Thoughts in a Garden
               *
Crimson glow of the morning sun                           
 Along the rosy horizon                                           
Set ablaze the floating clouds
With edges embroidered
In flaming gold,
Ushered in a brilliant dawn.
Sunbeams on the mountain slopes                     
Uncovered valleys verdant and
Gurgling streams:
Darting rays through gnarled
                                         trees
Adorned with foliage of emarald
                                         green,
Illumined the serene garden
                                        scene.
Genial warmth of the morning
                                            sun
Opened rows and rows of white      
                                        jasmine
And filled the air with fragrance
                                           sweet
While mother nature sprinkled
Smiles in a shower of roses
Of delicate hues.
Hummingbirds and honey-bees
Hovered over colourful flowers
Big and small.
Shy flowers,like blushing brides,
 Allured passersby to pause
A while and admire their beauty
And bewitching smile.
Basking in sunshine under
The azure sky and stretching
On grass in chequered shades,
My questioning mind
Probed in vain,
The enigma of nature's creation,
Its amazing harmony
And violent ire
And the aim of evolving human
                                               life:
Eager to grasp what the future
                                             holds,
Indulged in reveries undisturbed, oblivious of
Fortune's ebb and tide
Until twilight showed
The early stars
And the evening shadows
                   looming large,
Restrained my restless mind.
In darkness dissolved
                      the lovely scene.
Soon, the vision of rapture
Was a waking dream:
A foretaste of life merging
With the cosmic stream!
              **.  M.G.N.Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
                                   
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.

Sue took my hand
on a saturday night
walked her home
when she told me with all her might

About her rock n roll boys
and her school shenanigans
how she found her voice
in the backroom with her toys

She seemed to be a bad girl
out of my league
so during the way home
i could only look at her rosy cheeks

Got to her doorstep
where she whispered goodbye
kissed me on my cheek and said
till monday, you magpie

I understand the restless feeling
within your soul. Impossible to ignore
especially in a still night where devils
you expect to turn up lose their
way.
Alone in a still night you scream
out for help but intentionally forget to
turn up the volume from zero to a
measly one, because you prefer the
agony of pain to the dreadful
pretentious care you suspect in
caring eyes.
I understand you when you, in your own
words, alleged that both right
and left turns connive with time to
bring you back to your starting point,
that you wish you could turn up, fly,
and leave everything behind without
having to explain why
or how you did it
And I completely understand the fury
beneath your smile in those still kind
of nights when unwanted attention is
turned towards you,
being civil thus gentle
and cordial, you are demanded, for
goodness sake, to indulge friends
and family. so you take a deep
cigarette-filled breath, summon
strength from deep within, laugh
and simply turn up

LEARN FROM THE OWL!
Many of us think of the owl
As a foolish, ugly fowl:
It can neither strut like a peacock,
Flaunting colourful plumes,
Nor, like the shy nightingale,
Sweetly sing, every spring:
But the sages of ancient Greece,
Seeing  the night bird's virtues rare,
Said nothing foul about the owl,
Admired its bright round eyes,
Sharp and keen, able to see its way
And fly in the darkness of night:
Eyes, quite strange, looking not sideways,
But always straight and always right
And quickly turn its agile neck
And see all things happening
Behind its back as  well as front!
In all directions ,the owl can see
But, from different angles do we ever see?
Boastful humans, full of pride,
Who speak ill of the humble owl
Can scarcely match the skilful owl,
And a poet who loved this little bird, wrote -
"A wise old owl sat on an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke,
  The less he spoke the more he heard,
   Why can't we be, like the wise old bird!?"
                  *** M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India.