'I'll  save the world'
  Millions have said this before
  'Serve mankind selflessly
  Give, give, give more'.

   I am just an ordinary man
   With a burden of my own
   I leave to others to usher in a brave new era
   Quietly and unobtrusively I live alone.

You have some harsh words to say to your boss-
Beware!

1

You asked me
' Why does a bird sing?'
May I ask you
'  Can a bird fly with one wing?'

2
My friend is a philosopher
And this he said to me: Life is neither black nor white'
But I am illiterate and all I know is that
Life is just day and night.

3  

Why do you chuckle
Just because your neighbour's new Benz had a knock?
Why are you so churlish and callous
Are you a human being or an unfeeling rock?

4

Her shoes did not fit
Too large were her feet--she was frantic
None to blame but her cobbler-husband
Who had not acquired the requisite shoe-making technique.

5

Some have *** once a month, others weekly
Yet others everyday--what does it matter
To you? Let people be-
Why do you bother? You are an outsider!

The world existed precisely at the moment
I was there.
It was to engage me for the rest of my life.

The same echo of an old song
drifts every midnight through my window
it will not leave me alone--I know not why-
every note seems to sigh in sorrow

but I have no tears
for the long-lost past
as youth is but a forgotten blissful dream
the poet speaks lies when he says that love does forever last.

'Not now
because I'm not ready-
    another time'
  
  not now
when then?
   no answer-complete silence

how many moons have since gone by
   the tiny buds
have blossomed into full-blown roses

some others
have stolen
your prize

and you look on
in disbelief
in wild surprise

you can't contain yourself
and start looking for the next round
but find written on the wall ' nothing left now'

1
Because I pause
I think

2  Because I stop
I see

3  Because I am silent
I hear

4
    Because I am still
I am unshaken

5

Because I know my station
I am never out of place

Life is but a view-point
yours and yours alone
sacred unto yourself
your inalienable right
your innermost sanctum
privy to yourself and none else

life is your raw material
which you shape and mould
in whatever way you want
into what your dreams dictate
the world has no say
nor have the right to know

with loyal, patient and faithful hands
you work
you give all you have
to this pursuit
of love, beauty and duty
you make life become
part of yourself
it begins to understand
and learns to speak your language

you and your life
then fuse into one complete whole-
one view-point
as immortal as time

It's in forgetting the self
that you are set free
the sticky ego would perish
the mind feeds on nothing as it's empty

that which is empty has no boundary
and everything does it encircle
that which is full soon spills over in excess
he who is relieved of the burden of self is his own miracle

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
What about the left-out destitute?
While food and wine go to waste
Millions upon millions live in hunger and solitude.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
The world leaders shamelessly shout 'Progress!'
The richer get richer, the poor--only poorer
Resources are getting less and less.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
Will the goodwill last when the season is done ?
It's the same sad story retold
Everything is forgotten--even good deeds, one by one.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
Think not just of festivity
Have a thought of lasting kindness
That would make the world a happier place to be.

What should I do
with this burden
of self?
weariness-laden

while time's restless wheels
turn and turn
inexorably
through each season

at the end of the spectrum
old age hangs--where light doesn't glisten
where life harshly and mindlessly grinds
and no hopes beckon

there's no turning back
useless it is to reason
everything perishes at the end
the last journey into the unknown knows no return

then there's no longer
self---end of burden

SNOW

My hair is white as the snow
is the season then
made for the shivering old
living with the cold?

but the kids jump for joy
and shout---this is fun-
as they play 'snow-throw'
while I watch from the window

musing as I do every year
as the new snow flakes one by one
fall and tell their story
before my weary eyes
and their mysteries unfold

are they saying
in the ripeness of time
all that is
must rest, decay and fall ?

winter is the white chalk
that writes in clear letters
on the blackboard of time-

it's the last chapter of life
soon all shall be wiped off
to make for a new slate
for future generations to write
lines of their own
stripped of all that has gone before

farewell then, autumn,
take your leave

but I
in my old age am still
  stubborn and unyielding
to winter's exaggerated pronouncement
and here I stand to proclaim

should only youth be bold
and old age be sold  
too soon  to the ravage of impatient time
is the song  Carpe Diem a mockery to me ?

is it too late to celebrate
my most glorious years

when seasoned experiences have wiped away all tears
and a new anthem shall proclaim
I am  the Ulysses -inspired man
who has weathered every storm ?

Though my hair is white as the snow
it's not the season for fare-welling
or to go
into the self-exiled wilderness
to regret or to moan

even in the bitterest winter
there shall be new dawns when
some warm light shall encircle still
around hearts that dwell on love and beauty
this is an awakening
not the sunset falling
the fond heart is singing
joys are in the blooming

so
winter I count
no more than
a metaphor

I am still alive
and furthermore
I know
my life has not been lived
in vain

It’s too soon
for me to say farewell
and walk away

1

If you know how to simplify
your problems will not multiply

2
Because you see with one eye only
the horizon surely looks blurry

3
He is truly wise
who gives no advice

4

If you don't seize opportunity
it will fly to someone too quickly

5
You are your own teacher
that's all, go no further

Lily in the early frost
trembling in lonely cold and fear
who will come to me
and wipe away my every tear?

I can't last
before winter's close
it's sad to be born a fragile flower
my pain no human knows

You are euphoric and want to embrace the whole world-
this is your weakest and most vulnerable moment-
Beware!

If love were but words
I have plenty--too, too many
bland, repetitious, habitual, like a stranger's greetings
I would be the least worthy.

If love were but words
the banal I would find from a love-dictionary
'forever, eternal, ever-lasting, unfailing
sweetest,  dearest, angel, darling'--what type of person would I be?

The mind says:  my life is logic
              the heart says:    reason plays too many a trick

Tears
they speak silently
over and again
of the pain
of past years

regrets
too many
broken dreams
love's fragility
joy's brevity

tears
they know
and feel more deeply
than the sufferer
they can write the full story

in the finest detail
of moments that caused misery
which the sufferer would remember but vaguely
they have a very long memory
and a heart filled with pity

tears
will anyone
show them
some sympathy
who, who would that be?

In the sombre night
love-songs weep
desires of the lonely heart
know no sleep.

All love is a song
however sad it's still ever deep
I'll come tonight to sing for you
every past promise I'll faithfully keep.

Mankind!
who dares stand up
and declare
man is kind
the vilest two-legged monster
who leaves trails of pain and suffering behind?

man -creature of the worst kind
he should be defined
as ' the most unkind'
to goodness and morality-blind

evolution--what evolution
when it brings but destruction?
progress-what progress?
all that **** sapiens does
is to maim and oppress
and hopes of a brighter dawn
fade, wither and die

every future generation
will write
about man's inhumanity and madness
and weep
as no redemption
is in sight

civilisation has collapsed
as man
is  wicked
cruel
and perpetually
un-kind

Some make love
others break
just one word
sweetest joy or untold heart-ache

but those who love
should not fear and those who fear
should not love---too often
love is never free from a tear.

We invent dreams to drown our inner dissatisfaction and discontent.

When you say to yourself:
'  I succeeded before and the next will be easy'
Beware!

Do you choose your dreams
or are they ****** upon you?
most of us seem unsure
it's what dreams do

that is the source of mystery
for you become a person bold and new
transcending life's banality and finding
a stronger and clearer voice--that of the reborn you.

At the end
everything breaks up-a tiny
drop of water falling incessantly
on the biggest rock dissolves it over time--completely

if you love truly
and breathe into a dew-drop
it would transform into an eternal ocean
there would be no end--no full-stop.

There's no place to run to
no place to hide
self is dissolved
disintegrates--the tide

of blame and shame
inundates
and swallows up the sufferer
who struggles and suffocates

no help
is in sight
conscience is sharper
than the knife which with all its might

knows no pity
nor shows respite
this is worse than the execution avenged by an enemy
more cruel than words can describe.

MATTER OF THE HEART

Have you forgotten
Where you have placed your heart?
Days drift away like passing clouds
They appear and too soon they part.

Why have you neglected your heart?
Are you too hardened to feel anymore?
Are you afraid of the past
Or tears you shed before?

Has your heart wandered
To where it doesn't belong?
To the unknown wilderness
Devoid of happy human voice or merry bird-song?

It's never too late to welcome
Your  heart home -you it does miss sadly
And longs to be held in your warm ***** once more
There shall be no goodbye this time--love is for eternity.

When you thought you had found the truth,
beware!

I am not ready yet
(far from it)
to allow my heart
to take over my life
it's still tainted and blemished
(the past its stories unfold)
and I am not even at the threshold
of self-realisation
nay, so far away
looking through
the distant deceptive mist
half-lost, tired and bewildered
while time is gnawing at my feet
I hesitate, I doubt, I tremble in the cold
like one trapped alone
in the depth of the desolate Arctic
without sleigh, food or water
what next?

the ice on which I stand is breaking
the cruel winds are lashing
my head is swimming
my strength is waning
and I say to myself:
I shall perish
and be buried in the snow

(here a miracle starts to unfold)
my heart
suddenly speaks to me:  
be a man
stand up and walk on

is that an illusion?
no--it's not

The ice suddenly turns into solid ground
and I walk into the sunshine of a summer day

My heart speaks again:
patience
patience
patience

and I begin to understand

Not this time
  once is enough
  hungry and thirsty I was
  life then was rough

  and you let me believe
  in your El Dorado
  I returned more destitute
  all because you I did blindly follow.

Poetry
is not clever well-stringed words
nor about rhythm and rhyme
images and metaphors
and all the craftsmanship that brings
the parts together--
it's more, much, much more--
poetry is subtle and has a secret life and pulse of its own
its home is a mysterious hideout
which so few could ever discover
and turn it into music to soothe the heart-

I have struggled all my life
only to end up saying-
I am still searching for the key
to unlock its mystery-
I write poetry but am not a poet-
perhaps never could be one.

This is common---too common--
                  You said this of another:  'Your arm-pit stinks'
                  He hit back in equal measure:
                  'Mind your bad breath'

A boy
thinks he knows more than a girl and is so much stronger and smarter--he builds his muscles by going to the gym and wears the best brands to impress her.  He likes the neighbours' daughter but is afraid to speak to her when she appears over the fence.  He opens his window at night and sings Are You Lonesome Tonight? --loudly so that she can hear.  Sometimes, he reads aloud the love sonnets of Shakespeare hoping she is there...
Nothing happens.  One day, in desperation, he writes a note and throws over the fence with the words-- Lucy, my dog is lonely and needs a companion--can you bring yours to the field and I shall bring mine so that they can become friends--I mean, get to know and like each other?
They do meet one day, they go to the same university, they fall in love and they marry---and now they walk their dog together in the same field
with their little son and daughter.  I was once a boy like other boys so I know what it is to grow up.

The wise man gains his wisdom through his doubts.

They, they--the young-
they whisper behind my back
it's all written in their faces
(the young never think they would ever grow old)
' Look at that old man in the corner
at the end of his days....'

Hardly do they know
it's but my beginning
my glorious and sublime beginning
(time has its duty performed
with its too impatient brush
painting rough wrinkles and lines
all over my sunken and pallid face

yet it can't unseat me
here I am
still standing
on firm and unshakeable ground
never stronger
never more durable
never so resolute
never so sure
and secure
as I'm now
at the road's divide
where I walk in freedom
alone
on my own
heaving not a single sigh
nor would you ever hear
my moan

ah, it's the depth of winter
(I'm used to its harshness
and its frost doesn't bite anymore)
let the snow-flakes fall
one by one
in their selected time
each taking its turn
as a note in a rapturous song
follows another in sequence
in perfect rhythm and rhyme-
there is a sweet melody
in every motion of nature
only if one would lend one's ears
to the majesty of its music)

as I watch
from my worn-out curtain
I've time --- more than ever before
to count them
as they gently drop
on the silent garden floor

(am I a child again
in my purest innocence?)

how faithful, steadfast and robust has that tree
in the garden stood over so many years
(under its shade I happily rested as a child)
despite the wildest winds and storms
and the harshest winter
its branches still hold out
though more bristle and weaker-
thousands upon thousands of leaves
have grown old and now scatter
all around the last few drooping flowers

yet I know
come next winter
it will still greet me
as we are not
at the end of days

every moment
every season
is just
a new beginning.

This is another kind of death
of our own making
we die not once
but through our whole life-time
moment by moment
bit by bit

this is the sad and tragic story
of our moral decay
and spiritual death


through lies
and untruths
we give away
the best in us
so that we may live and survive

never mind the prize
we pay
what we care about
is the moment and the day

the end justifies the means

we learn the power of words
we grind them to knife-sharp
they glitter
and acquire the power to cut through
the hardest stone

the smartest
the most successful and powerful
are those
who have perfected
the art of lying
and manipulation
supreme masters
of pretence
and deception

who really cares about
moral decay?
spiritual death?
who is speaking?

TO BE YOUNG

    To be young
    is never to think
    of old age and decay
    no such thing
    it's too far away
    (not worth thinking about)
    
     the eyes are eagle-sharp
     the senses keen
     the heart is passion-loaded
     yearnings soar to sublimest heights
     the blood rushes through every vein
     all that is
     is  quest for moments
    to outshine time
     love is proximity
    never too far
    
      the beauty of the world
     is too alluring
     love must be sought
     held and embraced
     the world is made for youth
     and youth alone
     it shines in matchless splendour
     so dazzling that it would burst into the open sky
    
     whoever hesitates
     has missed out the wine
     that flows from the fountain of life
    
     only regret to later inherit

     immortal are the songs
     of young hearts that vow
     never to relinquish love
     but to dwell in the luscious fields
     of Arcadia and to look back never

     what could match
    the first tender kiss
    under the moonlight
    beneath the willow-tree
    as two hearts embrace?

    because there is love
   there is beauty
   and beauty does not perish

   to be young
   is to believe
   that pain and suffering
   do not exist

   and to sing
   love is larger than life
   and  stronger
   than death itself

I exist to serve myself, not others.
But for my selfishness, I wouldn't have survived.

I woke and recall
every word you said last night

I've been a fool all my life
it does no harm to me
the world is the domain of the smart
such people have my fullest pity

My teacher said: You would never be good enough
You have none of the intellectual stuff
What's your future plan?
None Sir,  perhaps, I'd strive to be a con-man

Everyone is consumed at the end
   but sadly
   so many were consumed long before their end

I should never aspire
a leader to be
that would
be self-imposed slavery.

Neither should I
a follower be
in rejecting both
I would never lose my liberty.

Beggars beg in the open#
       all others beg in thousands of ways that are unseen by the world

It's hard to be a king
easy to be a pauper
why is it nearly everyone
would rush to choose the former?

1

Because I know my imperfections
others I don't judge

2

Because I don't listen to rumours
I am not confused

3

Because I don't over-stretch
I keep my balance

4

Because I mind my own business
others leave me to myself

5

Because I am not a member of any club
I keep my independence

The journey is never finished
life is an ever-flowing river
winding to the endless unknown sea
experience but offers glimpses---it never

does allow us to see the full light of things
poor bewildered mortals we are
searching, questioning, struggling
groping, agonising --however far

we've travelled and however much
has come our way-- dim always is the horizon
misty is the sky, the writing on the road-signs has faded
the dust falls into our eyes and reason

is but a crude and weak guide
this, this thought ( it dawned me suddenly) must be cherished:
all  that's worthy and beautiful has its abode
in the magnificence, grandeur and mystery of the unfinished.

From ourselves
we can't escape
desires and unrests lurk within us
they fester--each has its own theme and shape-

what
a great burden
it is
to be human

the self is imprisoned
and freedom loses its wings
thoughts multiply by the minute
life is just things after things

mostly senseless and inane
as though to ennui we are born
behind many a smile is repressed sadness
life is full of so many a thorn

that callously ****** the flesh
how painful is the cry
of self---how burdensome
are we unto ourselves--we live with sigh after sigh.

Is life but a mist?
the eyes can't see clearly
we have to imagine
what is before us--sighting partially

is the angst of everyone
journeying in uncertainty
with hopes and dreams
as each seeks to chart their destiny-

who ever does say
living life is sailing in calm waters? verily
the mist is testing man's courage and nobility-
he who dares walk through will score the final victory

to be greeted by pure sunshine
which dispels the mist and lo ! beautifully
mysteriously he emerges as a man reborn
he has become what he aspires to be.

Let your dreams be few
too many would confuse
even one or two
(though small and homely) would do--wisely choose.

Many have dreams-wild and foolish
which but dazzle for a while --- only
to sadly fade away---there's nothing left to cherish
but a trail of regret and misery.