I am A man of thoughts

I am a man of thoughts

but without words or actions

what use, thoughts, mere farts.

 

 

 

 

 

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They say fickle

They say fickle is fame

yet can’t extinguish the flame,

the fire within refuses to burn out,

runs out of bounds stout;

why bother about the million

when can’t enthral the numbered few,

ever a spectator in the pavilion

away from distant cries and hue;

lacking talent and even will

making myself a fool,

never ready for the kill

yet for fame my drool;

heard about poker billionaire

but what of a player like me in solitaire.

I wrote for me

I wrote for me

I wrote for her

wrote and wrote to be

without a care;

till the day came to pass

where my writing had to pause

without a comment or like

the pen went on a strike;

my motive is impure

that is for sure

I seek from her, a platitude

but she never gives any latitude;

I am not human but a tail wagging dog

seeking a pat or a bone through the fog.

A day like this

A day like this ended a year before
without cheer or much uproar,
it tore my heart even then
to be locked alone in this pen;
 
if love and romance is sweet nectar
being unloved and single is worse than tar,
a fact hammered down one’s throat
on each valentine’s day, a severe drought;

this day too shall pass like others,
yet the intense pain, none surpass;
as the day dawns, so does the truth
that forever alone will I be, uncouth;

yes, love transcends romance
but how and who will end my lonely dance.

 

La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad by Keats

(A ballad by famous poet John Keats that even non poem lovers can enjoy)
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
       Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
       And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
       So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
       And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
       With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
       Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
       Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
       And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
       And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
       And made sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed,
       And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
       A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
       And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
       ‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her Elfin grot,
       And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
       With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
       And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
       On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
       Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
       Thee hath in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
       With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
       On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
       Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
       And no birds sing.