
I feel better now

Out at last
From the Chaotic

(I have been posting too frequently, but I can’t seem to be able to stop. Mania, maybe? I will try to slow down.

For any readers new to my Chaos series of poems, yes they are all this weird. I used to call it steam of consciousness writing, but that’s just stupid now that i think about it. I write like this when I’m feeling weird and need to vent or if I can’t write my thoughts down any other way.

I am going to be more economical with my comments in the near future, to stop myself from sounding like a fool.)

Constant Comparison

I find

in hindsight (20/20)

that my main problem

Is comparison

Feelings of inadequacy

constantly plague me

no matter how well I do

because ‘there’s always someone

better than you’

A love child

of Envy and Greed

(quite wild)

Fills me with the need

to be the very best

Like no one ever was

whether catching Pokémon

Or anything else to win renown

It’s easy to say

that these things aren’t important

but this drive for competition

Motivates me in the beginning

though I always end in failure

which cripples me

a little


A/N: Thinking of writing fiction again has made me introspect. I realize that these posts are boring, but they feel cathartic, and maybe there’s someone out there who can relate when they read this. Also, I never liked Pokémon, but the theme song is really catchy.

On My Prose (50 Shades of Purple)

I love the absolute profligacy of the prose.

That sounds so nice. I wish that someone could say that about my writing, which, if I’m honest, is inert, bare of embellishments, like a dead guppy drifting to the surface of an ocean, a television with a broken circuit with wisps of electricity only strong enough to power on the standby light.

When I was young (which was a few years ago. I got my first greys last month, so I guess I’m an old geezer now) I believed that prose had to be straight, to the point, descriptive and a little clinical. It was all about the plot! Now, on the cusp of a new year (it’s Advent already), my mindset has changed, like a chameleon stranded in a jungle of poetry, an interloper in a den of versifiers, a guest wearing the wrong kind of footwear in the Club of Bards. It’s so much fun to write flowery prose *ahem, I mean literary ahem* and I’ve only just begun to experiment with this style.

I don’t know how this style of prose will be received by the web novel fantasy audiences around the world. All I know is that I’ll have fun writing it. This time, I won’t consider publishing my serial novel until I have sixty chapters written down. My last attempt at writing, crashed and burned. 🔥 It got too much to handle, writing two chapters a week and all.

I don’t know why I’m writing this post. It’s almost a confessional…Ugh! It just feels good to get it out, like Mount Vesuvius releasing its pent up fury, or a constipated…( umm…no. I don’t do toilet humour). As I type this out on my phone in the dark, with the light from the screen illuminating my fingers as they move with a virtuoso’s grace, I feel my inspiration fading away like a silhouette sunrise, and bid you all adieu.

See you later alligators

A/N: ‘In literary criticism, purple prose is overly ornate prose text that may disrupt a narrative flow by drawing undesirable attention to its own extravagant style of writing, thereby diminishing the appreciation of the prose overall.’ That’s why I titled this post ’50 shades of purple’

Four Limericks on Indian Cuisines


There once was a lady from Goa
Who mixed chorizo with her sambar
A passing chef did frown
When her lunch box fell down
He hadn’t seen anything so bizarre


There once was a king of Travancore
In whose long reign there’d never been war
Tapioca was planted
When famine descended
And new cuisines did the land explore


There once was a young man from Bengal
Who made everyone else feel so small
He said it was the fish
His mama’s special dish
That made him so incredibly tall


There once was a big strong Jaipuri
Who turned all his food into tandoori
His stomach wasn’t quiet
He soon had to diet
Now he only eats rotis and ghee

Image: sambar

Johnny Flatline Rises Again (Cyberpunk)

Vital signs failing
I, Johnny Flatline,  lie dying
Got stimhit by a Cobra
While moto from Tokyo to Chiba
Hold on,  my visual receptors are activating
I’ve been abducted to a project housing
Is that my wife,  I see?
Am I in the matrix,  finally free?
Or is this reality?

“Surprise!” lights turn on,  I see the tribe
“Happy Birthday, ” my Millie smiles
Still in fright <Adrenal override>
Birthdays with her really spike my dials

Read part 1 here

A Cobra is a weapon with a neurotoxin in this poem

2. The Blind Mouse

Yup, I wrote another one (no puns this time.)

Tales of Imli

Row row row your boat, through the sleet and through the mist. Gently and merrily down the river of fog, past the land of dreams.

Jon Rayne stared at the sheet of paper, his words like a line of little ants in a land of snow. He desperately willed his long fingers to type something more, but they refused to press down the heavy keys of his expensive antique typewriter. He had gambled everything on being a writer, a story teller, a word smith whose ideas could shape the entire realm of Imli, but reality had other ideas. He sighed, and took a sip from his mug of cider. Alone, and without distraction, his inner mind hurled abuse at his absurd ambitions.

They said that only demons had divided minds, and Jon wondered if something infernal had happened during his conception. For as long as he could remember, there had…

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