Sunday Morning …

Sunday morning, the city sleeps in
And blessed silence abounds,
Softly tempered by the hush of a breeze
And Nature’s soothing sounds.

The fluttering fronds of potted ferns,
The restless rustling trees,
The orchestra of the warbling birds,
The buzzing busy bees.

The parrots come to peck the grain,
Gazing with benevolent eyes;
The mynahs quietly wait their turn,
The crow, impatient, cries.

The koel’s melody casts a thrall
From its perch in the mango tree,
While ‘neath the largestronium
A peacock strolls majestically.

But all too soon, the humans stir:
The enchantment fades away;
I’ll be back another Sunday morn
When the magic again holds sway.

Anger

Words, like thorns

With poisoned tips:

Drawing blood,

Inflicting pain;

The hurt becoming

A blinding rage,

Lashing out, so no one

Dares again.

***

And numberless years

Of lashing out,

Of building fences

With barbed wires;

To preserve, protect,

Or is it imprison

The heart with Anger

Like Hell’s own fires?

***

No space for beauty,

No room for laughter:

A bleak terrain

That stretches wide;

A barren landscape

Of sharp-edged flint:

No place for a smile

Or cheer to abide.

***

What life is this?

What burdens these?

Why carry them,

Weighing down the Soul?

Just shrug them off,

Let Anger go

And Love come in,

To heal, make whole.

***

For, Love can blunt

The sharpest thorns,

Relieve all hurt

And ease all pain;

Make flowers bloom

In arid sands,

And from the heart

All poison drain.

***