Category: Written in 2016

The Singer for the Red King

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

When you listen to a moving love song,
It slashes through our hearts and makes them bleed.
It is clearly what the singer wanted:
She knew how it feels in thought and in deed.

Tomorrows are never applicable
Where all silly little hearts are concerned;
We remember all the pain and sadness,
Who remembers a single lesson learned?

Here we go again sauntering to love,
As if he was not the demonic sire,
Who begat, on hope, all misery
And sits on his throne of red, with his crown of fire.

Take us, take us to the kingdom of thorns,
Where red roses grow on just the outskirt.
We don’t remember the lakes of tears,
Besides the twisted roads of rage and hurt.

The entry is free, unmanned are the gates,
But just then, try and find a way out…
Oh, clever is the king, smelling like faith,
We enter within, but can’t exit out.

The singer knows this to be true of all –
She wants her agenda like the Red King!
We are no match for this team – none at all!
We come full circle while we hear her sing.

Summer Night

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

When you cascade down the mountain of desire,
And you find someone in this fantastic fire,
His eyes shine like molten gold, on fields of green,
And the juiciest nipples you’ve ever seen.

He charms his way, upon horses of lust,
His hair kindles an ache with every thrust,
The arms he draws around, in virtual space,
Take you out from the confines of time and place.
His angst in passion found surfeit in you;
Who bothers then to filter the false from the true?
As the tumult of heat rides the peak of flame,
You climax in throes as he calls out your name.

So you can’t touch his fair hair or steal a kiss,
As he lays spent within his moments of bliss;
But you know he throbbed seeing your form on screen,
That’s enough for now, there is no could have been.

Think only of his brown beard, on lips flushed red,
And know he’ll think of you, tonight, in his bed.

Yulin

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

When I see the dogs in Yulin,
Boiled alive, or skinned alive, or beaten to death,
The horror of it brings my lost children to mind.
There are no words to convey
On how I miss their eyes and presence.
Animals by far are the most giving
Of their time and their love.
I ask people who profess love
To show intimacy;
But their time demands more passion
And all my children needed was my time.
Their time alive was encompassed intimacy
And so dreadfully short.
I wonder why cruelty
Becomes a palate for cuisine?
Doesn’t grace justify a quick death?
Why must consciousness be alive,
When it is dunked into boiling water?
What feast can be derived from that?
I have protected dogs. I am a father.
I have nurtured dogs. I am a mother.
I have wept at their death.
I am a parent.
To say that each life is important,
That might is right is important,
That the circle of life is important,
Is true and the world exists.
But the lion doesn’t boil its prey,
The shark doesn’t skin its food.
The law has to abide.
We all must die.
But we pray for a quick death.
A silent death, as part of sleep,
Why then do we, as the sapient ones,
Deny that death in these feasts?
I cannot justify cruelty.
I will condemn torture.
I loved Bonzo, Diana, Rolfe and Zoe:
Lights in my life.
They burned so bright, I was happy blind;
But when one faced torture,
When their need overruled my own,
I bought an end to my blindness.
I was death. I was the dark.
And this is all that I ask for;
It is not in my power
To ask for any more:
Stop cruelty to those who cannot fight back,
Show mercy,
Be no greater than or lesser than
What you are:
Human.