A small dose of bad verse

To whosoever this may concern, I certainly do not harbour grandiose notions about poetic ambitions, not any more, at least. To whosoever this may also concern, once in a while, I remove the pressure cooker weight off what is correct English / sound meter / this / that, and find release, like,

My Secret Garden

Those little seeds
I grew into scrawny seedlings
then raised on farm manure
and oil-cake solution
are now bent double
with purple Aubergines

That creeper father asked to climb
the Rat Ki Raani vine
now at its apex on my terrace, bears
maverick Bitter Gourds
that ripen into Orange
to disgorge fleshy red coated seeds.

Those two cultured Areca Nut Palms
nested by Thornbird
and Humming Bird lookalikes
now portal the unused wicket gate
that stands rusty padlocked
in my rented digs' Pink boundary wall.

Meanwhile, my eyes get crow-feeted
and my pate sprouts in prosaic white .


No respects due to Nancy Friday of course, there are just no connections.