It's a sunny day, the wind is much shriller;
Hang some negative words on the wire.
Forget for a few minutes; go out hastily,
They'd be all parroting with glee, freely.
You're astounded at the magic of them;
Think how possible, when no wizard came.
You throw them in a pond in petulance;
Their white petals they fan out thence.
You trim them with scissors, and snap;
Through the globe they smile and on the map.  
You string them in a piano and in a guitar;
On the air they dance about love and war.
You store them in a hive, huge and kind;
Their honey they bear for the whole mankind.

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what horizons await us, what skies fasten
to the bright ambers of our dreaming bones?

our love, water trickling over
a pebble in a stream,

the whoosh of  
leaves and a shadow in the dark,

the ghost of a poem
written in a dream,

the splendour of the tide,

both everything and
nothing,

our love neither a poem or a sigh,
all the winds battling,

spring's blue moon waiting near the
water for one slow ripple to reach
out.

i have a blank canvas,
my poems like watercolours,
sweet blues and greens,
drafted in blossom.

spring brings new leaves
and budding flowers,
opens her eyes,
begins to dress the earth,
finds freedom in the flowing
breeze,
while the sparrows
sing like fluffed out
buddha's in the
hedge.

the blackbird dances on the lawn
(always in a tremendous fuss)
birds scrambling with
twigs and scraps of cloth,
chattering about the silks
of the blossoming sky
and the sands of the sun
blowing ceaselessly
in a gold dream of day.

The unspoken hurt holds heavy
On my tired timid tongue

Birth is not a bane.
It's a prayer,
A cherished dream,
Then a choice,
A gift,
And gift isn't despised,
This has been our schooling.
The buffalo is a lovely member
In our houses,
And its cute baby
Is welcomed wholeheartedly.
Oh this animal is so white.
The ***** boy
must have been  that one,
And even the fisherman,
And Khan, another *****,
Rues to born
To having gone through
The trauma of being black.

With a bag in the mind,
For many yards I walked
On the pavement,
On the hill,
In the meadows,
Through the malls
And bazaars.
No idea was there,
Stumbling on the leaves,
Flying over the daffodils,
Swallowing on water,
Running across the stream,
Stacked with others in the basket,
And well decorated in the glass.
I came back,
And put down the that, empty.
Appetite took me to the kitchen.
Eggs filled my belly.
Oh, it was there,
With bruised leg,
Mewing behind the vase.
I placed it into the bag
And dropped it on the page.

It's a habit
To pretend to sneeze
Even though there's no dust,
flying at his face

But I, as a fledgling fancies of flying,
With no pinion, longed for snow.
It's April when the wind goes out
For outings in a moment, and walls
Of the world change their hue soon.
It's gloom for every soul for a while,
Then coolness. Yet my heart wanted more, and I prayed for flakes, oh futility.
On a page of chemistry book
Walk for thousands of miles,
And for ages. You wouldn't
Stumble upon any river anywhere,
Even a tiny land, and a little dust.

In the sea, swims the lonely leaf,
Though it knows nothing road,
It holds on to hope to move on,
And strongly believes in brotherhood

Whenever you talk to a stupid person,
Speak less as he will learn much from
You, but waste that to prove  your words were only nonsense.

If someone hates you,
Remember,
There is some love
Because of which he hates you,
And you have to find out that.