He pretended he wasn't there,
When he looked intently at me,
Staying immobile statue-like,
Feinting to be part of the tree;

For several seconds he froze,
No single movement did he make,
The squirrel could have been sculptured,
from wood or clay just like a fake;

Slowly I threw him a walnut,
And suddenly he came alive,
Grabbing the nut and scrambling off,
I had no time to count to five.

He pretended he wasn't there,
When he looked intently at me,
Staying immobile statue-like,
Feinting to be part of the tree;

For several seconds he froze,
No single movement did he make,
The squirrel could have been sculptured,
from wood or clay just like a fake;

Slowly I threw him a walnut,
And suddenly he came alive,
Grabbing the nut and scrambling off,
I had no time to count to five.

True love is the noblest feeling,  
that the mystic self can attain,
For it is completely blind
to criticism or judgement,  
And hate, revenge and self pity  
it can easily restrain,
Like the dog's undying love
for its master good or bad,
Or the mother's unrestricted love
for her baby happy or sad;

True love is mentally abstract
with no physical connection,  
And cannot be confused
with ***, lust and egoism,
For it is mated with intuition,
kindness and understanding,
And fused with loyalty
and human compassion,
Sustaining a permanent
fondness and affection;

"Love" as it is widely used,
is too shallow and common,
and is not really love at all,
Because true love for many people,
is something they cannot recall.

I caught a ladybug,
Sitting on the window sill,
She  was very small and cute,
Round like an aspirin pill;
She was dressed in red and black,
Quite elegant in her way,
I gave it a gentle toss,
And so she flew away.

Each day will bring a challenge new,
Yesterday to be left behind,
The squirrel in the back yard knows,
He will have new nutmegs to find;
The pigeon waking on roof top,
Is confident of daily food,
Like them we should wake up thinking -
Today should be so very good.

Across the ocean
The storm of birds were flying
In strict formation

There is just as much beauty in silence,
As in the sweetest of sweet sounds,
For in wondrous silence wings the mind,
In mystic spheres without bounds;
Incessant dialogues sprouting from talking vain,
Test the patience of the most patient mind,
Sounds and noises and selfish talk,
The sounds of music they all blind;
So amidst the noise and bustle chaotic,
Of chattering people all around,
I like to every now and then escape,
Into a realm without a sound.