in the land of the white
live too the black men
apparently with equal right
but with covert disdain.

why couldn't the world be one place
when we are all from common gene
where humanity is the only race
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live too the white men
apparently of the same pack
but on a different plane.

why couldn't the world be one landmass
when we rose from one origin
where being humane is the only class
across the color of skin.

in the land of the white
live the white men
among them aren't equal right
exist disparity and disdain.

why couldn't the world be one unit
when together we all once had been
where brotherhood is boldly writ
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live the black men
among them oneness they lack
the inequalities still remain.*

why couldn't the world be one creed
where mankind lives as one kin
the white and the black can only read
love across the color of skin.

Our thoughts are wisps of  cigarette smoke
Which rise to the sky, in rings,
reaching out in supplication, from within
to without.

I stand by the period bed
where Dupleix rested his head,
wondering at his kind of life,

if he lay there with wife
or some native maid.

doesn't hint his bronze bust
if he lay there bare
in ebullient lust

stirred by a girl darkly thin
bowing himself to her embrace
finding in his war beaten mind, happiness,

or, there wasn't any such thing,
he lay there staring at the ceiling
far from even one warm kiss
storming his brain to defeat the British...

I think of the kitten that survived a few days,
it still pains.

In the museum, I rhyme dust with lust.

being the topper in the class, he developed certain pride
that the envious derided, ignored flatterers on his side.

the first bench was his permanent place
from where shone his haloed face
when the teachers spoke seemed it thus
there was only him in the whole class.

all questions he took the answers he knew
solved hardest sums others had no clue
not once an intruder could invade his space
he shined in glory of his flawlessness.

from him was never unfinished homework
ruthlessly made on exams his mark
was taken for granted he would win first place
the rest of the herd would just run the race.

the teachers indulged him the pride of the class
but you know all fame are fragile like glass
it so happened a new teacher joined the school
unbiased he was not to blindly toe the rule.

he asked the first boy if he had ever flown a kite
played marbles on road picked up a fight
if ever he had walked barefooted on the grass
stole a look at sky bunked even one class.

if he had ever chosen to close the book
hid him alone in the scariest of nook
scanned the horizon to catch first moonrise
counted the stars bamboo grove's fireflies.

he looked nonplussed didn't utter a word
anything than studies he hardly bothered
had he answered it would all have been *no
to him most precious was his place at front row.

he bowed his head down with ashen face
for the first time in class he failed to impress
what happened next was no riddle to guess
that teacher was gone without a trace.

it's easy to give up writing
have done it quite oftentimes
to focus on harder things
and not waste on easy rhymes!

each time i give up the pen
achieve some wonderful feat
i am that man once again
who does for others little bit!

whenever give the keys rest
close the door of poetryland
come upon a chance not to waste
to extend someone a helping hand!

times i clipped the bard's wings
landed my mind on the ground
met these eyes many things
doing which joys knew no bound!

what's there to write about
a floor scrubber?

in the sun on my shoulder
its light plastic touch
polythene wrapper
gaily fluttering in the wind
breathing its last light of freedom
before consigned to lifelong prison
standing damp dreaming to dry
but for that fleeting time
it rests on my shoulder
comforted on flesh and bone
on the brief journey
from the shop to a nook
enjoying the glances of passerby
curious my carrying it
a hint of boast in my gait
flaunting as if a magic wand
the floor scrubber transient yet eternal
a glorious poem material
a poem name
and a man's declaration

there's no shame
doing your work
your way.

I don't know.
I don't know,
what it feels like to love as a parent,
because my experience is limited by my experiences.

I haven't had the chance to experience parenthood,
however existence is shared by all existing things,
and whenever I observe the existence of parenthood,
Many things are shared with me.
Good and Bad.

It is here I begin to understand what a child is to a parent.

A child is like the sun,
to its parents sea.

The brighter a child shines,
the deeper its rays penetrate,
the layers of the sea.

And you may wonder,
How does the sun get to shine bright?

The sun gets to shine bright,
Through the love, understanding and acceptance of the sea.

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

I'm wondering
What went wrong;
HP's becoming
An animal farm.