Like a baby
thirsty and hungry
For nourishment
I cry for Mother
In the worst of times
Wanting her
To make the pain go away
For she's where it all ends
And she loves us all
No matter what

couch!
ouch ...

Happiness is an enigma
It is the joy in your heart
When the illusion of continuity
Plays havoc with your perceptions
The child or grandchild is only metaphorically you
Close resemblance notwithstanding my dear
You, a quivering arrow, were shot ahead so have no fear
Your child, or child of your child, is, like you, a message to the future
And happiness is a feeling of seeming well-being and equilibrium
Borne on wings of optimism and transitory like the seasons
Happiness is the sparkle in the eyes of loved ones
Brought about by your presence in a room filled with experiences
For everyone, no matter what, needs a witness
The great feats of our lives are nothing unless chronicled
By silent witnesses and scribes who see and wonder so as to tell
Happiness is a hot meal served generously on a smiling platter
And spiced with the verve of their eagerness to please and to love
Happines is many things besides, but above all it is elevation
To the dizzy heights of apparent permanence in a passing world
Happiness comes easily when we do the simple things of life
That elude those who are forever looking for complications
When you're happy it makes me trusting, peaceful and contented
Yet, in my desperation I may have imagined what pleases me most
But, as they say, 'it is well' - everything may, after all, be just a mirage

as life will have it
some are explicit poems
while others are implicit ones
When you sigh and shake your head
and when you pace the tired floor
and steadily approach  that door
to the hatch that ushers you into a tango
you're quite obviously a vivid poem
with a rhythm and a diction all your own
there is always someone dying to know you
when you brood like an intellectual
and when everything is reality virtual
you're an implicit poem, morose and taciturn
when you paint pictures in weeping colours
and from ubiquitous critics seek no  favours
you're a dirge in e-minor - a veritable lament
that will only go walking when the day may

the bold and the bald
the cold and the called
the bored and the bowed
stalled and stole warming hearts
while the crow cawed timidly
and the deed was done indeed