Which you cradle
In your hand
When you pull
The strings with
Your soft fingers
The melody fills
The atmosphere
Gently the music
Ignites the romance
Within your soul
Bringing out the
Hidden affections
That you no longer
Can control
The sun rises
The sun sets
We care not for
Its irresolution
When we become
Complete and one
We revel in our
Magnificence
Month: May 2024
If AI Had Written This Poem
Then it would have had a better shape
With a metaphor thrown in
For a subtle yet engaging effect
If AI had written this poem
Then it would have had a grander theme
Plus a consistent rhyme scheme
If AI had written this poem
I would have saved my hours
And squandered them anyway
On stuff that didn’t matter at all
If AI had written this poem
It would have pleased the eye
A figure of speech used properly
Would have even pleased the ear
If AI had written this poem
Then it would have got more likes
It would have reached a celeb’s phone
Who would have taken my blog to new heights
If AI had written this poem
If only AI had written this poem
Pressure Cookers
Wouldn’t it be nice
To puncture a hole
In our skins
From time to time
To allow the sadness
Building inside us
To pass?
It would be amazing, wouldn’t it
If a small gap could let out
Anger, grief, anxiety, depression
Slowly over the years?
It is easy to fill
The empty spaces
Of our hearts
With scraps of
Negativity
It is easy to allow ourselves
To become pressure cookers
Without truly understanding
How or why or when
Over the years we find ourselves
In a different form, space and mind
We evolve not from love but
From these scraps that keep
Piling up inside us like a mountain;
A volcano ready to erupt
If only we could blow it off easily
If only we could discharge it
As soon as it finds a way into
The depths of our hearts
We wouldn’t be then products
Of sadness but rather products of love
Love Is A Dishevelled House
Where smelly socks sit on the bed
On the floor’s an intricate trail
Of wrappers and crumbs of bread
Wet towels lie on the ebony couch
Flies zip around the sordid walls
On the formerly white pillow covers
Food stains establish their stalls
Red ants greet you in the morning
Wish you the best with a sting
They sit down on the dinner table
Next to you in the evening
Fresh air is on a suicide mission
When it happens to infiltrate
The interiors of the house only
To gasp, choke and suffocate
You tidy your hair with your hand
When you fail to locate your comb
You look around and heave a sigh
For the place you declare a home
Despite the drudgery and filth you
Know there is no exit door
If there was one, you’d likely axe it
This is all you want and more
45,000
45,000
Can pay your fees
45,000
Can fulfil your dreams
45,000
To live with ease
45,000
Oh God please
45,000
Lend me a loan
45,000
Worth more than my home
45,000
To beg or steal
45,000
Willing to kill
45,000
Don’t you cry
45,000
Mummy will try
45,000
I’ll sell my soul
45,000
I love you so
45,000
To pay your fees
45,000
Oh what is this?
45,000
For a road accident
45,000
This life be damned
Love Is A High-Hanging Fruit
Of a tree strong and mighty
Jump, jump, jump all you want
It always seems beyond your reach
Despair not, my friend
For it is a test
Of your willingness and commitment
Good things only come to those
Who persevere
Sure, you may give up on it
Turn your tail the other way
And remark – It must be sour
You are wrong if you think so
I am here to tell you that
No fruit of that tree is sour
Every slice of that ripened seed
Is worth savouring
Over and over again
If you plan to give up on it
Know this, my friend
You are giving up on
The greatest pleasure of your life
Nothing that you ever achieve
Nothing that you ever experience
Nothing that you ever taste
Will come remotely close
So buckle up and try harder
For if you truly give it a go
Either a ladder will magically appear
Or the branches will stoop just enough for you
Love Is A Circle
Love Is A Traffic Light
Love Is A Cheap Perfume
Transcription of Coos
“Papa, which is your favourite?” Cooper junior asked enthusiastically as he sailed with his parents seeking fresh targets. “I am particularly fond of bald heads.”
“No, Junior,” Papa Cooper corrected him. “We pigeons are not in the business of having favourites. We must…”
“Oh that’s a headfull of rubbish right there,” Mama Cooper interrupted him. “I know it very well that you love to park your droppings on long hairs. You love to watch it get tangled in their locks as they turn skywards to hurl profanities in your direction.”
Papa Cooper gave an embarrassed smile.
“What about you, Mama? Do you have a favourite?”
“Junior, more than scalps, I love the human face.”
“The face? Isn’t that the most difficult?”
“It is. That’s what makes it so appealing. The thrill of landing one on their faces as they are relaxing in our soft, green grass is irresistible. Oh just thinking about it gives me goosebumps.”
“Have you ever landed one?”
Mama Cooper shook his head, “But you know what? Some day I will.”
Frank Solanki 