“Poor Harry Gill” I will say never,
Yet what a fate befell that wight:
For dead and buried long, still ever
He shivers morning, day, and night.
And so long chattered all his teeth
That not a tooth his sad mouth owns:
Pass by his plot and hear beneath
The clattering of frigid bones!

O.O

Amidst the crowded globe there lies,
a pasture seen by the most common eyes.
There, glorious edibles are ripe;
and Eve's nectar we all delight.
Desire sends us searching for where it lies,
but vain when seeking pries.

Little words are worth
the emotion collected in tranquility.
At the gate of the orange groves,
the momentary event embraces me.
Fat hugs. Squeeze. Let go.

The Rainbow
‘My heart leaps up when I behold’
‘A rainbow in the sky’
Filled with seven colours, the story untold,
Hanging there still, so high,
‘So was it when my life began,’
‘So is it’ now I am insane,
‘So it be’ when I shall grow demon
‘Or let me die’ in my insanity, my venom.
‘The child is the father of man’
And how could I wish my days to be
‘Bond by each to each in natural piety,’
If I could not check my desires,
When I could not hold to the truth
That every father is the child’s prey!

Alok Mishra

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write.

So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist.

Isn't that what poetry does?
Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly,
We all grieve,
We all seek,
We all love,
We all want,
We all cry,
We all wonder,
We all simply exist.

And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition,
It's about conveying this notion of existing.

Paddling through this vastness

I look at the ripples I made.

Floating and whirling,

Clanking and Clinking

Shelley, Wordsworth and Blake.

In the middle of the tranquility

I plunged into the blue

Oh, Arizona sun, you blinds me.