A Wondering Baby ~ from within...

I wonder why I came out, not cryin',
When all the while I was happy in
The womb of a sweet pleasant woman called my mother,
To this world that is full of din
And everywhere tongues braggin'
Of their world famous sins.

Oh sometimes I wish they'd put me in a bin
Wrapped in a foil of tin,
And make me look like a 'Superbaby'
All silvery and Oh-so-zin',
And leave me wonderin' to myself
In the corner
Of some deep dark inn.

But Alas! I am bound in this lint
Pronged and tossed in this wool
Held with pins,
And they only take them off this Yin
To lather to rub and,
To rinse.
Oh then I'd long for
Tails and fins
To swim along in this water,
Away from these ninns'!

But here again they win,
Everytime, this baby's kins.
And I lie in the cradle
With my hand on my chubby chin,
Never knowin' that someday,
I would go back in
To that womb in the ground within
Six feet or more, deep.
To that place where I have to sleep.
My hand still holdin',
A bottle of Gin.

Critics- 'Dis' Approved?

Theodore Roosevelt had very famously said once,

"It is not the critic who counts not the man who points out how strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood..who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly."

Now if everybody had thought like Roosevelt and made the world a much more bearable place to live in, we would have certainly unearthed some exquisite talent in every other reticent person we meet, thereby showcasing the inevitable fact that we are all born to perform some miracle in this life before taking a bow from it.

To err is humane, to forgive is divine, but many of my friends would counterblast this statement rather nonchalantly reflecting their undeserving arrogance, "We are not God. And do not want to be one." Why are we too quick at judging someone and their abilities, when we ourselves are anything but perfect and perfectly virtuous!

Another queer yet interesting discovery in most cases are, critics are almost always the ones who have never tried their hands at picking the swords themselves. To me, a critic is nothing short of an archaic Roman witnessing a gladiators bid for survival in the Colosseum and in life, just to fight another day, or maybe even lesser. If anybody is bothered about honesty and art perhaps they should pin point out what exactly can be rectified a next time instead of giving away wanton verdicts from a quasi intellectual mind via a sharp tongue. We need honest guidance, not rude words or inflated assumptions. We don't have time for that because we are busy working for acceptance and if you can help with that, kindly bring it on.

Every human has a spark in them that is waiting to be ignited and controlled so that the hearth can be warmed and not get the roof burnt down. And if you do not like the idea of a fire kindly do not bother adding further fuel to it with your ignorance.

Remember, we are not greater than The Creator who supposedly judges every mortal only at the end of one's game.

Thank you Teddy Dear!

SPARROWS

Boy sparrow, girl sparrow
fly and dive
beaks kissing the thrust of wind,
breasts caressing the silk of clouds
they flap their wings
and sing and sing
of tales from every continent they have
been to discover and see the sea glow
merry, deep, blue and below.

Together they dance a tango
of love, freedom and for the miseries there
they escaped being
clipped, torn, ragged and
trapped,
like their two legged friends down,
In the lands of heat and brown.

DEWS OF A FREE ROMANCE..

We fold into another,
On a sunny Sunday morning.
Like thin air into the
smokes of the woods
Where the mist that lies far ahead
Protects those morning flowers yet to smile.

When flesh and salt mold in
The art meets the eye of the transcends.
Little spheres of us
churning in urns of silver.
Angst and feral notes
transpiring into the dews of
a serene morning peck,
absolving into a grope for
meaning, to exist.
A decoction for growth, we laugh.

Leisure is,to expiate, of filth and toxic.
We reach up, in a bid,our hands reach out,
A connotation of liberty, is it?
Or grasping for that mirage
Seemingly inviting us.
Into yet another turbulence
Of promises, trials,
Loves and endless second chances..