THE WORLD OF MY DREAMS

                                   
                                                       On the bank of a beautiful river,
                         There is a calm and  quiet hamlet,
                         Decked with little cute cottages,
                          And green grass on the ground.
                       

                       There are no imposing buildings,
                        No markets  with buzzing crowds,
                        No shining vehicles in the streets,
                        No aeroplanes crossing the skies.


                       The people here are simple, 
                      With very few needs and desires,
                       Believing in peaceful co-existence,
                     Which they practise in their behaviour.

                      They live in harmony with nature,
                        And respect it as their mother,
                        They live like one loving family,
                        With concern for one another.
   

Picture  - 
Flam Valley 
Norway

THERE ARE TIMES

                 
                                        There are times
                When everything goes against you
                            For reason unknown
                You feel bruised and broken
                    And existence becomes a burden 

              The whole world appears to be hostile
                 No hope or help comes to comfort 
               The darkness keeps on deepening 
                 And light seems out of sight 

               But it is often in these darkest moments
           That there suddenly appears from nowhere
                   A ray of light dispelling all despair
           Restoring your faith in the power of prayer!

A POEM

                          A poem is not a poem,
                 If it isn't born in the heart, 
                 And flows down from there,

                 Like a mountain river, 
                To bless everyone on the way.
                   

              It is hardly worth the name, 
              If it doesn't go deep down, 
              The heart of the reader, 
              And touch the softest spot, 
              To evoke the desired emotion. 

               It's not a living thing,
               If it breathes out not,
              Some of the lovely  feelings,

             Hidden in every human being,
            Love, empathy and compassion.

               And it isn't a poem at all,,
               If loaded with heavyweight words,

               And  highly  embellished phrases,
               Needs to be taught and explained,
               To make one feel entertained.

             

                    

HOMECOMING OF A WARRIOR

                                          It needs superhuman courage,
                             To stay fearless and composed,
                              In the midst of deadly threats,
                               To your very existence.

                              Treated in the most painful ways,
                              Tortured in body and mind,
                              All alone in the enemy camp,
                              You manage to remain poised,

                            You refuse to yield to pressure,
                            In the toughest of situations,
                           You deserve all praise and honour,
                           Your name becomes a synonym of valour.

                            You come home to a hero's welcome,
                            To the immense relief of the nation,
                            Proud and content as a  real warrior, 
                            Returning from a scene of battle!



                               

A POEM IN THE MAKING

                                       I composed a little poem,
                                       Pouring my heart into it,
                                       But finding it to be too simple,
                                       Asked my mind to improve it. 


                                      The mind made several changes,
                                       Replacing what I had written,
                                      With many a figure of speech,
                                      Till the draft appeared brilliant. 

             
                                     But going through the new piece,
                                     I was rather disappointed, 
                                     As the soul of the poem was lost, 
                                     In the maze of unfamiliar words.

 
                                      I decided to resume its original form, 
                                      Strongly realising the truth,

                                      That what issues from the heart,

                                      Is generally the most beautiful.

                                .
                                   

                                     

                                

                            

    

IT IS THAT TIME OF THE DAY

                                                           




                                        It is that time of the day when, 
                           The mighty Sun lord,
                           Goes down the horizon,

                           To the other part of the world
                           Leaving this side of the sphere,
                             

                          It is that time of the day when,
                          The silent void of the sky, 
                           Is filled with the noise of birds,
                           Flapping their desperate wings,
                           On way to night shelters. 

                          It is that time of the day when,
                          Lamps are lit everywhere,
                          To guide the wayfarers,
                          Lest one should miss the way,
                          And be lost in the dark.

                                        It is that time of the day when,  
                                       Most people return to their homes,
                          At the end of the day's labour,
                                      But some,  for the safety of others,

                                      Keep awake through the odd hours.
                            

                                                 
                                                 
                                           

WINTER IS LEAVING ....

                            


                                                 Winter is about to move on,
                                                 To  the southern hemisphere,
                                                  Stuffing into a travel bag,
                                                  All its accessories,

                                                   Its frost and snow and hails,
                                                    Its piercing winds and gales,
                                                   Are all packed up for now,
                                                   To be soon carried away.

                                                   And Nature is busy once again,
                                                   In making everything  perfect,
                                                   With  music, colours and  fragrance,
                                                   To greet Spring, the royal guest.

                                                   Who arrives with the pomp of a king,
                                                   Making everyone feel  delighted,
                                                   With renewed life force and vigour,
                                                   At the end of the unkind weather.

                                                  I notice the sun shining brighter,
                                                  Emanating more light and warmth,
                                                  Helping leaves and grass grow greener,
                                                  And the tiny buds turn blossoms.


                                                   I can see birds hopping merrily,
                                                   Picking up little twigs and straw,                                                                                                                  To build  their nests and forward,
                                                  The eternal process of creation.