Categories
Contentment count fingers peace Poetry salvage.

The World I Make


I wish tobaby-counting live in a world of my own

which I will never disown.

I love a world all for myself

none others to bother the self

been born out of a mother

my thoughts are invalid rather

as I come from the womb

I see many others in the room

the gynecologist and her team

announce the birth with a beam

the crowd around rejoices  aloud

my mother  curls in a shroud

then  I see many faces

which would play a role in phases

I cry in a full-throated ease

as I lie in a distinctive freeze

Could I remake the world?

If so how would it be?

My little fingers unfold

the thumb says in a voice  bold

first there should be no fraud

all things should be straight

conceal nothing from sight

the pointing finger juts out

I foresee an accusation throughout

primarily it counts on behavioural trends

condemns rapes with a mighty bend

the middle finger long and  slim

talks  slowly of the issues in dim

the child abuse is a detraction grave

the  contention of the ring finger is brave

modestly puts forth the hardships of slaves

though it is less  it still plays

the biggest  issue in mind

the tiniest finger finds

the finger drums on Peace  and Contentment

both require a dedication and commitment

my fingers close in a clasp  so tight

reluctant to open out anymore

the child in me wakes up with a startle

preparing to face the  battle

unleashed by the external forces

meantime sleep overtakes me by force

well, could I create such a world as I envisage?

mind you that would prove to be a great salvage

a world without greed, deceit and strain

would be a Heaven where you feel no pain

Could I create such a world?

I would, I swear by my word!

 

‘I am participating in the #TheWorldRemade activity at BlogAdda in association with India Today #Conclave15.’

 

Categories
thoughts

Those Who Create.


The brush which paints
knows not its work.
it being a silent spectator
doing that it has to do
rather aiding the one who does.

Being that in truth
that which one helps
or that one which is used
can never stake claim
over the accomplishment.

Not understanding the creativity
the helpers and the facilitator
try to assume the fame with a pride
there by ignoring the creator
who endeavoured to finish it beautiful.

This goes to all the creations
be it in art or architecture
be it in the making of man
the hand of the doer is invisible
those who pt forward gamble not ordinary.

The mother who carries the child
brings him up with love
certainly not owns the child
being appointed to make him into a man
with that her responsibility gets over.

She is akin to a brush , pen
similar to a carrier
never the craftsman or sculptor
who works hard to create
never she could aspire to be so.

brushmother