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For you, I am an artist,
My art is music,
My art is love.

For you, I am a soldier,
My duty is guarding,
My duty is protecting.

You lost someone special,
I'm an addition new,
Do not worry, dear,
I'm here to stay here.
My HP Poem #1852
©Atul Kaushal
Baby girl, I love you...
Oh my baby, I love you...

Cutie, I love you...
Cutie pie, I love you...

Golu, I love you...
Golumolu, I love you...

You're my best friend...
Only my closest friend...

You're my girlfriend...
Only I shall be your husband...
Written for my best friend, Mitali Das.

My HP Poem #1843
©Atul Kaushal
I break hearts in this journey
But I am not proud of being a vandal
And I do not do it wantonly
My HP Poem #1823
©Atul Kaushal
As you will not be there
Because you are a bad girl
So, it will be so lonely there
My HP Poem #1827
©Atul Kaushal
See this hollow trunk here,
It houses a parrot family now,
The elder tree let itself be pecked,
A woodpecker carved a home inside,
Then parrots came to the hollow,
It protects their children a lot,
Seldom do they thank God.

The woodpecker seeks the credit not.
Is it not just so beautiful?

I luckily live so close to mother nature that I see her in her almost ******, undisturbed natural love.

My HP Poem #1066
©Atul Kaushal
 May 2020 Mitali Das
Doy A
There is a man who ends his sentences with proper punctuation
the kind of man who has no trouble with pronunciation
His library is filled with varied nonfiction & fiction
His words are refined, only of the highest selection

His days are spent buried in books
Hours upon hours in his quiet nook
The window beside him he never cared look
Adventures and travels, he never took

Content was he with pages endless
His imagination wild, free, limitless
No need to step out where he was defenseless
Words upon words were enough, he says

Of course in time, this man grew old
His only regret was never being bold
Never knew the world was the biggest book he could hold
No stories to tell, only stories already told
Sometimes I start writing a poem and end up getting lost in thought. Trouble is I never know how to end these things. I try. I try.
The over I ball only has two *****,
I sprinkle the pitch with thickets,
I get spent up and the over is up.
My HP Poem #1828
©Atul Kaushal
Whenevel I clied hungly,
Chhe would give me milk.
Whenevel I do not dlink it,
Chhe will tly that I dlink it.
Whenevel I am chho angly,
Chhe will tly that I dlunk it.
Whenevel chhe loshesh hope,
Chhe will look at my papa.
My daddy will only shmile,
Lift shweetly in hiz armsh.

They would then shuksheed,
Togethel they enteltain me.
They dichhtract & feed me,
Milk I lyk not chho vely hot.
Twichhe they tly & I leject,
They sing me some lhymsh.
Mom then poulsh two dlops,
On back of hel hand chhe tlies.

'Tsch! It's hot,' chhe ekchclaims,
I let out a shmall shlieky laugh.
Daddy lent hel a helping hand,
He blung a khup of cold watel.
Finally they togethel feed me,
Calefully & lovingly they do it.
Whenevel I lemembel my lisp,
I am chho happy & smile bloadly.
In India, the tiny tots often have a cute lisp for many sounds like 'S' as 'Sh', or 'Sh' as 'Chh' or 'R' as 'L', and trust me it sounds so cute whenever their lisp is more prominent than what they actually have to speak. I didn't use to lisp in my childhood, but I did have my own way to say some words. This poem is based on that memory.

My HP Poem #640
©Atul Kaushal
I'm same as you, Atul.
We're made of the same matrix.
I often stand out of my body & think so.
My HP Poem #1833
©Atul Kaushal
Oh my Prosperity,
Oh my Serendipity.
Oh my Destiny,
Oh my Honey,
Oh my Austerity,
Oh mother of my Posterity,
Where are you?
My HP Poem #1831
©Atul Kaushal
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