The Wanderer’s Guide To Life

Image result for ups and downs

A frivolous nomad wanders,

Where the flowers still futile, nascent,

In oblivious depths of slumber,

Where the breeze of yearning prevails,

And away the heat of frail hopes, sails!

Where the pests of futility bite,

And make life difficult, day and night.

Where grasses, a spotful, pant for greater heights,

And covet for more iridescent sights,

Do mosses come and take the hue away,

Thorns and posies, do each other slay.

A step up there and one down here,

That is how life is.

The desert, untrodden seems a tad not offbeat,

If not my heart that warms my feet.




The sky’s foggier, the morning’s crisp,

The dancing trees play the will o’ the wisp,

As time pulls out its latent sword,

At the nook of the Year Boulevard.

The porcelain sunbakes to a mellow warm,

And talks holidays with the misty swarm,

Do nestlings fly their kites of poems,

With there a high, and twice a low hum.

While the world basks in a glorious trance,

The gods of breeze do sing and dance.

It’s Holiday Time, it’s Holiday Time,

With joys a dozen that cost a dime!

To Far Beyond

To far beyond, the farthest of cloud,

birds flying over body of water during golden hour

Photo by Johannes Plenio on

The glorious sun sheds its shroud

The nestlings arouse to the tunes of breeze,

Embracing the mist’s motherly fleece.

The horizon is stoked in hues of gold,

The eyes of world, torpid, unfold.





Car headlights — quite plain in their demeanour,

but house a deep learning for all of us,

in pursuit of success.

There exists a high and a low beam.

The former, boastful, vainglorious akin a second Pompey,

exhibits its grandeur with pride

while blinding all others in the way,

a mishap seems closer.

The latter, humble and modest.

focusses itself on the road

Doesn’t boast, but makes full use of its potential.

Others aren’t blinded, mishap seems a far reality.

Be the low beam to the vehicle of your character on the road to your goal.


be it gold, diamonds, cash

it succumbs to gravity of the earth.

appeals to human vanity.

air defies it, stays afloat

breathing life into all

elements of the world.

There will be a lot of people who will come into living, do what all do, and die away like worthless entities, but the essence of life lies in what you do different. All materials fall from a height. But air always floats. Does something different. While the former comes, gives momentary pleasure and dies out with the corpse, air is the essence of eternity.


let silence speak

on the spotted wall – the clock muses.
the young, strapping second hand

changes once every heartbeat

races around the dial a thousand times.

the minute hand, in the noon of its being

jogs like a fit fiddle of forty
around the dial a score times.

then comes the hour hand

the wise old gaffer.

keeps it slow and steady.

plods around, once in a thousand breaths.

but it is not the young ones that we look up to

the hour hand is the receptionist

to all those eyes that seek time.

a glance at the graybeard of clock hands

and the time is known.

those who be in silence

and let their work make the difference

are the ones who relish

the world’s applause.


An Ode to The Nib

Like the humble beak of the mother bird,

which hushes the frantic cravings of its sprogs,

the pen nib is undoubtedly a wonder,

of human intellect’s leapfrogs.


Tethered to the pen’s ink trove,

it embraces its curves over, with a selfless will –

to spread color to a soulless living,

and yearnings of the mind, to spill!


Often it’s the pen and its ink we see,

but the nib? Do we hold it in esteem?

It is simple to adore the fruits and blossoms,

but how many admire the root of the tree?


But still, the nib doesn’t feel piddling.

It unfurls goodwill and stands up tall!

Of all the elements, that make up large,

are the ones who keep it steady and small!