Glad to be Alive

(A poem written on an idle sunny afternoon... even though I was at the back bench in a class when I wrote it!)

Lush green grass under my feet
Sparkling streams flowing past
Voices of children playing in the street
The wind in my hair when I drive fast
These are some of the reasons
That I have a spring in my step.

Smiling faces that greet me in the morning
Orange strands of Sun at twilight
Violent video games my Mom finds appalling
Stars beaming back at me in the night
These are some of the reasons
That I have a sparkle in my eye.

Gut-wrenching bone-jarring rock
Jolly men dressed like Santa Claus
Cute little dolls that can talk
Ice cream topped with chocolate sauce
These are some of the reasons
That I’m glad to be alive.

Ice and Fire

(I submitted this for a Limerick contest some time ago. The first paragraph was given. In general I write poorly when write for contests and stuff, but this one is ok I think.)

Adi-dasa the ever-ambitious sadhoo
Burnt his feet walking the fire bed through
So the next time, he ran on the coals
With hidden padding on his soles
And invented the first ever sports shoe.

Nevertheless, the experience left a bitter taste,
And dread of the mob made him leave in haste;
Yet, to go where he could not be seen
Meant going where he had never been,
So he headed for the snowy Himalayan wastes.

The snow vexed him to no end,
And he thought his bones would break if he tried to bend,
But he had God to thank
As he found a wooden plank
When the rocks had no shelter to lend.

But he’s clumsy, the old fella,
And when carrying the makeshift umbrella,
He slipped and slid down the slope
But he clutched the plank as his only hope,
And he had a snowboard, voila!

He reached a camp with his robes rent,
And all of his courage spent.
But to protect his modesty
He had to look for clothes, hastily,
But dared not approach a tent.

So he fashioned some with leaves and root,
And even made a cap, to boot.
Thus attired, he sauntered to the campfire,
Happy to be out of straits so dire,
And answered strangers with the whole truth.

Alas, not a single soul believed what he said,
And he became so angry his face went red.
Cursing the human spirit so vile,
Not knowing he’d started a new style,
He retired to his cold stony bed.

The man who hated ice and fire
And was the world’s most honest liar
Had made the most marvelous creations
That became the crowd’s passions,
Fashions of which they would never tire.

When not to duck

(This is one of those 15-minute poems I used to churn out regularly at one point of time... well I'm capable of doing better than this usually!)

In a tough, tough world,
Where if you stop to gaze,
You will be steamrollered;
You take a moment to laze,
And you will be left in the dust.

But what is even worse,
Is that you will be knocked down
Unless you are careful;
And you will look like a clown
Unless you know when to duck.

Be watchful and wary,
So when someone takes a swing,
You can get out of the way.
But the more important thing,
Is to know when not to.

Sometimes you should take a blow,
And also show the other cheek,
When it is from a friend,
And good will is what you seek.
So why create more friction?

Some things are worth more
Than that pain that comes
From not hitting back.
But in the end your heart hums
The tune of happiness.

A Tribute to Paternity

(I wrote this one on Fathers' Day, ages ago. Hopefully putting it up here will give it a part of the immortality that all tributes deserve.)

The pillar of strength
For me to lean on
In times of disappointment,
Frustration, failure or anguish;
Stronger than steel,
Yet softer than cotton,
He is that wonder
Who we call Father.

His reassuring presence
Boosts my confidence.
Ever an inspiration,
He encourages my aspirations.
Caring yet phlegmatic,
Soothing yet candid,
My beacon of hope,
My guiding light,
My friend, philosopher and teacher,
But most of all, my Father.

Father...
The word that evokes feelings
Of affection, respect and confidence;
On this wondrous occasion,
That we call Father's Day,
I submit my tribute to Paternity.

As I Pick up the Quill...

A torrent of words flow out,
Drenching me in joyous embrace,
Seemingly ne'er to stop,
Sweeping me off my unsteady feet.

My spirit soars with raw passion,
And the powerful storm slows to a playful shower,
Melodious in rhythmic grace,
Spinning me around in rapturous terpsichore.

Now a gentle drizzle,
Peppering me with questions,
Knowing when I am able to listen,
And rejuvenating my soul with fresh raindrops.

The heavens turn silent, but..
A cool damp breeze blows through my being,
Probing my feelings, lending me meaning,
Making me yearn for the words that had flow'd.

And then I set down the quill.

(A poem to explain how a poet feels when he/she writes a poem... man the words are really flowing for me these days..)

The Mirror of the Self

(After a long time... a new poem. I wrote a part of it earlier, inspired by Richard Bach's Illusions, but rewrote and completed it only today. Actually, I don't quite fully understand what I've written myself, so it's more or less open to interpretation.)

In a small village
On a not-too distant shore,
Was born a boy in this age
Like none you’ve seen before.

Too aware of the harsh world,
And too sensitive for his own good,
He would sit thinking till the night grew cold,
And the fire died for lack of wood.

A fine young man he grew up to be,
But this world is not the right place
For a mind as beautiful as had he;
Yet it was something he had to face.

Confused, he was, by so many things
That defied the common sense of his soul;
Questions raged and lent him wings
And one night into the darkness he stole.

He could not put into words his distress
And the thoughts that blazed in his head.
But he sought the answers nonetheless;
The wide world, in front of him was spread.

He searched for justice
He searched for compassion
He searched for mercy
He searched for integrity
His search was long, but in vain.

He searched the mountains
He searched the valleys
He searched the oceans
He searched the deserts
His face was weathered by the strain.

At last he chanced to hear
Of an elusive hermit who was very wise;
For the needy alone he would appear,
And offer his priceless advice.

He found him at last on a snow-capped peak,
And submitted to him thus:
"O Wise one!
I have scoured the lands and the seas;
I have looked everywhere, and what do I see?
I see hatred, I see bloodshed,
I see pettiness, I see cruelty,
I see jealousy, I see greed,
I see selfishness, I see dishonesty.
All I look for is a human being,
The way God made him to be.
Is that too much to ask?
Why can I not find such a man?"

The wise hermit said to him,
"Cease your search this very instant.
All who you see, who are not
How you know they should be,
Are but lost, and it is your duty
To show them the way."

The young man suddenly felt as though
His soul were cleansed with heavenly light
And his heart was unburdened a thousand-fold.
He turned around, hesitated, and turned again
To ask how he may start this monumental task.
But the man he’d addressed was not to be found;
In his place was a frozen mirror of ice.

A miracle he’d seen, and a miracle he’d heard.
With purpose anew he set forth upon his task.
He was a leader of men,
Aye, men they’d become under his guidance
From the creatures the world had turned them into.

"This man is the Son of God," they whispered,
"And he has seen and spoken to Him."
"I am naught but a son of this same Earth,”
He replied, "And I but saw and spoke to my inner self."

What Matters?

(Just dug this one up. Wrote it last year in forty minutes for my creative writing exam... those were the days...)

Things which move me,
And make me feel free;
A bright butterfly, a golden sunset,
A field of dandelions, a melodious dulcet;
Thus spoke the dreamy poet.

Bessel functions and differential equations,
Partial derivatives and slide rule calculations;
An underlying order in nature's every creation
For which man still seeks an explanation;
So said the thoughtful mathematician.

The enchanting lilt of a clear, sweet voice
In which one may dissolve and rejoice:
The harmony of a well struck chord,
The reason why noise is easy, but music is hard;
The musician said this, and the bard.

The fact that there are buildings a hundred storeys tall,
The way the Ancient Chinese built the Great Wall,
The miracle of the Leaning Tower still standing,
The magnificence of the Taj Mahal, beyond understanding;
Said the architect's voice commanding.

The integrity of our borders,
The obeying of a superior's orders,
Power and Glory,
Battle and Victory;
I gathered from the General's story.

I listened to all, but none convinced me,
Until a grubby orphan, running careless and free,
Said in a voice that rang innocent and true,
"You need someone to care for you,
To be with you, hold you and love you."
Tell me, dear reader,
Do you not agree?