GloPoWriMo: Day XX: Pawn Takes King

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt encourages participants to incorporate the vocabulary and imagery of a sport. So I hope you enjoy this hastily penned piece attempting to put a gothically romantic twist on the sport most readily analogous to life…

They called him the Music Man
A nom de plume well met
His entire body dripped with soul
Made the gents groove, the ladies wet

He may have been just a pawn in life
For the kings and the queens of the city
But this one black pawn made moves so sweet
It made the world feel less gritty

His life may have not been much
At each turn he came after the white man
But he cared nothing for all that jazz
He was happy with his axe, his girl, and his van

Now the kings and queens of the city
They cared or knew little of pawns
So when a hit needed to be taken
A random one was called on

So it was in this war
A black pawn did fall
And another pawn did shatter
At the sound of her dying call

Now love is a wonderful thing
It makes light and it gives life
But a true love snatched away
Gives a peaceful man a knife

And so a pawn did take a knight
And then a castle and a rook
While the kings and queens did gawk
He played by hook or crook

Till that fateful day when they met
A black pawn and the king he did hate
And came those fateful words
First check, and then mate

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The Raven Calls 4 Times

This poem is inspired by a perhaps lesser known poem by one of my favourite poets – the dark lord Poe himself. In his spirit I combined an homage to my favourite Poe imagery with a chant/sound that a few in the know might recognise… Let’s see if you’re one of them…

Knock-Knock, Knock-knock
Went the front door
Knock-Knock, Knock-knock
Went it some more

Ring-Ring, Ring-Ring
They’d found the damn bell
Ring-Ring, Ring-Ring
This day from hell!

Thud-Thud, Thud-Thud
As he stomped down the stairs
Thud-Thud, Thud-Thud
Eyes crusty, feet bare

Tap-Tap, Tap-Tap
Nails clicking on wood
Tap-Tap, Tap-Tap
A vision in red stood

Click-Click, Click-Click
As he undid his locks
Click-Click, Click-Click
Of which there were lots

Pat-Pat, Pat-Pat
On backs as they embraced
Pat-Pat, Pat-Pat
A handkerchief dabbed her face

Clang-Clang, Clang-Clang
Went the Grandfather he’d bought
Clang-Clang, Clang-Clang
It was earlier than he’d thought

Bang-Bang, Bang-Bang
Before a word could be said
Bang-Bang, Bang-Bang
And then he lay dead

I Am A Leaf On The Wind

Across the avenues and boulevards
Their bodies lay strewn about
Pushed to the side and brushed away
Without a whimper or a shout

In their falling there is beauty
And passersby will gaze
But once fallen they are forgotten
And left lying still for days

There was a time they stood tall
Atop their lofty perches
Sheltering those below and within
Mighty Oaks and Elms and Birches

But time did break their bonds and bodies
Made them pale and weak
And so they left this mortal coil
And slowly fell to sleep

Soon others will stand in their stead
But as seasons go so will they
For this is how life marches on
For this is its way

 

(P.S. To all you Firefly/Serenity/Wash fan out there – Sorry for the mislead ; p)

No Reason – Day XXIX – NaPoWriMo 2014

One by one they fell
As the wind struck its death knell
Men of honor and pride
Their sabers by their side

As each did breathe their last
As each’s time did pass
The grass was painted crimson
As each escaped their flesh toned prison

In an instant high above
Past both hate or love
Seeing as if in a dream
The world they once did teem

And knew none which or why
Side they took in this lie
This pointless endeavor
To divide, to sever

For now they were no colors
No us, no others
There was but the light
And no longer reason to fight

Decisions, Decisions

“You make decisions every day. Small ones. Big ones. Whether to stop at that coffee place on the corner before punching in. Whether to wait for the light to turn or just chance it. Whether to get that third pint or call it a night. And every one of these decisions affects the course of our lives. Shifts it in the tiniest of ways in a direction unbelievably the same yet completely distinct. This is just one of those decisions Thomas. And like every one of those decisions, it’s one that needs to be made.

Sure some of your choices may seem more pertinent than others. Whether in the end Brown was better. Or should you have held out for Yale. But who’s to say that changed the trajectory of your fate any more than the decision you made between Butternut Squash Risotto or the Rib Eye the day before your 23rd birthday. Who’s to say Yale would have brought you more success? Who’s to say the Rib Eye would have meant you wouldn’t find yourself with that 33 Caliber in your hand right now.

Continue reading

The Grandfather Tree

On a grassy patch in a mild meadow
Under the sun of a different age
Grew a tree with slender branches
And the wisdom of a sage

As a young boy for many years
It’s gentle shade was home to me
This is the tale
Of the Grandfather Tree

This mighty Ent stood proud
For many years and years beyond
It was kind and it was friendly
And of me it grew most fond

I held its branches for support
I nestled in its roots
I was protected by its canopy
I was fed by its fruit

But years are kind to none
And soon life dries and ebbs
The Grandfather Tree grew haggard
Its branches covered in webs

I felt too tall for its shade
So I set forth to see what else
The world had to offer
And I came back less and less

But it’s love for me never lessened
Though its branches did shrivel and weaken
It still smiled to see me return
Return to its outstretched beacon

But the body is not as strong
As the soul or the heart
And finally last night
Fair tree and I did part

It closed its eyes in silence
While I was in a foreign land
Cursing cruel fate that kept me in the end
From holding his hand

So now our tale ends
This tale most dear to me
The bittersweet tale
Of the Grandfather Tree

Aicha

So soft spoken,
Though you always had dad’s ear
So beautiful,
Though every brother would sneer

So kind
Though we never did find,
So always
Always on my mind

I love you beyond words,
And every day
I wish you were here,
Those words to hear me say

Aicha,
I love you always
Every year,
This day my heart breaks

No one knows,
They never will see
Aicha every day,
This pain I feel

Aicha,
Aicha
Passing me by…
Aicha
Aicha…

For Her

At a time of crisis
At a time like this
You feel like crying
You wish you wouldn’t
You feel like dying
You know you shouldn’t

I’m standing here
My lips are shaking
My legs are putty
Like the earth is quaking

I look to my mother
Her tears falling upon the dirt
I look to my father
Who stands strong, not saying a word

I hope you are happy now
Free of sickness and pain
An I hope one day
We will all be together as a family again

At a time of crisis
At a time like this
When death’s sweet lips
Have given you their final kiss

About 6 and a half year back I lost my elder sister. She was sick much of her life growing up and when I was in the 10th Grade she passed away, after a long time of fighting kidney failure. I regret every moment that I think of her that I never got to know her better. She was a rare and kind person, even if as a younger brother I couldn’t see that then. This poem, an amalgamation of the words I wrote then, and a reflection of what I remember now, are for her. My sister. Ayesha.

– Zafar Khurshid (C)

The Plot

“See,” he said as he pulled out a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Golden Highs and lit it. “You don’t want this to be just another suspense novel” he said, pausing for a puff, “you want people to see this guy and not hate him right off, cause then you’ve lost em.” “So how do we do that?” his friend asked, typing away furiously on his tiny notebook sized laptop. “Well,” he pondered as he rubbed his goatee, “the first one has to be an accident. Some chick in some European country while he was on vacation. He got drunk in some tavern in… Scotland. Met some dumb busty blonde who thought his accent was amusing. They sneak off to some hut in the middle of the night. Fool around. She likes it kinky. Asks him to choke her. He plays along, hesitantly at first, but soon he finds he can’t stop himself. He feels her blood pumping through his fingers, squeezing the last of her life from her body.” He paused, taking another drag. “Afterwards he feels nothing,” he continued “none of the shame or guilt he’s supposed to. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the better he feels. More in control.”

“Okay,” the typer said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them to prevent his fingertips from numbing up, “what happens next?” “The next two are easy,” his friend replied “Two bit hookers in some back alley in the Red Light district.” “How does he do it? He has to evolve over the intermediary kills. Maybe piano wire? Or a rope?” the typer asked, reaching for the cigarette to take a drag. “No No!” the narrator protested, “I thought of that already. Too filmy. He has to use his bare hands. That way he feels every moment.” He paused suddenly, thinking about where the story went next. He pulled out a fresh cigarette, handing the stub to his mate. “The ending is gonna be important,” he said after a few minutes of puffing his fag silently. “He can’t just get caught or die in a shootout. He needs closure.” “So how do we give it to him?” his friend asked coughing from the disgusting taste of the last drag. “With a final kill. The important one.” “Who is she?” “The one that broke his heart. The one who started the entire cycle of pain and anger.”

He took a deep drag, sighing loudly as he exhaled. “She has long brown hair. Plump breasts. An ass that used to drive him crazy. He’ll take her out to dinner first. Pretend he wants to meet up and talk about old times. To catch up. This one’ll need a lot of detail, and don’t forget the eyes. The eyes are important.” “So where does she die?” his friend asked, trying to type fast enough to keep up with the narration, “What is she wearing? Do they do it?” “Don’t know yet” the narrator said as he stood up, crushing the cigarette butt under his all-stars, “I’m picking her up tonight.”