Poems of 2@@9- by Ajay Ohri

All Rights Reserved @ 2009 Ajay Ohri
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POEMS OF 2009

Ajay Ohri


GREY CHRISTMAS

Grey Christmas, as the fog hangs on deep.
Bright lights shine ,from the city that refuses to sleep.
Rubbing your hands, walking alone in the cold.
Was it always like this at Christmas or Am I just growing old.

What if I never lived on this earth,
Did it make any difference with my birth.
Jobs are rare, rarer than hot sunny days,
Christmas was a party, now its time to change ways.

To live down slowly, gather savings and adjust.
Someone else ’s folly, and some bankers money lust.
So We the people still gather

Around the tree.
The rich still have white Christmas ,
but it’s colored grey for you and me.

Image from the Christmas Movie- “Its a wonderful life”.


SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE

Young slum dogs chipping away,
writing code,plugging away.
Take the place under shiny sun someday,
Slum puppies wont go away.

You let them in,
They are hungry for more, they stay,
Nobody ever gave them a break on the way,
Grew up fast,slum childhood wasn’t a child’s play.

Still here they are firing away,
Full steam ahead, and
Damn no Torpedo’s to dissuade.
Before you could pause, object
Cut them short saying Boy hey.

Slum dog walks away,
In his teeth , the shiny bone of the day.
Blood on his fur ,its there
Long enough to stay.

The dog beens much worse,
Much tougher days.
His brain the only weapon ,
he chooses to play.

Brain red hot, it keeps firing away.
That dog wont roll down, play dead, no way.
Been through much pain already this way,
Now numb, The Slum Dogs come here to stay.

Poster- from the movie "Slumdog Millionaire"


Child of the Holy Land

A child, a small child,
Roams around his yard, for a little while,
Till he hears the wail of the siren,
Too late now, he’s killed by shards of iron.

Ten rockets launched , but only one Jewish kid is dead.
His folks vow vengeance and war lies ahead.

A child, a small child,
Roams around his neighborhood, for a little while,
When with a whoosh his world explodes,
He wakes up in hospital, with a melted nose.

His parents dead, it was collateral damage,
They were in the wrong neighborhood,
so the story goes.

One more Arab kid, scarred for life,
One more statistic added to the score.

His career options on growing up are just two-
Suicide Bomber or fight with a rifle too.

A child, one more little child,
Looks up to the blue skies,
From where rockets and tank shells come.

God he cries out, or Gods (who ever is there)
Before the sons of Abraham
and the sons of Arabs,
finish each other ,

I am the son of Adam and Eve,
their common mother.

Take me please,
Far away from this place.

I want to grow up in some happy place,
where no one thinks I am a Jew or an Arab
Just a small kid, who needs some love.


((Image from http://www.stolenchildhood.net/page/3/))


Who Really Killed the Joker

Was it the studio and director that pushed him over the edge.
Playing a man with a painted face. Day in .Day out. Take after Take.
All in the name of excellence. But its the money that wanted.

Was it his loneliness. From the estrangement of the mother of his
son.Because actress wives need high maintainability not creativity.
When the body was found, the police report was delayed, till she was
informed by the maid first.

Was it the drugs he took. To fall asleep from the insomnia


When the nightmares come from playing someone else
day in day out.

How did the Knight's Tale ended with the Darker Knight.
Was it God. Who called back his beloved child
Because HE loved him so much he called him back to heaven.

Was it the Devil. As in the song “American Pie”
Was it the medical explanation of accidental overdosing from a variety of
chemicals. Who sold him those chemicals? Did he need them.

And in those last moments, as he choked on his vomit to breathe.
Who did Heath Ledger see.

Loving him.��
Leaving him.��
Pushing him ��

Killing him.
(Images Courtesy- Heath Ledger)


Bailout Poem

Two kids were talking in the park, and they played a game.
Who was the tougher guy, What is your daddy�s name.

My daddy worked on Wall Street , and boy he was so good,
He created more money out of money,oh yes , he sure could.
But good times had to end, times turned tough.
but my daddy was tougher, he changed tactics soon enough.

By the proper contributions, and fundraisers ball,
He got the government to bail him out, in billions ,that�s not small.
Your daddy is such a loser , he paid taxes on time,
filled his 401 k account, and committed no white/blue collar crime.

That�s why your daddy stands in line, in the cutback recession stall
Hoping to get food stamps , which have grown more since last fall.
If your daddy got the billions , he would have created stuff,
He would have created startups and jobs, the world needs that enough.

My daddy worked on Main Street, in an old American factory of cars,


He created good cars when young, but lost out in the oil price wars.
He may not have paid the fundraisers, but he is a honest man,
Your daddy might be richer, but my dad is the ordinary Ameri-CAN

By the sweat of his brow, and the toil of his arms,
My dad will rise despite this fall,
If we could kick Nazi and Commi Butt,
Your dads dishonest white collar white butt is even more small.

the kids moved on to another game, but what about Mr YOU.
are you going to be a wolf or a sheep, while the big guy fleeces us too.

(Image Courtesy-
http://conservatard.wordpress.com/glossary/ )


Eclectic

Eclectic the person said, across the ocean to me.
I did not know what the word meant,
I opened my dictionary.

I do good interviews, bad cartoons and mediocre poetry,
I blog and slog, making productive my eccentricities.

I love cloud computing, and with my head is in the clouds,
I try some coding too.
I dont get paid for that all,
Open source has money few.

Beating the recession, with the roller coaster ups and down,
Enjoying Indian elections, with a shoe throwing hack,
I focus on R code and cloud computing slams
But daily demands force me back

And if you ever feel overwhelmed,
with the boring drudgery and daily flim flam,
read some poetry from here
or there

Less expensive than a glass of wine,
Just as relaxing, works faster at times,
either moves you to tears or to sleep,
Irreverent and blase, these eclectic rhymes.


Goodbye Mr Kennedy

A bear of a man, with an appetite of a whale
The lion of the senate, succeeds while all fail.

Slowly succeeding steadily, with his head and heart
The youngest knight of camelot, went out the last

No child left behind, and no sick person too,
Goodbye Teddy- We the uninsured will miss you


The Fine Print

did you read the fine print
when you signed your life away
or did you believe them badly
when they said your life was good to give today

did all the drums, the ribbons and the music
tilt your head to emotion away from fact
and did the inherent absurdity of it all
was swallowed by you intact

for as the world spins tilted
around the bright unforgiving sun
words in a language built to deceive
mask the coming pain below the frosting of fun

deception is the game here
and an unwilling player you have to be
fool them or be fooled in turn
reality is spotless for you to see

what old promises where tokens of love
it is all cash and carry now
as willed in your destiny from above
and even though eyes grow misty

by potential of what could be
you keep one eye on the rolling ball
lest more surprises it brings to see

(Image courtesy-
http://windconcernsontario.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/fine20print.jpg )


Tennessee Rain

Clear rain falls with a straight steady hum
On green Tennessee woods like a muted drum

The skies as if painted by a great gray brush
All around silence as in heavenly hush

Long ago long miles ahead
I left my home to earn my bread

Dusty lanes domestic remind with a nostalgic pang
Creating almost a deep throat tasteful tang

Tennessee rain so beautiful and forlorn
So exciting and yet reminds me I’m alone


In a New York Thai restaurant

I dine alone being new to York town
Borrowing conversation from left and right
Bringing no conversation of my own in the fading twilight

As bubbles slowly bubble from a sparkling dollar five glass
I watch from shadows as pretty people come and go as they say excuse me
and quickly pass

I am an odd ball I know
Brown monkey nowhere to go
The waiters give me a look best called quizzical
What on the napkin do I scribble

Will the fellow eat and clear in peace start by giving chicken panang a nibble
Will I pay up this after all is west Harlem
Asians don’t tip they have been before on this trip
And I drink and devour
Dinner fine and dine

Watching conversation sparkle up
As sparkling wine goes down
I nod I say people are just the same
Appearances change but they play the same old games


Up when happy when sad they are down
Every big big city every new yet old town
We drink different wines
But then think similar thoughts

Daily joys and same different struggles
That our love and life bought
Wine brings heat to our face
Letting my jacket slip a bit

The waiter slips me a seen it all look
Are you. Serious he thinks you silly twit
Leaving all pretences
I chug wine like we chug beer

Expensive to my sponsors
But hey it brings me cheer
Ole lady on my left
Drunk college chicks on my right

Smart dame right across room
Cute Thai waitress completes a pleasant sight

Chug chug chug
We drink sparkling wine


Eating and being merry
Old wine makes new troubles all fine

Now thinking deeper-
In the middle of urban sub arcana
Face to face verbal smacks in your space
Comes a concept called Americana

Passionate adjectives and superlative passions
Americana is an euphemism for monetary nirvana
Nasal voices on my right
Deep bass slightly in front

To my left a wavering voice wavers
Aromatic cacophony my ears take the brunt
Wine slipping down slowly
But hey rising so fast

After effects may disappear soon
But the mellow pleasure promises to last


The Extroverted Engineer

The residuals of my creativity,
are expressed in left brain poetry.
But when it comes to talking tough,
Numbers, above words, is what I like to love.

The sheer elegance,
of clear concise code.
Compiled Swiftly,Executed flawlessly,
On a digital yellow brick road.

Numbers do not lie, People do.
I would rather write code,
Than dust my inter-personal skills for you.

.

And if you ponder,
think hard to understand


What is God’s good wonder,
drives this lonely man.

It is simple,
et tr’es elegante,
Simplicity of statistics,
is what we really want.

The inner child,
stakes up an eccentric stance,
Prefers the joy of writing code,
Than understand the complexities of fellow man.
Photo Credit- Ed Hengeveld, Neil Armstrong http://history.nasa.gov/
ap11ann/galleries.htm


GOODBYE MIKE
Goodbye King of Pop Adios
An entertainer’s entertaining has come to stop
Moonwalking gloved and much beloved
Band of brothers 5 and Janet’s too
Dad of three and Husband of Two

Thriller was off the wall
Music Videos were so addictive
Almost Dangerous and Bad
Almost making Unbreakable History


Before fading sudden and plasticly aging
papparazi and unproven dark shadows chasing
Well then Mr.death is the only cure
To the fishbowl we the world,

we put you in
hoping for one last toe straight spin
Knowing Michael , Entertain heaven above

Pearly gates await the one with white glove
Duet with Elvis and dance with Diana
Be a kid like the way you always wanna

(Photo -Courtesy Michael Jackson)


Hey Professor, I am not a Monkey

The harder I try, the more life slips by,
And the latest disgrace, is to be called a simian in place.
Hey Professor, I work with computers,

and they dont mind what skin I am.
Curious I may be, but it’s easy enough to see,
I may look like a monkey, but human I am.

You may go about introducing me to people galore,
as your pet darling who does all your chore,
But I would rather work, outside your cage,

It is not personal, I am too old to enrage.
Hey Professor, Guess I am not a Monkey.
You need to find some other, to carry your tea.

And the University is fine , its good ol Tennessee,
Bigotry and prejudice are just the not places to be.
( Inspired by a Real Life Incident


Stupid Poetry

Every week I write a poem,
Thinking how cool I could be.
A 21 st Century Lord Byron,
Writing poetry could do the trick for me.

Party Invitations and Fame Galore,
Lord Byron used to have this and all more.
But poetry died, and Byron died much earlier in disgrace.

His aristocratic funeral attended by an empty caravan.
Harry Potter may have rejuvenated the novel,
Bringing back poetry is too much for One man.

So turn your head, and swipe your card.
Modern age civilization aint no place for ahh bard.

Let you drink and have soda water,
Pre Packed Hangover remedies the morning after.

Caught up in a material world.
Dead artists are worth their weight in gold.
Stupid poetry, are all ahh I can offer you for today.
Click F5 to refresh, or Control Tab to go away.

(photo credit-Lord Byron at age 25 (1813 portrait by Richard Westall)


Poems of 2@@9- by Ajay Ohri

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Poems of 2@@9- by Ajay Ohri