dry days

dry days

mondays are mundane…

the tom sawyer syndrome.

snails on watch dials.

the sloth inside

loathing about

slowness.

bubbles of

nothingness

ferments

inside the distillery

of stillness

all days are

mondays

hate summit

hate summit

the hall is filled
with holy men.
the dais, crammed
with deities
maestros of mayhem
are orchestrating
a phoney symphony
green and saffron
spotlights are on.

and then…
out of nowhere
they appear,
the gods of war!
avoiding
the eyes of cameras,
they wink at each other
wickedly

and then…
they embrace
and start to shower grace
upon the human race

amidst all this cacophony
devil descends from heaven.
he, who else,
is the master of ceremony.
after fluttering a white dove
and a black raven.
he takes over the show
“friends, moron, holy men
lend me your fears
for i have come
to bury peace
and not to praise it…”

the crowd goes crazy,
they cheer in full frenzy.
devil wags his tail
in response
and starts to announce

“this years prize
for peace
goes to…
(pause)
unfortunately
the prize for the peace
goes to…..
humanity
but…..
fortunately,
it will be given
posthumously.”
(curtain)

outside,
the devotees
had started
fratricide.

listen to my poem "adrift"

Click here to visit VoicesNet.com to read the poem called "ADRIFT" by Baiju Raj Thuruthel, India