I never gave her anklets So her foot steps don't make music I never gave her bangles So her wrists don't jingle melodies I never gave her sarees So her midriff is always covered I never gave her jasmine So her hair smells only of shampoo But I wrote her poems of love And worshiped her as my own goddess Kunju, I haven't given you everything I wanted But my heart and soul hang from your ears Like the earrings I never gave you Kissing your cheeks Following the sways of your steps Oct 7, 2014
I told the goddess a joke And waited to hear if she would laugh But no laugh did come So I pleaded with her son To explain it to her, on my behalf I told the goddess a joke And waited to see if she would grin But no grin did appear So I asked her in fear Did I offend or get under your skin? I told the goddess a joke And hoped she, at the least, would smile But her lips did not curve No smile did I observe I gave up at the end of my guile Then the goddess told me a joke I was determined to not laugh, smile or grin But soon I cried on her lap And she laughed and she clapped Her joke was to my chagrin June 22, 2020