The Poet and the Wise Man

What is the point of life,
A wise, unhappy man opined,
Hurdles deter at every strife,
The will to survive the daily grind,

Tireless, our existence crawls,
Nearing its eventual destiny,
To the ground, when time stalls,
Would raze our fruitless mutiny,

Things we hope to leave behind,
Seldom stand the test of time,
Ashes and dust merely do remind,
The living, of an uneasy, dreary rhyme,

War and peace and love and tumult,
Are mere distractions for the soul,
The cards that we are often dealt,
A game that cries instantly foul,

Oh Wise One! Said the poet he,
Do hear my penny's worth,
Through my eyes for a moment see,
The world I do put forth,

The quest for the bigger picture leaves,
The best of us in pain,
But for the man who still believes,
There's a world in each refrain,

The mounds of dust thou often see,
Are my fanciest memories,
That float the vacuous realm free,
My whims and my little vanities,

A moment's heat, a second's smile,
A gentle touch, a dainty tease,
A harmless wink, a lover's guile,
An hour's war, a minute's peace,

And the air that I shall breathe,
A testament to my existence,
And the ground I tread beneath,
And marks I leave of penitence,

Odes to her grace and form I write,
In the hope that someday far away,
My verse would flatter and delight,
Her, in pages carelessly cast away,

Oh Wise One! Do you now see,
The world I paint, My canvas bright,
To live in moments or merely flee,
Is one's own choice, is one's own right,

You tell your stories woebegone,
I spin a beautiful yarn,
Together from us a life is born,
Dusk and night and day and dawn!

Father and Son

From my innate flawed self,
I'd spawn forth a luckless one,
Stuff his cradle and baby shelf,
With little teddies and fears unknown,

On lullabies that I fondly sing,
Subliminal bigotry to put to sleep,
On tender rhymes that I often bring,
Intricacies dear to forever keep,

Him and his wildest dreams in check,
Lest they wander aimlessly,
Through streets of sanity bedecked,
With gems and jewels strewn generously,

Clothe him in robes of scarlet red,
Fetter his innocent soul in place,
And on the streets, listless I tread,
I reserve for him a special place,

Fables I recite on his bedside,
Would kindle in him a raging fire,
In vain to douse the flames he'd try,
Trapped in a perpetual spinning gyre,

In his piggy bank, I'd put,
The coins my coffers abound,
Stamped on, the ships of hope that sank,
Flotsam and Jetsam lost and found,

At leisure, I would take him out,
To show the life I lived,
In nightmares he would scream and shout,
In tongues the gods forbid,

Reverence as a virtue not,
His heart would ever imbibe,
And in bliss, My tiny tot,
Would leap with pride and joy,

Behind the venetian blinds I'd stand,
Would swell my chest in pride,
Unwittingly to a hostile land,
I transport him, side by side,

And thus the nails in his coffin, I,
Would drive in ever so lovingly,
A bitter man, he shall too try,
To leave his mark unwittingly!