Worked in Economic Times of the Times Group (research journalism) , and as Business executive in various companies.
The Joy Of Giving
Be it no more than just a glass of water,
A walking-stick alive rendered by daughter,
Care and concern, warm smile, none far too hotter;
Or quality time spent with someone old,
A warm blanket in times forlorn and cold,
In times of need a willing shoulder-hold;
A pair of slippers to feet walking bare,
Not in loud charity to show you care,
Heart-born feelings shown above false air;
Anything given short of counting ways,
Given to brighten up sinking heart's greys,
To lighten load that too heavily weighs;
Give it in cash though kindest give in kind,
A gift of willing heart and well inclined,
A gift coming from soul— body and mind.
Give, the only joy greater than getting,
The only joy rarer than receiving,
Be the joy of giving and forgetting!
Musings | 06.08.09 |
Luck is what a man locks, Opportune time when knocks.
If happy not right now and here, How can ye be any which where?
Politics, a game of shame, To pull legs seems its sole aim.
We often give and still too little give, Give none any, and still so much receive!
Honey bees too strive, But never harm their beehive, Man, ye have been naïve.
Like a river is a poem, And a much chiselled uncut gem, She changes, keeps still her emblem.
Flowers waltz in rain, No'ne sees, not in vain.
We our mobiles do charge, To be in touch (with what?) at large, But when our soul recharge?
Together trees grow fair, Happy is not happy alone.
Look, what man has to this earth done, Smart and stupid known are never to learn.
If for no one heart heaves, It survives, never lives.
Death is no candle blown, A lamp put off at dawn.
Mother, like none other, And father as father, Make all others, others, A few still wear feathers.
Its roots rooted in mud, A lotus still stays pristine pure, Of men, I'm not so sure.
And freedom's free choice can well be free fall, As all prisons are not made of brick wall, As is mirage a blank space not yet walled, Ask a poet long on his last line stalled.
Progress, a hard-working-early-rise hen, Not a bed-bound late rising lazy man, Nor one feeling handicapped sans bedpan.
What is second childhood? In serene solitude, As if retired in wood, You re-live when childhood.
Make it a foe or friend, It is in your own hand, Yet, mere two yards of land Be all Death would ye lend.
Kites climb up higher against blowing wind, Fish against river-flow swims, not behind, But man despairs, strives not, a way to find.
Words seem to wear too loose a dress, Way there's to find form, face, nor poise, Voice alone smiles, has all the grace, Wish, my poem does find her voice.
Like umbrella this man has been, Wet from without, Dry from within, And smart still to keep all in doubt.
There lies limitless height In limited us all, Behind darkling clouds, light, And yet, man feels he's small.
As is within all us, So is in universe, And we still miss the bus!
Money making, a tight-lipped game of poker, To have-nots, but a filthy game of lucre, Yet, money locked up in a locker, It's no game to any a joker.
It's to love one as one has been, To look for perfection is mean.
Reborn, we all are on parole, Here to live life on a large dole.
A good poem better be brief, Set afloat light like a dry leaf, Hidden like an iceberg, Set to sail, smooth and snug, What's left unsaid O rife like riff.
If joys go rare, life's desert bare, Who'd for the next breath ever care?
If man's happy not now and here, How hereafter, and any where?
We when give, oft too little give, Giving none, so much we receive.
Better light up your lamp, Blame not it's dark and damp.
The life's script is writ, Writ of Fate writ large on it, We act— will nor wit.
Flowers waltz in windy rain, No one might see, not in vain.
Mistakes are wages we pay, Seeds of better life to lay.
Appear as you're, And be as you appear, No froth, man's no beer.
Knowledge in mind's dead section, If put to no fair action It's stagnant, of no traction.
Dawn or dusk, sun shows red, Good times or be they bad, Greats by sameness are led.
Man makes habit- good or grim, And these habits then make him, Habits and him, what a team!
Man and mind when sit in judgment, The sole witness to the moment, The soul says nothing, postponement.
Liberation's to find, free you, But life's about creating you.
Poetry, when properly read, Art be to know what's left unsaid.
Shadows of poet's feelings, Words play a varied innings.
Stretching limits of what he can, Man stands apart from also-ran.
O to quote and misquote, make way, Betwixt black and white there's some grey.
Hardly when humanity truth perceives, Falsehood cosy in creature comforts lives.
Fasting flesh reins the craving mind, The soul as more food for thought finds.
There are friends and friends, a spectrum of band, He that sticks closer than brother is friend.
At home with humdrum and life's leisures, Man turns blind to nature's pure pleasures.
No mere oasis, a life-giving kiss, A mother's no less than eternal bliss.
A winner once knows, win he always won't, A loss from blue shall never ever haunt.