What is life

What is this life
one minute boisterous
another preposterous.

Why live it at all
wish we were in mother’s womb cloistered
forever from harsh pressures non flustered.

It ain’t a choice
one just shouldn’t have a chick
for no one is ever there to stick.

What is to live
to drive, push and shove around
where is hidden the old playground.

What is hell
the earth where all live in terror
and devil, just look in the mirror.

What is heaven
it is in our bank account and clock together
just got to unfollow one and slow the other.

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What have I done?

The famous american president Kennedy said “Ask not what the nation has did for you, ask rather what you have done for it.”

What have I done?

Nothing.

I sure have benefited a lot from the corporate entities and various body polity that I so easily criticize.

The society has so industriously provided for all my wants, and in accusing glares and satire ask me, where were you when our children were learning and why are you like this. I got no answers.

The loving ones whose money made my survival possible, my friends and peers say we are sweating, we have moved on, and ask me subtly or directly what have you done and why are you thus.

The caregivers near me accuse me truthfully have you ever lifted your finger, ever taken a pebble away to ease the path of another. Life may not be about money to dream walkers yet the thick skulled should realize it is about work. Leave alone work, have you ever acted or forgone little things for the sake of those you love. You are a burden unto society and yourself. What have you done and why are you thus.

I had no answers and cowing inside I would bristle with anger on the outside. Now I have a realization.

I might not have done anything but I am waiting for what I will do. 

I am not going to do wonders, but if in the end on a dark desolate highway I bring cheer to a starving puppy, my life would have been done. This is escapism, some would say, he types words without action, a management student would quickly point the cost benefit ratio isn’t right, after all society invested in him, what a waste. This isn’t what I want to do, but just pointed that I am prepared for this too.

What I want to do or rather be part of is concrete reality requiring concrete continuous action, that I seek to figuratively express through words. Yes metaphorically.

The boat landed on the shore, a few of the industrious young got down and me too. In the crossing here, our parents rowed, in midstream my peers took over relieving them, not me, I ran hither and thither making the boat stumble, tried a paddle, one here and there, all borne for my parents, when they were feeble, others took the rows, for the wealth of hidden markers they had. Markers are the system the boat ran. Now as people young and old were hauled into the boat by the industrious few, I stood aloof gazing, not moving a finger. Yet when it was time for the final haul, all cried for me to get within. Please come inside they begged in good spirit.

They said you’ll never know life until you row across rivers of your own. We travel the ocean yet fighting for rivers our own. We’ll never accept claim of outsider, nor allow him to share the fruit of love, so get in or get lost forever.

I said yes I am an outsider, yet you’ve forgotten that one is needed to push the boat along in forward journey, else all of you’ll remain here forever stagnant and slowly decaying. A final push is needed from one who’ll stay here forever alone, and maybe that’s why neither mind not limb of mine ever knew tiredness. Here go yonder.

Please don’t judge what I was, what I am and what I will be, for I was never part of you, yet you fed me, and you could never save me yet I saved you. For I may be deaf to human call from this shore but still can reminisce what pass my truths in dream or wise sense.

What have I done? Nothing.

What will I do? Push the boat ahead while staying my ground and hope the onward journey isn’t blurred by thoughts of me cast aside on this shore.

I’ve enjoyed the journey and so shall I this solitude imposed upon me. My very last breath is on reason of those aloft the boat and shall stay for their happiness as I depart.

What have I done?

Dreamed

What will I do?

Make it reality.

Slowly I count

Slowly I count
with bated breath
like little kids do
in a game
of hide
and seek.

One, two, three.
Unlike them
l don’t count
as moments pass.
I pause for days
sometimes weeks
at times much more.

The count does grow
gradually in its own pace.
I am in the thirties, my age.
In the fifties, my count.
When will I see the millions
I see elsewhere.

What do I count
not shining stars
not money in my account
nor the pages I’ve written.

I count my follows
and why do I do that
don’t I have chores.

I do it in hope of finally creating a stage
for my final grand master piece

MY LIFE.

Cunning is life

(This is an interesting effort, that mentions 4 sports easy to identify, those that do can mention as soon more tougher ones will be added making it a sort of a riddle)

Cunning is  life
moves and countermoves
never knew
all forces fought
Queens came and went
Valiant Knights shielded
all for me.

Am I a king?

I had an open hand
while others camouflaged
what could they do
with their two pair,
even full houses
made excuses
for dirty tricks.

Did I command a royal flush?

Then why at last
it is me against a wall
a tight squeeze,
my very own force
all source of my strength
pitted against me.

Is this conduct warning?

I once wanted
all coins on board
my aim never precise
the strike lacked force
yet never empty pocket
slowly I fix my gaze
as time draws near
on that final coin.

Will I have a follow-on or will I be a pauper?

Fire invisible

(All posts in school days’ Rhymes section were done in my school days.)

No one saw it burn, no one felt it’s warmth,
but it grew each morn,
no one heard it’s breath,
but it was there somehow born;

even without fuel,
and with water all around,
after suffering the duel,
it nevertheless went ahead,
and became very cruel;

though it seemed vague,
shut inside the cage,
it spread like the plague,
with a wild rage,

was it too late, the heat unbearable,
efforts to stop in vain,
the nightmare was terrible,
it caused too much pain;

still none noticed the trouble,
no one knew it burn,
no one knew it’s warmth,
it grew with each morn;

no one heard it’s breath,
but the fire in me still burning.

The wild rage

The wild rage, pain on, you got that zing thing,
no blunder, never surrender, the thunder crazy,
the world tells, world yells, what do we care,
we don’t cross them, we walk free, we dare;

their spells, that bind all, on us loose its magic,
and they’re afraid as we stand defying logic,
in fear and desperation, hold out their rules,
what constraints can hold us wild bulls;

death does come to all us, pain comes,
happiness too, in a blitzkrieg beyond hymns,
let them gather, mumble prayers, and give fee,
we’ll take anytime, death or morning tea;

they envy us and tremble, throwing stones
on us brave few that never went under.

And the winner is…

As a young and gracious person, it doesn’t matter what berth I book in a train, I always end up in the upper berth. For how can I refuse the old, I do give them space. I have to use the restroom often at night, but I don’t tell them that. There are some who don’t do even these little things.

As a man, I do all the legwork for girls who ask, driving in crazy unknown city lanes that I don’t normally do. I give them space to take rest and ease.

As an old person I’m sure I’ll be giving space to the headstrong young to find their place in this world.

By popular notion, when will a person have a space of his own? The answer is simple, when he has a need for his own.

So people say I got a wife and kid, I got a bad leg, I’m mentally disturbed and claim space. This need based world is what Ayn Rand fights to the core. But the flaw in an ability based system is what ability and by what standards, and why the chance to develop the ability was never given to a broad section of people.

So after this, what am I going to say new. Nothing. Life is like a race between the hare and the tortoise, but forget the moral about who will win the race, for what if they ran in different directions. We gotta race, for what else are we here. But never judge others harshly and utter callous words, thinking it is for their good.

What direction I am running is in the About section, but it is those running in the opposite direction that I respect and admire, for it is they who set my pace.

Smart phones

Smart phones, smarter people, blazing rocket,
smiley faces, happy hearts, babies held high,
working hard, ambitions unmindful of sweat,
helping near, dear and those afar, or do try;

proud to be amidst today’s jolly good fellows,
women today, strong as oak, sweet as honey,
painting bright picture, truth is cranky life goes,
on its own, high or low, with or without money;

yet the fine tuned trumpets blow a happy tune,
there is a chasm, wars, poverty, near and far,
these kind, do their part even in that dune,
moving world, giving food, comfort, what care;

those on the pavement, salute your pace,
remember they’re humans too, not a different race.

Garbage Picker

Garbage dump. Man inside.
What life. Poor life. Low life.
At least work for living.
Me. Few. No work. Who poorer?
We run. We earn. We burn.
Money thus got, feed our child’s wants.
What cost? What burden? Is child happy?
What security? What cost? Happiness?
Learn Hard. Childhood lost.
Earn fast. Life lost.
You don’t stop. Stop the clock. At least slow.
Give chance. Yourself first. That man next.
I work. You work. He works.
Not in Debris. But in hubris.
Not word, action. Tear down, not buildings, but mountains.
From higher plateau and slower pace,
smaller yet happier mountains may rise again.