Myriad Musings

How’d you like to die?

I’m sure you’ve ruminated a great deal about life: pondering, planning, plotting how to make the most of it.

Have you ever thought about how you’d like to die?

Would you fancy a soldier’s death? You’d have won many a battle but lost the last one against the usurper of breath.

Or is it a sailor’s death that you fancy? You’d kick the bucket doing what you do best, pulled into the arms of the sea mother, you spent your entire life worshipping.

Would a famous person’s slow death be up your alley? Celebrated long after your physical absence, strangers will mourn you like their own, until trenching hoes of time bury the memory of you underground.

Or is it a rebel’s death that you prefer? A death charted out with cunning by those who unfairly wield power and hang justice, the last trace of your murder will be invisible. You’ll meet the maker, hoping at least he’ll mourn you.

Me? I favour an activist’s death, basking in the rapturous knowledge that I left the world more equal than I found it.


Chocolate: Poem

Sidlak : A five line poem composed of 3-5-7-9 syllables and the last line (without restrictions on syllables) indicates a colour that sums up the authors’ feelings and the spirit of the poem. 


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Pit in the stomach

Longing for the only cure

Vanquish famines of heart and belly

Dark brown cravings hear my call for rescue



Masquerade: Poem

I met five men in a faraway land
during my stay at a decrepit cottage
We agreed to get acquainted
at eventide in the nearby diner

The vexing nature of sundown is that
man’s facades are unprotected by light
Hence a masquerade party, sure to ensue
to keep up pretences of the night

A good judge of character, I pride,
Resolved to unmask all they hide

The first called himself a Godman
but I saw a predator underneath
preying on weak minds that
mistake obscurity for hope

The second called himself a Radical
but I saw a bigot underneath
using twisted means to uproot some venom
prudently planting seeds for the rest

The third called himself a Marketer
but I saw a trickster underneath
whose bread and butter depends
solely on making others misbelieve

The fourth called himself an Intellectual
but I saw a hypocrite underneath
reserving his ideas for theory
a Yes-man selling his mind for money

The fifth called himself a Politician
but I saw a chameleon underneath
whose mind wavers faster than wind
a trader of peace for pelf and power

I mouthed that I was a Legislator
Underneath my mask
I was a ludicrous comedic
ridiculing linguistics and logic
I mumbled deep within that
I was no more than a
cutthroat cynic


Self sabotage: Hay(na)ku


Hay(na)ku: A tercet with 1 word in the first line, 2 in the second and 3 in the third with no specifications on rhyme and syllables. In the reverse form, the shortest line is placed last. Chain Hay(na)kus can also be formed. 


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breaks down

mourning self sabotage


[Interpretation: Man, a product of the natural world, is instrumental in its depletion]


Worse than death- Poem

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The fear of public speaking
tops the list of fears
Even death is second to it
and wondered why, I did,
until I had to conquer it

A hall closing in on me
A stage propping me up
on a false pedestal
A beaming spotlight
Let me hide in the dark
I’ll take the ghosts
from the attic any day

I try to unsheathe
the sword of intellect but
my tongue sticks to its roof
like an obstinate stalactite
How do I wage a war of words
with frozen weaponry
The audience leading the attack
have ransacked my armoury

At the ring of the buzzer
my very own death knell
like a water balloon suddenly pierced
sounds gush out of my mouth
My measured practice evaporates
The backyard rehearsal
cannot compare to battlements
Arrows are no darts, after all

As my speech ripples, trickles
it takes a sense of its own
I enjoy the liberty
of journeying with the words
I’m the listener and the speaker
the concert and the crowd
Though I took a different route
I’ve arrived all the same

I relish the spoils of war
as the judges pay an
epic heroic tribute
The enemy stands in surrender
thundering applause trumpets
I plant a victory flag
with my glistening teeth
I sign up for this war again
same day, same time, next week.


Mirabilia: Poem

Liberty tasted every weekend
flinging the adult in you
as kids do, their school bags

Looking at yourself
through a toddler’s eyes
reflection of a superhero

Hugs and claps that last longer
like the extra chocolate chips
in desired ice cream cones

Laughter that’s unruly, hearty
like messy, cheery rain
knocking on eager windows

New look- weight-loss, haircut
feels fresh as the first page
of a much sought-after novel

A warm bath after workout sweat
soothing as scented candles and
lounging in the balcony easy-chair

Unearthing the inner child
freeing as flopping on beds
and pranks on childhood friends

Tasting a pet’s loyalty gratifies
like rare praise from your boss
and sparse A grades on report cards

Playing a song on repeat
addictive as rewatching TV series
until a new episode is released

Things going exactly as planned
thrills like knocking dominoes just right
watching everything fall into place

Learning novel skills exhilarates
as pedalling without support wheels
on muddy roads with balance

Unexpected compliments overwhelm
like the thoughtful, handmade gifts
at a surprise birthday party

Winning card games and board games
smells like the high of morning runs
and dancing at our favourite club

Being arm candy to a loved one
feels safe as snuggly blankets
on a punishing winter night

I wonder why they choose to call these
Little things and Sweet nothings
when these moments define
Miracles, Memory, Desire,
Past, Present and Future:
I’ve chosen to name them Goals.



Doppelganger- Poem

Fibonacci poetry: Syllables follow the Fibonacci sequence



a clone,

dead ringer,

replica to quench

darkness within them, do good deeds

The flaw is searching for a doppelganger outside

When the counterpart to our demon, lurks in the crevice of our own sweet sanguine soul


My interpretation: We crave a greater version of ourselves, minus the flaws, a double who is closer to being perfect. We look for external agents such as circumstance or other people to draw out this desirable alter ego, while overlooking the fact that the onus is upon us to stimulate our own inner transformation.