P had a box of tissues handy to wipe his flowing tears. P’s heart was breaking, looking at what was going on…..
P felt he needed some dope,
Or he wouldn’t cope;
Though not end life on a rope,
He would sit around and mope;
For answers he might grope,
But he couldn’t see any hope!
Could he change the situation? Nope!
For how could he alter things in a TV soap?
P had nothing to write on the daily prompt;
This one word had him stomped;
For words with the meaning of plunder,
He was determined to keep asunder
From his life, simple and quirky
And even from his vocabulary!
P’s neighbour: “Hey P, it’s good to see you tending to your garden. What’s up?”
P: “Well, the Daily prompt today was a word that I don’t gel with and I decided to give it a miss. So I had some time on my hands…”
P’s neighbour: “Good! At least now you will be able to get rid of all those overgrown weeds. They are not only sore on the eyes but the pests and vermin they harbour come over the fence and pillage my herbs and sprouts…”
P rushes back inside his home even without a goodbye, to turn on his laptop and go to his blog….
It’s not that P does not like to mix with people. In fact he loves interacting with people. But there are times when P wants to retreat into his den and lick his wounds when life deals him some of those staggering blows. At such times P does not like to have visitors who came to offer their condolences. Perhaps they thought it comforted him but P felt it drained him more to listen to their commiserations. The one strategy he developed to tide over these situations was to get his violin out and play some mournful melodies……..
A social being, P enjoyed company;
But at times he preferred solitude
To hide in his den and lick his wounds;
To muse and dwell on life’s vagaries
And quietly laze in his retreat,
Till all mended he could face the world again.
But friends and relatives would come calling,
To comfort, commiserate or maybe even gloat;
This often seemed to get his goat;
But all was good when in music he took refuge;
For, as soon as his violin started to wail,
His guests beat a retreat without fail.
A standing ovation? His unrealized dream!
The sky was dark, overcast and grey
As the sun was brooding behind the clouds;
Raindrops dripped, thunder rumbled,
The wind threw a tantrum with the window panes.
P couldn’t help be moody; it was such a gloomy day;
Though the clime was to blame he could hardly say;
With the weather and the traffic jam he was late for his date
And she had simply driven off with his best mate.
Aside: Of course P makes it a habit of being late…
![MC900389170[1]](https://avatarofmrbean.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/mc9003891701.jpg?w=538)
Anyone who knew P well was convinced he was good at fishing. Often when he was away from work, there was a note stuck on the door of his office which said “Gone fishing….” But…
Many a time P had gone fishing
And come home without any catch;
To bait the hook, he kept forgetting;
The fish were sharper, more than his match!
All he ever caught was once when he pulled in the reel,
Out came a soggy shoe hanging by its lace!
Another time a tug from something live he could feel,
Was a puffer fish, P let him go when it pouted up its face.
Yet P never thought of giving up the fine sport of fishing;
He loved to sit with legs dangling down the side of the pier;
With homing birds in the crimson sky, the sun slowly setting,
His reel idling in the rippling waters, the breeze caressing his hair.
Something seemed to soothe him then:
His catch didn’t matter, nor the past or the future;
It was like meditation or serene and calming Zen
As he blended in blissfully with Mother Nature…
P sat down to pen his verse
For a post on a one word prompt;
He scratched his head, he pulled his ears
But was left totally whomped.
He broke the word without a wrench:
The first three letters stood for cheat;
The next two, the UN or ‘one’ in french;
The last four formed something one could beat.
Confused what the word really meant,
P wondered how one could be so dumb
To scam a UN percussion instrument;
It was such a conUNdrum!
Reblogging this post that was previously published for a daily prompt as it is relevant to the theme “finding your place“.
From India P flew to New Zealand,
Looking for a better life;
Endured the cold in the south, but
Earthquakes shook his sanity.
Ferrying across the Tasman he then
Landed down in Australia;
Emus and roos were endearing,
Employment, though, was hard to find.
Friends and foes suggested he
Left for a share of the American Pie;
Excitedly he flew to the United States but
Entry was denied, Immigration threw him out.
Fleeing to India he found his place;
Losing itchy feet and all bravado,
Eventually he progressed so spiritually;
Everything, he now believes, was simply meant to be.
