The heart hums like a refrigerator on contented days,

And tension screech beeps like an inverter on low power.


Happiness comes rushing like the wrap of cool airconditioning on a hot summer day

Joy bubbles over like an electric kettle.


Hope bursts upon like a thousand watt bulb,

And dull drudgery flickers like a tubelight with a faulty choke.


Ideas rush through like a high powered bike.


And they say technology has killed poetry?

Random

Warning.

This is a HIGHLY amateur video of an EXTREMELY random series of images in which my daughter is doing PRECIOUS little.

Just like her, this video goes absolutely nowhere.
hee.

Golly! My First Lolly!

Not the Brownings

Why won't I write you a love song?
Because it's silly to,
To your husband.

To shared meals
And preferred sides of the bed
And favourite sit coms
And what lies ahead....

After those silly Brownings,
Who writes love songs
After the vows?

Who remembers what's at the root
Of the sleepy morning smiles,

Who writes to weekends of lazy loafing
And quickly brushing before a kiss
And sucking in your stomach
Though you have nothing left to hide.

Nobody writes love songs
About the potted plant
That has bloomed after the rains
And a daughter running around,
Nutty and derailed.

A love song in the kitchen
A love song for the laundry basket
A love song to the reading lamp
A love song to a favourite newspaper columnist.

These are not things you write love songs to.
These are merely the places where love lives.
Its home address, so to speak,
Where it hangs up its fineries,
Stretches back and closes its eyes,
And sometimes, goes to sleep.