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Miser man

He died as miser man
Collected wealth as much as possible
Cared for no poor or relatives
Put no value in his eyes for any kind of services

No one took notice of his death
Forgot even about laying the wreath
He had no one to be called his dear friend
He lived daily but only to be died at each moment

He left behind enormous fortune
No one could count it to correct tune
May be scattered all over unaccounted
Recovery of it was highly doubted

People live on simple food as forbidden by doctor
They have enough of everything but can't perform as an actor
They have limited mobility and nothing is of any use
Life becomes burden and adds more to confuse

Why not live life to full extent?
Why should there be left any corner to resent?
Why at all some one should be harmed for no cause?
Life can be over at any time making "was" from "is"

Some of us take little solace
Bear smile and move with nice face
Extend little help and boost more
They too can be called miser therefore

Not necessarily all must become donors
Not all must opt for or act as saviors
Only soft approach needed towards fellow man
Two kind words, if at all, to make him feel as human

Are we struggling for making only ends to meet?
Is it not possible to say hello to everybody and greet?
It needs no answer from any one but simple recognition
Our emotions are highly volatile in nature and burst from simple ignition

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Commandeering

Our hero was a Tommy with a conscience free from care,
And such an open countenance that when he breathed the air
He mopped up all the atmosphere -- so little went to spare
You could hardly say he breathed, he "commandeered" it.
For nowadays you'll notice when a man is "on the make",
And other people's property is anxious for to take,
We never use such words as "steal", or "collar", "pinch", or "shake".
No, the fashion is to say we "commandeered" it.

And our simple-minded hero used to grumble at his lot,
Said he, "This commandeerin's just a little bit too hot,
A fellow has to carry every blooming thing he's got;
Whatever he puts down they'll commandeer it."

So after much anxiety our simple-minded elf
He thought he'd do a little commandeering for himself,
And the first thing that he'd noticed was a bottle on a shelf
In a cottage, so he thought he'd commandeer it.

"What ho!" says he, "a bottle, and, by George, it's full of beer,
And no commanding officer to come and interfere.
Here's my own blooming health," says he, "I'm on the commandeer."
And without another word he commandeered it.

On his subsequent proceedings we must draw a little veil,
For the Boers had left some sheep dip in that bottle labelled "Ale";
But the doctor said he's shift it -- if all other methods fail,
We must use the stomach pump and commandeer it.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No

Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."

poem by Michael Drayton
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I did not cry

In that day I didn't cry
I didn't know exactly why?
People around and relatives wept
But not all tears except one I had kept

He was laid on the ground
Very quietly and peacefully found
He deserved praises from all
Now I feared all tears may fall

He was man of principles and known as down to earth
He was not at all afraid of death
He used to say" life may be over one day"
Hence never loose patience all the way

Enjoy with whatever you have
Treat all equal and nicely behave
Words may fall as if from sage's tongue
Crystal clear with echo and not a vague

"Dear son, I have a high hope in you"
Never loose a hope and always prove true
I was always upset with his advices
As if he was about to leave me on his demise

He lived his life peacefully
Not all the people might have proved it successfully
I was sure of his life mission
"Life for the people" was his dear ambition

How can I weep over his demise?
When he had taken from me a promise
I will not dropp a tear for whatever reason
As he was not for me at all as single person

I had spent most of my time with the forces
But he had never regretted with simple word of remorse
I controlled my emotions with great difficulty
As he had told me not to feel any kind of sorry

: "Life is not what people firmly believe in and lead"
He used to tell me in private "people must observe and read"
What you are doing and how are you useful for the noble cause?
He may then take deep breath and wait for my response

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Peaceful mind

"Some thing is not there" I cried
"It is missing some where" I decried
Wealth is in plenty and in abundance
I am richest person in world by chance

Two sons, daughters and relatives all stand
They know me well and coolly understand
I need something else to feel satisfied
As they are very close but whole life lied

What made me to feel at uneasiness?
Why was there not all happiness on face?
"If I had no wealth" would they have stood by?
I desperately searched to find answer and made frantic try

No answer came by but added new feature
Now what I understood is naked fact for sure
All are aligned to me for one reason or another
Otherwise there is no wife, children or brother

I will be no more in few more days
That will open free fight for them anyway
There will be tug of war for inheriting fortune
Everybody will be surprised to find none

I have taken full care of my empire
There is hardly anything to acquire
I have left enough for destitute and poor
I shall have some joy to feel them near

Not that I have left them bare handed
Enough care has been taken to see they are not landed
In troubles and face lot many problems
As everything is now dependant on them

I was restless with only one fear
That they may fight over wealth among dear ones
This should not create bad blood and maintain harmony with peace
Life then would pose no problem for them to live at ease

With this little assurance provided by peaceful mind
I turned my eyes to look at them very kind
I smiled at them with great satisfaction
That itself was source of less worry with good indication

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Now quiet

I know you rarely speak
But make me completely weak
When I rise to stick the stand
You refuse me and fail to understand

I fall like mango fruit
It fails to appeal me or suit
How could I blink at those eyes?
Which were once open to my simple try?

No doubts you were like ivory idol
Carved out from glass as doll
I used to rejoice at simple appearance
Now I have lost it to as rare chance

Nothing to exchange now in form of words
Nothing to look behind as an action afterward
I am lying on ground with clopped wings
A bird alright but no melody in praise to sing

She promised me to be mine
It all appeared pleasing and fine
I was prepared to go for an extra mile
Something unusual took in between for a while

What was charm in her simple look?
Like good smell coming out from food as cooked
Where to start and where to end
She was like angel and heavenly sent

I was simple man in race
Completely lost in glamorous and innocent face
I asked for hand to be permanent
She had something else to comment

"No, dear I can't side with you"
This is correct and only true
What was fun then in any try to woo?
My all energy got lost and forbidden me to flew

I now look at no other charm
If not help but certainly they may harm
I wished warmth and long spell
But here was different story to tell

I am dying of literally death
Some one may come and offer floral wreath
"Here lived an simple soul as poet"
No more words now as he is now quiet"

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Go to hell

Go to hell, go to hell'
Blasted one young teen
"What am I doing on net? "
"You are doing nonsense, I bet"

Taken a back for a while
Fumed and just disappeared the smile
was I so unwelcome or wrong?
Had I no place to find friends among?

I am in my teen, and not yet twenty
you may have lived with years plenty
"Are you not ashamed' to be on net"
"Dear you can blast, but have we ever met? " I asked

No, but you have commitment a sin
Put your ideas in just dust bin
Whether be it pot or simple tin
I will not let you allow to score point or win

I said "Dear calm down"
You aren't the only one in town
You may frown, eyes may turn brown
Not only 'hell', but use and add another noun

Not only sex on phone but nudity too
Still may be there simple purity to be true
Why do not you make point or just clarity?
What can be best quality to justify? I argued

"No then also, you just go to hell"
You need no alarms pr bell
It will be bad if you stick here and perform well
"Consider it right now and jump in the well" She argued

Oh, dear teen, you are simple kid
You know not and have no lid
Candle can be lit and not just ignite
"If you have will power and ideas definite" I tried to cool her down

Fear not for a while from simple man
Freedom may be right but can't force a ban
Never do or suffer from narrow thought
Danger may be lurking but always to be fought

I thought for a while but did not cave
Honor was at stake and was absolutely necessary to save
Things may be right but not put in right prospective
She was foolish teen but not subjective

it is always good to be friends on line
Some of the fears can allayed or sidelined
the prestige and status should be respected
One must realize and certainly introspected

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Gardener XXVI: What Comes From Your Willing Hands

"What comes from your willing
hands I take. I beg for nothing
more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If there be a stray flower for me
I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If but once you should raise your
loving eyes to my face it would make
my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there be only cruel
glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my
heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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You're right—

234

You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
And "few there be"—Correct again—
That "enter in—thereat"—

'Tis Costly—So are purples!
'Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the "Discount" of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—"Death"!

And after that—there's Heaven—
The Good Man's—"Dividend"—
And Bad Men—"go to Jail"—
I guess—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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There was one I met upon the road

There was one I met upon the road
Who looked at me with kind eyes.
He said, "Show me of your wares."
And this I did,
Holding forth one.
He said, "It is a sin."
Then held I forth another;
He said, "It is a sin."
Then held I forth another;
He said, "It is a sin."
And so to the end;
Always he said, "It is a sin."
And, finally, I cried out,
"But I have none other."
Then did he look at me
With kinder eyes.
"Poor soul!" he said.

poem by Stephen Crane
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Mary to merry

Mary is going to marry', said friend,
May be in days but not in weeks,
'what! I shouted back with anger,
yes, my dear, make no wonder,

Story as such never you carry,
Simple not but still I feel worry,
No word even to feel so sorry,
Why Mary thought? Just to marry,

'Was I not her so close friend? '
She Left no way for me to mend,
I thought hurriedly and put message
Will she buckle and come up with new page?

Friend put a card in the table and ran away,
Wedding card just lay in small tray,
I thought "Was there left no other way? "
Annul the marriage and keep at bay?

Friend just inquired "Will you not come to grace? "
join and enjoy with everybody's embrace,
I was startled and thought "I may miss but not you miss"
offer me nice words with simple grace,

I opened card and just read words
'Mary to marry with bless of lord'
Words were written with ink of Gold
'May I be always with you '

'What a foolish ' I could not guess,
Such a simple thing I made it mess,
What more could I expect than less,
punish me not for being foolish

Words were inscribed with golden ink,
I rejoiced it with no more blink,
I thought no more but went deep to sink
Eyes remained wide open and failed to wink,

I just ran to make a suit,
As I had made long pursuit,
Never had I dreamed of Mary to be mine,
She has decided to marry me is also fine

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Humanitarian theme

I came across enthusiastic person
So many dreams in life and to be realized with reasons
To undertake on the spot study about misery and plight
To wage a war against poverty and in real terms a fight

In his opinion it was crusade or holy war
So far he had not come out of his luxury car
He had specious villa and many servants to the service
Yes he felt like doing some noble service with promises

He used to boost me about his venture
Jokingly we may remind him about adventure
He will jump to his feet and make it sure
He will take it in no time in near future

He had heard about old people and not looked after well
Left alone by their children with horrified tell
Full of pathetic condition and almost tears in eyes
What was left for him to decide and earnestly try?

He took his car and preferred long drive in country yard
They were not far away but lived life substandard
Not enough to feed for family and for aged parent
They had all the curses for self only to resent

"It can't be called adventure" I will pose question and satire
What you dream about can not be called as your future?
Millions rot in same condition here
Make your thrust felt in real areas or somewhere

"Some kind of interest is to be developed"
You are future hope and must think how it can be stopped
Pick your carrier and start form grass root level
You ambition and goal may certainly speak well

He was persuaded to remain realistic
As he had not even figures which can be called statistic
He decided to look through all relative terms
And then go on with the schemes to deliver in turn

I wished him success in life and prosper
Many people may simple dream abut and whisper
Here was person with at least some novel scheme
With no clue how to start with yet working on humanitarian theme

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The ABC

'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."

poem by Spike Milligan
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How Deep Is Your Love?

Superficial, or sacrificial?
Secular, or the supernatural?
How deep is your love?
Would you give up quality of life?
Or give up life itself?
To what do we let go?
To what do we hold on?
People or objects?
How far do we go,
Before we move on?
To our breaking point,
Or until we have proven it.
Hold on to resentment,
Let go of another.
Prove our point, or to prove love.
Beauty is only skin deep.
But beautiful is at the core.
The spirit lives forever.
It endures all.
Our essence, our core, is love itself.
Given by God, as He lives inside of us.
He is buried deep,
Surrounded by lies.
Lies we have bought in a cold cruel world.
A world of shallow love.
Love of self, at the cost of another.
She walked away,
He waited.
She asked, "Why when you had me you did not want me, "
"But now I am gone, and you will fight? "
"You have changed, but it is too late."
"For I have found another."
The man replied, "The answer is simple."
"Why is it, you have me now and do not want me? "
"I have proven the truth of my love."
"I have endured a thousand deaths."
"I have risen each time."
"To become love itself."
"Not for me, but for you."
"Affection is shown, but love is assumed."
"To the superficial, love is all show."
"To the sacrificial, love is the show."
"I can tell you I love you,
"But the words have no substance."
"They disappear in thin air."
"Love is patient."
"Love as a feeling, will come and go."
"Feelings are impatient."
"It is truth that never changes."
"And love, that is true, will endure all."
"As it has since the beginning of time."
"Not as defined by society."
"But as defined by the creator and sustainer."
"It is only once the feelings have broken the heart, the holder of the feelings."
"That the beholder is freed."
"To show the love that will never be broken."
"Love that is true."

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Verse-Making Was Least of My Virtues

Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair
Wealth that never yet was but might be--all that verse-making were
If the life would but lengthen to wish, let the mind be laid bare.
So I said, "To do little is bad, to do nothing is worse"--
And made verse.

Love-making,--how simple a matter! No depths to explore,
No heights in a life to ascend! No disheartening Before,
No affrighting Hereafter,--love now will be love ever more.
So I felt "To keep silence were folly:"--all language above,
I made love.

poem by Robert Browning
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The Key Of The Street

"Miss Rosemary," I dourly said,
"Our balance verges on the red,
We must cut down our overhead.
One of the staff will have to go.
There's Mister Jones, he's mighty slow,
Although he does his best, I know.

"A deer old man; I like him well,
But age, alas! will always tell.
Miss Rosemary, please ring the bell
And tell old Jones to step this way . . .
Oh dear, oh dear, it isn't gay
To say the things I have to say.

"Come in and sit down, Mister Jones."
He thanks me in sepulchral tones.
Poor chap! I hear his creaking bones.
"Have a cigar? And how's your wife?
What's that! You're fearing for her life -
A cancer and the surgeon's knife. . . .

"Yes, operations are so dear,
But it's your comfort and your cheer
To know your job's so steady here."
These are his words; so meek and mild,
He looks just like a simple child . . .
Go! darn it! Suddenly I'm riled.

And so I say: "That's just too bad.
But Mister Jones. it's very sad,
You know what losses we have had.
We must cut down in times like these,
So here's a cheque, Oh take it please -
'Twill help to pay your doctor's fees.

"And just to show how I appraise
Your work - despite these doleful days
I'm giving you . . . a little raise."

Said Rosemary: "Old Jones is crying."
Thought I: "Yes, each week I'll be sighing,
When from my pocket I am prying
Ten bucks to keep his wife from dying."

poem by Robert William Service
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The Subalterns

I

"Poor wanderer," said the leaden sky,
"I fain would lighten thee,
But there are laws in force on high
Which say it must not be."

II

--"I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried
The North, "knew I but how
To warm my breath, to slack my stride;
But I am ruled as thou."

III

--"To-morrow I attack thee, wight,"
Said Sickness. "Yet I swear
I bear thy little ark no spite,
But am bid enter there."

IV

--"Come hither, Son," I heard Death say;
"I did not will a grave
Should end thy pilgrimage to-day,
But I, too, am a slave!"

V

We smiled upon each other then,
And life to me had less
Of that fell look it wore ere when
They owned their passiveness.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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What is—

215

What is—"Paradise"—
Who live there—
Are they "Farmers"—
Do they "hoe"—
Do they know that this is "Amherst"—
And that I—am coming—too—

Do they wear "new shoes"—in "Eden"—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won't they scold us—when we're homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—

You are sure there's such a person
As "a Father"—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls "die"—
I shan't walk the "Jasper"—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won't laugh at me—
Maybe—"Eden" a'n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Sketch of Lord Byron's Life

"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
Ah, strange was his lot.

The character of "Lord Byron"
Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
By his own misdeeds.

Generous and tender hearted,
Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
He could use at his will.

He was a sad child of nature,
Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
Lived, unappreciated, man.

Yet at the age of 24,
"Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
Sometimes would him extol.

Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
He might die, sword in hand.

He had joined the Grecian Army;
This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
Of the nineteenth century.

poem by Julia A Moore
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An incomplete soul of a woman

Often you have called me
"Complete"
Often you have called me
"A full woman"
And today you ask me
What in life I lack?
Love…
If you had ever guessed
You would have known
How very "incomplete" I am.
Half my life I have spent
Waiting for you....
Searching for you...
In every passing strangers eyes.
Now when you finally are here
You stand a stranger
Closest to the heart,
Like the shadow of the dusk
Very much my own,
Yet distant, like a dream.
I know you are mine
Just as am i
solely yours,
Yet will always stand apart as
"we" are nobodies nobody.
The feeling is so pure,
Pristine like the dawn
And its dew.
Yet wrapped in ugly sheets of guilt
it will always lie buried
in deep caverns of shame.
And like thieves two,
We will always hide,
What is so beautiful,
So serene, so true.
I am not complete…
How can i?
When I am destined to live
This life with you
Yet without you.
I am not a full woman…
How can i?
When I am to wither away and die..
Somewhere very close to you
Yet far away from your sight.
Yes, I will always remain
"in-complete".
An incomplete soul of a woman.

poem by Anjali Kakati
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