Poet of the Narrow World

Take a breath,
pause for a moment,
ponder over your poems—
they are void of
stories touching the
lives of struggling
and suffering people.
They are full of
roses, dews, rains,
butterflies, tame rivers,
water falls, fountains,
crystal clear lakes,
beauty of twilight.

They do not touch
the heart of a laborer,
describe the smile of
a prostitute, capture
the dream of a destitute,
paint the hope of a
homeless, reflect the
brightness of the
heart of a beggar,
illustrate the pain
of a troubled orphan.

You are the poet
of a different world—
always shining, always
glittering, always dazzling,
always illuminating—
the narrow world.

Your Presence

A little rose,
a veneer of love,
a sweet hug,
a passionate kiss,
may make all the
differences for me.

I wait for your
embrace with an
unmatched zeal
of antediluvian romance
that stirs my passion
and feeling in a
way that sets off
the nurturing waves
of love in my heart.

Your presence generates
a swirl of emotions
in my body that
takes me off the
ground in a trajectory
through the maze
of spatial charms
and constellation of
loving phalanx of stars
and keeps my
restless heart singing
to the beats
and booms of universal
music of love.

Writing Your Name

Everyday I sit
at the edge of
the sand-filled, long-jump
athletic course, and
write your name
in big, bold letters
on the sand.

I hope, may be
someday, you will
come here and
see your name
on the sparkling
yellow sand.

Next day, when
I come again,
I see that
your name is
gone—sands
appear untidy
and tormented, with
imprints of raging
steps of athletes
everywhere on the course.

I start from the
scratch, and write
your name
again on the sand.
I close my eyes,
and hope, this time
you will come.
I gradually open
my eyes only to
see you coming.
But who you are with?
Who is that well-built
man holding your hand?
I can not hold back
my tears seeing him
kissing you and running
over your name with
his brutal steps—
your name is gone.

Tomorrow, I shall
come, yes I shall,
to write your name,
again on the sand,
but this time
with my tears.

Celestial Beauty

I am flying high,
seating just behind
the pilot and co-pilot
from San Diego to
Santa Monica.
I keep my eyes
fixated on the
vast expanse of
clear blue sky
and magnificent
beauty of frothy
waves that adorn
the Pacific below.
Looking afar through
the cockpit window,
I reflect on my
own identity. I
mutter: Our world
is so beautiful!
I find myself lost
in the vastness
of the azure sky
that stretches beyond
where my eyes meet
the horizon, and
remain befuddled by
the unique facet of
celestial beauty.

EGO

It is no
strength of character,
it is no
positive trait
of humanity,
it is no
sign of maturity,
it is no
representation of
academic or professional
accomplishment of any magnitude.

It brings the
evil side of
character to the fore,
and drowns out
the good deeds—
well-recognized, highly
appreciated—in a
matter of few seconds.

It hurts the
loved ones,
severs relationships,
creates life-long rifts
between best friends,
splits families, flares
the flame of animosity,
and leaves everyone
with the bitter feeling
of dejection and desolation.

It has ill-effect,
it has destructive
power, it has
reach beyond an
individual’s control,
it has a name—EGO.

Enjoying the Rain

The sky turns
charcoal black
with clouds hanging
low to stare
upon us and
warn of an
overwhelming downpour
that may flood creeks,
clog streets and throw
normal life out of
routine path of activities.

I stepped outside
with my iphone to
capture the beauty
of the Dallas skyline
that abuts the high-rises
with the touch of
dark stream of clouds.
I felt warm burst
of air on my face
that jolted me to
look afar and take
another beautiful picture
of the horizon that
embraces the light
of thunder eviscerating
the sky with the
sharp edges of
heavenly sword.

Suddenly rain with high
wind got me drenched,
and I, instead of running
inside, enjoyed a
rain-soaked afternoon
by getting wet and
thanking the God
for the opportunity
to embrace the intense
rain that came as
a blessing in the
midst of a hot summer.

Dark Abyss of Homelessness

I wonder how
it would look like
if I were a
homeless, someone despised
by the society,
avoided by fellow
citizens, abandoned
by former friends.
I would be standing
under the downtown
overpass looking for
some handout as,
I know, I am the
pariah and have
nowhere to go,
nobody to turn
into, no one to
listen to me.

The society thinks
of me as worth
nothing as I am
a chronic drug addict,
a dirty vagabond
loitering the downtown
streets and a security
danger to pedestrians
and passers-by.
I visit shelters
to have meals,
meet with my
fellow homeless
brothers to talk
about our addiction,
and in rare occasion,
share my dream of
becoming a good
and productive
citizen again.

I need a little help,
a little empathy,
a little compassion,
a little word of hope
to lift my life
from the dark
abyss of homelessness.