My Poem

There are poems that move you to tears,
And there are poems that address allying fears;
There are poems, intellectual and profound,
And there are poems that make the world go round;

And then, there is my poem...

My poem arrives with an exalted cry,
Promises celebration until I die;

My poem walks on its tiny feet,
I learn to drive before taking the seat;

My poem sees life in its purest form,
With joy in my heart and my heart full of song;

My poem revels in mischevous pranks,
Of childhood days and spontaneous cranks;

My poem talks about a man called Father,
Life without him is "no life" rather;

My poem tells me about a woman named Mother,
Her blessings and food - like no other;

My poem meets its adolescent life,
In all its glory and impulsive strife;

My poem soaks in the glee of its first crush,
The brashness, the risque and all that mush;

My poem raises a toast to the word - friendship,
How can i let those precious hands slip?

My poem celebrates the world of relationships,
Not money, not fame but the small joys from life's trip;

The small joys...

My poem encompasses the break of dawn
My poem sings the last song of dusk
My poem bathes in silver ponds
My poem drinks the nectar they call water
My poem relishes the chocolate mousse
My poem savours the roadside food
My poem dances to random notes
My poem sails the sunshine boat

My Poem...

My poem as of today is at an important juncture,
Will it tread the unconventional or the popular culture? ;

But then my poem steers its own course,
Tells me, thats how I shall meet my source;

My poem inculcates some values too,
Of discipline, hardwork and distractions few;

My poem rings in the old world charm,
Of chivalry, romance and everything warm;

And then my poem felicitates the perfection of man,
That if I want, I certainly Can;

My poem knows that there is that much time,
Why sulk, why crib, why mourn, why whine? ;

My poem finally expresses the power of love,
The force that makes dastard men rise above;

My poem ends with a noble thought,
In the end, men and grass will become nought;

So, my poem is a gift from God. Just like your poem and yours too.

Because my poem is not mere words on paper.

My poem is ME.

Anuj Gosalia