The crouching murmur fills the air,
An echo hisses within the walls,
A lady weeps underneath the blanket of darkness.
Protected by its secretiveness,
The crying continues.

Hours and seconds,
Misery corrupts the wave,
And an absolute stillness takes control.

She stops,
Notices the indifference
The scene then is a blend of both,
Crying and silence,
Once again

I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I mark  jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
hid--I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny--I see martyrs and
prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea--I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be ****'d, to preserve the lives of the rest;
All these--All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look
out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.

Among those I hold most dear
You, mother, are just in all spheres
First with love unstinted and clear
First with joy and lots of cheers
The cheers, although familiar
Nevertheless, very sincere.

You are the sweet scent from heaven
A spring in the middle of the desert
You are a star that brightens my dark nights
A lovely tree that gives all good
You are a gift from God
A paradise without a limit
Your heart is the vessel of love and consolation
You are the warmth in a cold winter night.

Among the angels God has created
You are the one to us most suited
A well of joy, a no fancy ploy
Straight clean heart giving the best
Mother, dear mother, your love is always the finest.

I feel your tender eyes
Cast on me when I used to cry
To me then they were a pair of pearls
And I was happy they were mine
Mother, it was simply divine.

I remember too the warmth of your lips
As you bent down to kiss me goodnight
It felt like all the pains of the day
Just vanished out of sight
I reach to touch the same spot
And I can swear I still feel the same comfort
Mother, you are truly a magnificent sort.

What about those fingers
Gently stroking my hair
Giving me peace beyond compare
Lifting my spirit from all despair
My soul was floating in the air
Filled with ecstasy of love so rare
Mother, so much you gave me
So much I took from thee
Such love, I believe
No one could ever give.

As I go through the path of life
Mother, you are always there
To shelter me from my inner fears
To shower me with love I hold so dear
Mother, I declare you are the most sincere.

Firm at time times you may have been
You taught me all and more still
Striving to lift me above difficult hills
To a life of joy, happiness and goodwill
With your live my heart fills.

Mother, how can I ever find words of praise
To fit all your beautiful traits
Perhaps I should simple say with mighty grace
Thank you all for the days.

After reading many a poem recently, here are some of my
doubts:
Has poetry become a mere compilation of wild, out-of-the-life,
out-of-the-box imagery just to substantiate a single-faceted idea statement.
Has poetry become an orphan, without a language of its own? Or
with the same craft pattern such as the one used in some ultra-left campaign
material?
Is modern poetry like fast food? Or is it something
that is created to fit in to the tiny coffin spaces of modern media?
Cinema, music, dance, theatre – all have distinct languages,
but not poetry.
Agree, there are brilliant glimpses of excellence in some of
the new-gen creations – mere lines as I would like to call them - but they lack
in totality. Fast and furious they are, but at the same time weak and resigned
they are.
What is modern day poetry? Only time will tell..
Yes, we are missing the woods for the trees.

I could step inside the mirrors of reality
But my eyes get lost in colors of steel grey
I could speak to the smell of normality
Yet my mind strolls along the shades of time.



Feeling sand under foot in the summer time
Hear islands call my name in laughter's dreams
I lie beneath the shadowing of a silver lime
But reality spoils illusions, it always seems



I walk vacant streets, see children sit and stare
Plaintive cries born of hunger fill their nights
Must I stand amid starvation gaunt and bare?
Can't I lie amid nature's own to take my flights?



As the leaves brush my face with gentle strokes
A deer stops to rest beside golden pond
I'll close all pages on reality's cruelest jokes
And once again, feel the wind's magic wand