On chest

On chest dangled a golden locket

that I did pocket,

to not give offence

to debt burdened farmhand,

and jumped the high fence

dividing us to land

on muddy soil, slime made coil,

soil soiled leg and garment;

a fish and he both on boil,

no escape or comfort I ferment

to hopeful eyes that beg

as deny money,

held fence to balance failing leg

giver of all my honey,

I hid family locket

as he hid tears,

red hollows in eye socket,

to comfort I was all ears,

no words came

but kids shrivelled, garbed dirty,

playing innocent game,

but I had own troubles since  thirty,

helpless witness to their grief,

for had once chased fame,

a deluded spell not brief,

ending defeated and tame,

I dependent on my family,

and his family dependent on him,

what use to him world’s homily,

yet who am I to talk that lives on a whim,

darkness as setting sun vanished,

but frolicking kids our distress banished.

 

 

Embarassment

Can live with a sorrow,
but not with an embarrassment,
can forget all the punishment,
this will haunt even tomorrow;

would like to hide the face in a burrow,
for that deed, shall forever repent,
not a cure for this ailment,
feel like a mummified Egyptian pharaoh,

some deeds get no laughs, felt right then,
but retrospectively the soul is ashamed,
in the past some stupid mistake done,
shadows follow to rest in grave engraved;

now that all is over,
laugh at oneself what fun,
but for a stupid yet evil deed,
better bury your head.

Love and Beauty

Where night ends, day begins,
every beginning has an end,
why is it? My love, my friend,
all waste to end in dustbins;

you are all my kith and kin,
beauty, love and affection blend,
my dirtied conscience,
rusted soul you rinse;

your eyelids open just to close,
but then opens freshly again,
in the seas the waves rose,
only to subside without any gain;

your beauty, youth, style and poise,
shall also end much to my strain.

Ayodhya

[ As mentioned earlier, all attempts at poems made as a kid have only been included in the School days’ Rhymes section, those saved by my mom. As an act of rebellion I burnt all my poems and quit writing, when I found my mom had read them. These are the ones my mom had saved by making a copy. This, my second poem was written at the age of almost thirteen in my eighth grade. Social consciousness has no age bar.]

I am dull,
seeing the skull,
of innocent men rolling down,
the sacred town;

because of foolish men,
hearing the evil one,
commit many a sin,
in the name of religion;

is it the will of god,
that makes us sad,
it is the whim of man,
that makes us groan;

does hope remain,
that the hatred and pain,
the never ending tale,
will one day anchor it’s sail.

Where So Fast?

  1. My hero is untalented and slow, yet cannot be defeated as he runs in the opposite direction.
  2. Everyone runs hard for money, for themselves and their children; one asked  my hero, why do you always stand when I see you here; he too runs in paths not easily seen, in the hope to teach people to walk.
  3. We dedicate all our life to earn money, when to spend; Oh! our children, but we’ve taught them also to earn, then who will spend?
  4. The people of today run on the dictum of society and call themselves successful or on the path of success, they see no other choice, a few see a choice to be restful; yet run to teach others sense and in hope that one day we may all sit together.
  5. You have no choice if you are born poor but you have a choice not to die so is the greatest lie of all, the few that make it lose their happiness and life and the rich don’t have it easy either, they are afraid of being poor.
  6. Even the most liberal of parents burden their children when it comes to education, do institutions give true education; the generation before us had a life, we at least had a childhood, but what of the poor kids today?
  7. Parental affection is the truest thing in the world, but parental responsibility is the reflection of what peers in society may say and so parents stifle their children; this is the major reason progress is slow.
  8. Good kids are those with good marks, good youths are those with great earnings with or without marks and great adults are those with money or have kids of aforesaid qualities.
  9. Money isn’t happiness. What is? A family of three dining quietly in Marriott or a simple extended family dinner, bragging to a friend on whatsapp and having the most likes on facebook, or a hilarious meeting of neighborhood friends.
  10. All we need to teach our children is not to listen to the rants of those around and find their true self but when we ourselves are the ones ranting the most in the guise of guiding them, how will they ever truly find themselves and happiness.

Brave Heart

(All poems in the school day’s rhymes were written between the age of 13 and 16 and were meant to be a secret, a secret which later came to light. The following was written at 13 and isn’t exactly a poem, but the guilty confusions of the shy child about its nature and societal values as recorded by the child at that age. In fact poetry to the child was a code language it used to keep its secret safe from the prying eyes of others.)

The childish heart so tame,
the innocence, ignorance became;
a chink when grown to make lame
once bright enough to play life’s game;

broke all rules, none to blame,
then nothing was ever the same,
grew selfish, evil thoughts came,
conscience gone, never feel shame;

too much evil to frankly proclaim,
sinking in the flood like a dame,
even after death, sins too harsh to name,
not in fear of losing, if so, any fame;

but to prevent falsify love, life’s true claim,
betraying trust of loved one’s sublime,
yielding to pressures, pleasures of crime,
the guilty feeling unhealed by time;

confused possessive feelings, affection to slime,
unique morals and ethics its frame,
chasing mad impossible dream,
yet a brave heart to defy world’s scream;

the romantic ideas about crime,
to the flesh of my blood the flame,
the morals lost in the flooded stream,
alone, solitude, what pain and flame;

cunning and subconscious team,
to defeat nobility for sinister scheme,
to pull others my kind, kill them, affections gleam,
the motions of mind to actions beam;

till then no harm done, proper all seem,
but after that, its ethic couldn’t justify or redeem,
the irresistible evil sweetness of the cream,
when fed up grew bitter like neem;

cowardice,hypocrisy and villainy stem,
from need for love and devil’s whim,
and available true beauty near him,
bleeding heart is with sins to brim;

drowning heart, unable destination, stops swim,
murderous mind with glamour of crime, slim;
loving heart, source of happy and sad days dim,
angry, final march, crime revealed, shame;

strange message, heart more sad, agony’s prime,
felt need to pacify likes of them,
resolved none shall be helpless,
will hedge myself to help them climb.

Mighty Meek

The poor one weak and meek,
the mute can’t speak or seek,
hope that heroic roman or greek,
shall save him seems bleak;

but due to some fatal leak
in the plans of that weak,
the mouse runs in a streak
before the cat so sleek;

the cat pounces in the creek,
winds and clouds cause a freak
eagle to have a close peak
from atop a mountain peak;

the eagle picks the cat with its beak,
the cat in fear gives a shriek,
omens, spirits or some mystique
the cause, the mouse was saved is oblique.

Life’s Concern

To all life is a gift,
it is more than food shelter,
joy even when without food is better,
but some fools refuse this so swift;

unknown to beauty unseen cause opinion rift,
all the fragrance known is of the gutter,
never allowed the wings to flutter,
they’d understand once given a lift;

dirt or neat, pigs don’t discern,
the many pleasures unknown to the beggar,
all these rebukes made hearts burn,
at last was heard the voice of anger;

to many food isn’t life’s main concern,
cause never felt the pangs of hunger.

Laughter’s Son

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Resources of mind, soul and body drain,
mental laziness renders the creative pond dry,
I find no drop to fill however hard I try,
no spark of lightning, no hope for rain;

I move dead slow with tortoise brain,
never I come out of shell, I am shy,
but at times I let inhibitions fly,
I lie low, never serious, ever in playful vein;

I enjoy life and all is fun,
and I seem so to those around,
away from the pond I run,
to escape the ridicule of the hound;

I’ve chosen to be laughter’s son,
so I silence the inner sound.