Aniruddha Pathak Poems

Disbelief dear, always root-dwelling cause,
Disrupted it has things, see history:
Buddha had question what old belief was,
Martin Luther had, Roman church's glory,
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My ego rising tall from a plane lay,
I often feel, the world warms to my song,
To play a second fiddle, lost in fray,
And I conduct orchestra all day long.
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Pursuing thee for long,
Thick and thin, right or wrong,
What not have I achieved?
Alive that never lived,
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If this home by home-maker is made,
He mused on this existential dark:
Who am I, one that brings home mere bread?
The truth stared at him ever so stark!
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Forget fair breakfast of fish— instead,
Today we'll have to make do with bread.
Thank God for small mercies,
Man a litter-bug is,
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O to read books that wound one's within—
Hit hammer like on head, machete mean,
But, are but one in ten—
Nine crackle like a hen,
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Some horses are not for a race course,
Whilst some seem to be a fertile source
For what's called horse trading—
Amidst desert a spring,
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Drop by drop are drops when caught
Fills up even a large pot,
So is a lesson's learning,
Virtue and wealth, all earning,
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He died in great pain,
Deathless still and not in vain,
The rest proud remained.
______________________________
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There was an over-amorous duck
Ah with three willing females, what luck!
But when hurt in action,
He got an infection,
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