Ah, Bunnies! or Happy Easter!

Look up my skin,

follow the path in between two muscles forming organs

to shy my blood from your blade,

look into my wide-open eyes,

you know that I am not here.

Colour my bones,

what you found was the next relic

you will study in the research museum of History lab,

the future is willing to know: who lived here before?

I am tired of the serious mockery I have to be for you...

I want to be real,

I want to be sanguine,

I want to feel alive

so I look for danger

at any pace, în any way...

I am tired of being a serious mockery to you

So, here I let myself revealed

In the slaughtering fashion of your duty.

The Fawn

She and I, in the season of discovery

Weary of parental tyranny, we eloped

Judged the future to be slow; went on a quest for its glow

A starry night found us camping in a clearing in a forest

Glued together as much by love as by fear in the nocturnal drear

Like a spirit from the forest, a white-tailed fawn came by near

And stopped there as if it struggled to decipher our lovers’ code

Dazed, our tormented adolescence thought of his presence as a bode

And because we moved, the fawn in a rustle to the bloom removed

Dipped deep into the gloom, we sat there wrapped by the starry night

Look! She exclaimed, her finger signalling a point in the celestial vastness

A shooting star was crossing the immensity, a stone in flames announcing dawn nigh

A stone in flames, and I thought of my heart

And then, from a celestial nest, a hungry red-winged bird flew toward the night

And gobbled up the dark, gobbled up the stars one by one, and they were countless

Gobbled up us, too

Oh, it’s all past now

How long was it that it happened? How long?

She and I, then no longer children, then not yet strong

Glued together as much by love as by fear, ready to get it wrong

What prompted us to become sensible? Was it the fawn?

What was it that devoured our love? Was it the dawn?

Is it sorrow that I feel now, or is it anger?

Neither, because I was there. It was there

The spell, I mean, I swear the spell was there, the wonder

She and I in a clearing in the forest

Past the embrace and the fawn

Past the shooting star and the hungry dawn.

8 Years of Calamitous Regime

They came in, blazing with brazen incompetence. 

Their mantra of a change was a mere smoke screen, 

a grand deception designed to fool a gullible populace 

yearning for a better deal, they know all along they have 

nothing to offer because they have . nothing

It was a mere design of hatred hinged on ethnicity, 

and laced in a religious camouflage to entice acceptance 

by a generation who knew not what their first emerging 

4 decade ago appears to be; that it was far from an Eldorado

Thus their emergence 4 decades later would be a culmination

 of incompetence and retrogression. 

Though, those who knew their antecedent raised the alarm, 

but it was taken as the wailers crying for an elusive wolf where there's none.

8 years down the line of floundering, flipping and flopping around without motion, 

they have come to appreciate that our howling weren't a fluke, 

that we've brought to ourselves a calamity of an unimaginable disaster.

While the world had hoped to experience a refreshing icing 

as they wind up their excruciating reign on the land with an 

acceptable electioneering process to right their wrongs, 

but that's not to be, instead they culminated it with a disgusting 

and repulsive reign of blunder and mayhem, never seen in our history as a nation.

What a way to depart from an 8 year regime of unmatched inflation, 

economic disaster, monetary flopping, insecurity nightmare, 

 and a terrorized land where the populace reels under the 

burden of uncertainty; it's an 8 years of a Calamitous Regime 

The Higher Power

I know there is a higher power above,
He guides me and shows me much love.
The love of God, our Creator is true.
He will never ever disappoint you.
I marvel at the things God has done for me.
At eight, I almost died from drowning in the sea.
My father saw my long hair floating in the water
He pulled me up before I drifted further.
I was nine and needed emergency surgery.
My parents stayed all night to ensure my safety.
I had acute appendicitis and was at death’s dark door.
A shining light in a tunnel guided me home once more
Later in life when a deadly cancer struck,
And my doctor in Trinidad gave me up.
I put all my trust in my Maker to heal me.
That was 17 years ago, and I’m alive as all can see.
I remembered the woman with the issue of blood,
Who touched Jesus' garment and obtained a flood,
Of healing power which cured her disease.
I knew that he would do the same for me.
I had no garment to touch, but I sang like a lark.
With fervent prayers, I touched his heart.
He directed my path to a doctor in Miami.
Through that doctor, he healed me completely.
As if that was not enough, a car accident I survived.
The airbag burnt my right hand but I came out alive.
My lips were badly swollen like that of Miss Piggy.
I’m healed and blessed and can tell it all in Poetry.

Pink Lotus Blooms

Who has set the pink lotus to bloom

Across the horizon at dawn

Awakening all from lugubrious torpor

Or delicious slumber!

Who has set the deep blue sky inflamed!

Who has set the vast attuned to the music silent!

Nothing happens naturally

There is a Will behind every happening

There is a Will mysterious.

© Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2022 

Life Online

A shift to online transaction

Away from all Jabbering work of assiduous fashion

Is a miraculous transfer to a modern trend

A revolution in communication

A quantum jump in scientific term.

But it is accompanied by more modern practices

Of degrading Nature, denuding wildlife

Depleting fast all accumulated resources

Poisoning Environment all around us

Online suits them most who want

To utilise it for their own selfish purpose.

But all the sons of the soil haven’t learnt

Nor agreed to live depending entirely online

No earth-link no link with pencil paper or ink

Like weaning away from mother’s breast

Children left in the mid-world to sink

Like a farmer bereft of his traditional shield

Rain mud spade sickle seed in his field

Won’t directly get the reward of his labour

Lion’s share would go to the

Spectacular speculative online profiteer.

Like hanging in the balance

Feet not touching the ground

Hands not holding anything sound

Even the key to hold on to any support

May be taken away without prior report.

A fall shall not be on the ground

No sound, one may not be found.

People would be compelled

To charge against each other

Like a massive body of soldier

Who without judgement

Has to obey only the order.

As if a civilisation is shifting its base

Away from the pristine source

Away from all earthly resource

To help a few to amass all wealth in their hands

In few marked parts of the land

Everything to bring under their brutal control.

A civilisation hanging in the balance

Cannot remain forever thus

Halting the natural progress

Through Natural process.

It necessitates removal of all those

Responsible for this state

A pack of in-humans at their best

In all the States of the world

To save the civilisation from ruin

To help it shine under the sane and selfless

Leaders of the earth fresh and new

So that after the dawn

The sunny days may continue.

(c) Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2021 

A Lost Soul

       I never knew love or kindness,

       So, I suffered in blindness.

       Hated people despised myself,

       Put my heart on the shelf.

       Why was I born?

        All I do is mourn.

        No happiness, no reasons,

        I just survive the seasons.

        I heard a voice say,

        I love you, don't stray! 

        For, I rolled away the Stone!

        You're never alone!

Tear Of The Trousseau

“The Queen of hearts to grace the day?
It seems connection dissipated away.
To find this love, a guiding light,
I weep across the centuries of every night.

The world set before me,
All the limitations that be;
The only way to stay free
Is to leave.

What a lonely place,

And my footprints can trace,
The storming time without grace
That I grieve.

My Maiden Beautiful to transcend in glory?
I’m sensing the drain to sink this story.

To reclaim ideals, a drifting truth,

I weep upon meaning to revive youth.

The time that has passed me,
Every tragedy that be;

My shades cannot free,
Nor relieve.

What a crying place,

And my past can now trace,
Every lost hope without grace
That I heave.

I receive the chastisement in silence,
As a tear of the trousseau I hearken.
My teardrops fade into the night

And the deepest of my shades darken.

Still through our separation I feel you near;
Your trust and love embattle fear.

Though away I am sailed to my knightly demise,
I know the truth is behind your eyes.

Never before has there been such injustice,
And not ever again will there be . . .”

A Wish Apart

“A thought is planted; my trust laid fair.

Our souls are granted, to each the other’s care.

My heartbeat is written with words of endurance.

I find her heart smitten to save up insurance.

Goodnight, dearest to my heart—

My dream for two, a wish apart.

True may it be, when nighttime starts,

You're in my dreams and in my heart.

A prayer is given; my love made clear.

Our souls are driven, to each what is dear.

My spell is broken by cries in the night.

I cherish the token of what was once right.

Goodnight, dearest to my heart—

My dream for two, a wish apart.

Though all goes dark, when light departs,

You're in my dreams and in my heart.

Close your eyes; find whatever is true.

A fantastic world of dreams awaits you.

In Castles and Kingdoms, you’ll spend your time here;

No need to break out—everything is sincere!

Now picture this, love as real as can be;

All that you need to set your mind free.

As dreamers and seekers, we'll find our hearts here;

Without any doubts—everything is sincere!

The beauty of it sweet,

The grace of it right,

Entangled in sweet dreams—

Goodnight! goodnight!

The moment in a tease,

To come before the light;

Whispering sweet dreams—

Goodnight! goodnight!

Little darling hold true,

And let the rest become of you . . .”

Group Therapy

It was a first, in my crib,

Listening to the sound of your voices yelling,

Lovely a start to the day!

Thinking it is an opportunity to start developing some good old habits,

earning my right to be here or die,

send me away so you can yell some more

to my face a little bit later,

I, growing my weeds inside with which to master one day

The art of getting you choked!

How would you like to lose a limb,

Maybe an arm, or your head?

A good reason to start haunting the ones responsible for your suffering,

Never finding rest in your bed,

Never resting in your own grave,

Still chasing the shadows of a past

Holding you responsible for your crippled paradise. 

It is I the fine artist

Dawn comes with the crack of wood veins,
Twigs yelling and leaves moaning underneath a heavy pace;
And with the whooshing sounds of ghastly appearances
The morning starts taking off her dark wedding veils.

One by one she reveals all of my own, now, bodies,
Old skeletons are hidden in the closets of the woods,
New bleeding bodies lingering nobly with the foliage covering
Of teeth-gritting, raising hairs along the spine.

Chicken wings skin and goose bumps on thighs and neck round fit:
She loves decorating things called people,
Night to day and day by twenty-four hours cycles of earthly life,
Placing poisons in bodies of flesh,
Decorating them with scars on the outside,
Making lists of beauty placed on top of beauty.

And it is I the fine artist!


Rise, like all humans, but be aware!

Thoughts, like rabid hamsters,

Spinning in a cage of poisonous cheese,

The tangible death and joy zipping past their heads

In a free fall of delight and agony.

You must choose, mustn’t you,

Between the agony of the everyday,

The quests for fame and fortune,

Or the maudlin verities

Of one-step-at-a-time ennui and actual


It seems the drama always wins out,

Even though you try to be normal,

Try to wrap your body and mind into eating cereal,

Drinking coffee, and passing it all down the toilet,

Where everything seems to go these days.

But, the light of creativity, that holy shroud that

Basks within you, as if it were indeed the holy shroud

That covers genius in every profession, comes forth

Once more. You radiate within, but nobody sees it. Yet.

When the pages begin to flow, the jewels start to shine,

And the pains and struggles leap on the page, in prose or in poem,

Life starts to make you into the vessel you were always meant

To be.

Your age, your past, and your agonies, fade into the day,

Or night, and you become one with the artistic expression.

Copyright 2022 by Professor James Musgrave


The gravity of time holds me down;

Like a tree I'm growing up in my place,

Or a bird caged in my own space.

I keep waiting and hoping;

For my dreams to bloom,

And for my wings to come out soon.

But the harder I fight life,

The farther it pulls me under.

I'm tired of starting over every time I lose,

When giving up hurts less-

than anything else I may choose.

Call me weak for wanting to let go,

My burden is getting heavier

And life refuses to slow.

Yet whatever happens to me-

in the days to come,

I will always thank myself first,

Because I'm not where I came from.

And for you who are still not apart;

If my death arrives with a poem,

Then promise my cursed soul-

A burial next to the Sacred Heart.


You have no idea how much hurts

every poet's soul hides ...

No, you don't know nor will you ever know,

because you think poetry is something

what is only read and listened to.

You have no idea what it's like

when you smile and tears choke you,

when sobs are heard from the soul.

What is just a verse to you

for the poet, it is proof of the suffering of all.

For you and many others

there is a significant poetic award,

you have no idea it's just

confirmation for a sick soul.

What you call deserved recognition

for the poet, it is another proof

to have him less and less.

Every word in some verse

a sigh is one noteworthy,

and every poem with tears written

a piece of the poet's heart was torn off.

Poets are unhappy people

those who walk the world with sorrow

but know, they love the strongest and purest.

I know very well how it hurts

because I am one of those

who the verses write these and that

and thus heals the pains of the soul ...

I am one of you, of those

who strongly and purely know to love.


You were my unattainable love

wonderful, silent, and distant

and you didn't even know that

I loved only summer and the sea more

because in every wave of it

my soul still breathes the most beautiful today.

I loved you, my love

and you never even found out...

I longed and fantasized about you

more and more every day

suffered because you were somehow yourself

I hoped and thought you would be mine.

I loved you so much

and I didn't know much about you

in my dreams, you were the one

who loves me, who wants me

and I surrender to him soul and body

without any shame, so bold!

I loved those loves far away

my delusion from youth too far! 


When the years pass and we grow old

embrace me with your eyes

and touch me with your soul

as your own newborn child!

Hug me gently, yet tightly

to I know that you protect me

and don't give up just like that!

Touch my cheek with a kiss,

and I will keep it like your trust!

Remove the curtains from your eyes,

look at me gently as you once did,

and love me like that at least sometimes.

Love my wrinkles and these hands

which they know to hug

even when they get old.

Still love that child in me,

just love me, love me quietly,

love me a little, because I care.

Love me, dear, when the years pass,

with sight heal me when the pains come.

I will cherish you

and caress you with my soul,

as our newborn child,

just love me, love me a little!

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