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Wake Up

Work life habits are like rock. I would wake up at 5.30 am. Listen to the soothing sound from my phone. The wake up call with a Native American touch to it, resembling the flute of Carlos Nakai. In the background the birds chirp and the wake up call for a hunter, ready to pick up the gears and go on a mission. The “Bird’s signature” ends with subtle rise in tempo, the hunter in the mind wake up and starts walking to the wild, on a mission and he can hear his footsteps making slight splashes on the stream that he has to cross, to his mission, to hunt. I wake up. Pull myself out the bed, not sure if I wanted to.

My eyes get adjusted to the ambient light. The creepy shades of tree branches vanish from the side walls. I start staring at the window blankly. Silhouette of trees start to differentiate with the overall darkness. It starts to color itself. The habit has been built,  the hue of dark violet imbue the sky while the uncertainty of the day fills me. And into the colorful life I turn my consciousness.

What does this day promise. An empty uncertainty ? A wish for more hangs in the air. Like a jacket ready to be worn, to head out onto the snowy day,  to be held together so the winds may not snatch. To keep it close to me, is it the jacket which holds me together, or is it me? Nevertheless, we make an inseparable pair. One is lifeless , other full of life, covered by the dead. The dead cells that protect the life inside. The past is not haunting, through the dead it shields the live, the alive, which gradually join the dead, making the future covered with the past. Some of the past , like the nails I clip them, file them to make them look good. Some of the dead cells are rubbed off, pulled away, far from life and washed down the drain with the shower. And some more which still clings to the new and young, sometime, very rarely fail to protect as an accidental gash splits the live and dead and the upcoming. Then some future cells are lost in bleeding, a lost future, and a hurried action by the dead to cover up what is alive, somehow resembling a shame that is to be hidden from the public, though not perfect, leaving a scar, as a mark of history, a point to remember.

With wakeful times, dreams become day-dream. Day which is repellent for dreary eyed ghosts of memory with dream that keep us alive and awake. Ready to take on challenges, come what may. Warmth of blood activating the muscles, thoughts of actions being pumped into them in preparation. There is no time for the drag, the unwanted pull of the past, a burden on the go  I wash them all away with the morning shower with a feeling, of timelessness creating a veil enclosing me, in tiny drops of water.

 

-Sense of Time series-

  • Sense of Time - I would wake up everyday. Just like any other day. This was yet another day. Exciting as usual. A running clock adds to the excitement of awaiting adventure. And I start upon a new one. This time it is about time. And it is time. Time changes and now it was forcibly changed. The circadian […]
  • Vanishing point - An average timeline of  a human can be drawn starting from birth to school, progressing to university and job and marriage and help repeat all the same for the kids. This canned solutions in life is a proven time tested sequence. The authority of which is questioned only by a few. So far, the biggest […]
  • Wake Up - Work life habits are like rock. I would wake up at 5.30 am. Listen to the soothing sound from my phone. The wake up call with a Native American touch to it, resembling the flute of Carlos Nakai. In the background the birds chirp and the wake up call for a hunter, ready to pick […]
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Posted by on December 7, 2017 in creativity

 

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Sense of Time

I would wake up everyday. Just like any other day. This was yet another day. Exciting as usual. A running clock adds to the excitement of awaiting adventure. And I start upon a new one. This time it is about time. And it is time. Time changes and now it was forcibly changed. The circadian rhythm of the human mammal with all its intestinal fortitude could not hold the time. The norm of life in this part of the world. Fall back and change back from daylight savings to normal time. For whom, I asked ? I received replies of various tones, repeating the old farmer’s story who wanted to save time in the form of daylight savings, invariably the justification reassure that farmer’s depend directly on the daylight and sunrise, not the artificial clock. A farmer’s life is not a “9 to 5” joke with coffee breaks meant for gossip and lunch time focused on chitchat and not on satisfying the imminent hunger. A sense of time does not exist for such frivolous activities. Any real work accomplished in this way is really an achievement. Focus on the work than the focus on making work look like it is not work, can turn cumbersome. Why not get the work out the way, within the realms of time allotted? Free the rest of time and really enjoy the daylight and save time with a sense of time. Now, I am lucky to have a work where the sense of time is based upon the priority of work and work-at-hand rather than the hours-requirement. In this way focus brings in a sense of time and vice versa. Quality-time put in work releases dependency of work on time. In turn removing the sense of time. Focus, plan and a target goal within a time framework helps save time. And when next time someone says about daylight saving time and how it affects their daily routine and public in general, it will make no sense. Because, no one really saved any time by turning the clock hands. As an environmentally conscious human one may try to save the tube light time in office. Use the daylight time, keep the blinds open and let the natural light help us light up our workspace. Yes. A Tube-light Saving Time (TST) instead of Daylight Saving Time (DST) . In this way, time attains another dimension. A dimension of sense, or should I call time as another sense in addition to basic senses of humans?

-Sense of Time series-

  • Sense of Time - I would wake up everyday. Just like any other day. This was yet another day. Exciting as usual. A running clock adds to the excitement of awaiting adventure. And I start upon a new one. This time it is about time. And it is time. Time changes and now it was forcibly changed. The circadian […]
  • Vanishing point - An average timeline of  a human can be drawn starting from birth to school, progressing to university and job and marriage and help repeat all the same for the kids. This canned solutions in life is a proven time tested sequence. The authority of which is questioned only by a few. So far, the biggest […]
  • Wake Up - Work life habits are like rock. I would wake up at 5.30 am. Listen to the soothing sound from my phone. The wake up call with a Native American touch to it, resembling the flute of Carlos Nakai. In the background the birds chirp and the wake up call for a hunter, ready to pick […]
 
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Posted by on November 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Being a Keyboard warrior

Art of writing and speaking was reserved for the very few who could take diplomatic stands on and off stage. Those were the talents of the bygone era. The era of the  bombastic rhetoric. New age media of internet and social marketing has forced many activists to go online. This has gone to such realistic level that in UP BJP had reportedly wanted a minimum number of likes for potential candidates to get a ticket.

The game of social activism had taken a leap from there, at least for the many potential activists. This lone writing of blog in a non-main stream channel of networking. Yes, bloggers do network in a different way than social networking platforms like twitter. But the game again is to put your content in a static form, for memory and for easy retrieval compared to the real time dynamic nature of social media where the next second is not yours. Yes, with considerable number of friends and group to follow, it is not more than a second that captures the attention, if at all, of a casual reader, in social platform.And a lone writing in a blog may not garner quick, or long followers. But it is still there, as a personal satisfaction, for the keyboard samurai to look back and cite as achievement. There is no guarantee that the fighter gets the fame in his lifetime. And like the many real soldiers who stand for their homeland and defend it with pride and their life, the lone keyboard warrior cannot come anywhere near in even a passing reference for the real life defenders. The effort of  a keyboard warrior may then be diverted to capture the moods and comments of his “friends” and “followers”. This is possible lest these women and men and others are a tad inclined to oblige themselves in the form of likes, follow and comments. The best of social media activity of a modern day couple is well written in the lyrics of “Selfie – Pulla” by Madhan Karky Vairamuthu

 

By this time you would have understood the feelings of a keyboard warrior who has nothing but the keyboard and Google search to help him locate the necessary raw materials. This is unlike the traditional activists who have torn their footwear for their passion for their activism. Technological advancement in the form of speech recognition and better keyboard do not let the keyboard warrior’s keyboard to look like that of a well seasoned politician or social worker. Blame it on technology, but one definite indication of the keyboard warrior is that his seat is always hot! Due to continuous sitting and typing. If the temperature is a good indicating parameter of a seasoned keyboard warrior, why not take it at face value. Yes, this is forced upon the reader and the unexpected reader. But that is a risk befitting a champion. There may be losses of “friends” and “followers”. But it is said by Facebook that “Followers are temporary, friends are forever” because the network is build on the basic habit of fellow humans, to know and comment, often bad comments, on what others did or what they ought to. It is the unforgiving human nature. This no one can control.

As an experiment , may be for real, facebook started the keyboard warrior program where people could change their images to support France. This was a technological jump for the usual keyboard warrior, often going by fake names to support his cause, because this just involves few clicks. This gave rise the Click-warriors, later extended to Touch-warriors and so on and so forth, based on the kind of sensing mechanism that they used their social networks with. Now there were new worlds created due to this. This included the first world of touch-warriors and touch-citizens, second-world of click-warriors and click citizen, third world of keyboard warriors and keyboard citizens and the dark fourth world were the net speed is less than 1Gbps, a fifth world that had bare minimum of what is called as civilization at 256Kbps and the dark unknown world without internet.  This was another layer of abstract classification of human beings but not yet devastating enough to cause war and “peace”. Normalization in this internet hegemony is brought forth when one for real speaks to another human being. This maintains the delicate equilibrium between the different social strata. The movement of people from one-world citizenship to multi-world citizenship is made possible by the discontinuity in the physical telecommunication network that keeps the demographic incongruity to minimum.

A keyboard warrior is always restless. The slightest possiblity of activism awakens the champion. The latest was that a gorilla was killed and people shared their feelings. Some showed solidarity to human stupidity to laud the efforts to save a child , that saved humankind from wilderness (though captivated and endangered). Some loathed the efforts of the zookeeper and bickered about the human stupidity that led to a whole series of events, from endangering animals, imprisoning , removing the barrier between captivity and guests (for natural watching), bringing up and inviting a human who could not manage her own kids (let alone animals), who paid the zoo (in form of ticket), to let the kid fall and let the Mighty Gorilla “protect” and let the Gorilla (Harambe) be shot to save the kid. God knows why it did not fell on the kid and then it would have been another stupidity. Harambe and this stupidity will be one among the many in the annals of human history. The collection of achievements to save human species. But the keyboard warrior will not be silent. For there is a world to be saved. Remember, 8 years ago someone wrote Human Welfare with a Question mark?

“Once a warrior always a warrior” works for keyboard warriors too. The fingers twitch at a shared photo of man made disaster or incident , the keyboard warrior wakes up to action. Keyboard warriors strive to respond, react and show the world some virtual humanity. It may be a few words that can dwell in the heart of the casual reader that changes perspectives and support and actions and reactions. This is all the work of a genuine keyboard warrior whom we should acknowledge for the virile vigilant efforts of an undying unidentified (often fake id) heroes. It is this species that the God has send on earth Homo KeyWar (Keyboard Warriors) to maintain this world as a single piece woven in the intricate internetwork of things and stuff. Salute to them.

 
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Posted by on May 31, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Yellow hibiscus

Gopi had these beautiful birds collected in a wired cage. A few trees and flowery bushes, especially the red hibiscus in the background play with the eyes making one forget about the green coloured metal that made the cage. Birds of all colours were visible due to this spectacular arrangement. And this was a definite treat for the eyes whenever I visited Gopi’s place. My belief in freedom for all, won’t let me be to happy at seeing the caged bird, though!

We had this kid of the neighbour’s – Syamili who used to admire these birds. And she used to draw the birds on paper with her pencil colours. And to my fascination, the birds would sit still just so that she could complete her picture. She was very considerate about the birds too, where her drawing would not last for more than 10 minutes at a stretch. And a definite treat awaits the bird which agreed to stand still for this child artist. She would often have some piece of broken fallen fruit, sometimes mango or on other times guava that she picked up on her way from the street.

While me and Gopi would engage in the musings of the teen world viz. Cricket and science, this kid used to enjoy her company with the caged birds. Once, she used to have long conversations with the yellow bird, which was her favourite. She did the talking and to her spoken words apparently the bird was nodding or tweeting. Or was it the kid’s wild imagination! I had to check this out personally. And one day I could do that sacrificing the valuable time normally devoted to perpetual thoughts of the spellbinding universe also known as “nerd” talk.

Syamili was asking her friend, the yellow bird she had named as ‘Appu’. ” Appu, how are you today ?” . To my bewilderment a sober single twirp could be heard in reply.

She continued “Why , are you sad today ?”

Appu : ( no reply)

And I was about to rejoice on the my belief, my thought, that the twirp heard before was faux tympanic simulation

Syamili kept her colour pencils and writing pad on the ground. Some red ants which was searching for its way continued its pursuit from the damp soil onto the writing pad, only to move fast out the pad and back to the damp soil.

She said ” I believe that if I was closed in a cage like you, I would have been happy for a while. Because, I will feel safe and I would be taken care of by Gopi. I would have food and water. And I do not have to worry about finding my food. Or I would not be scared by any cats or bigger birds that may attack me , if I were a bird.”

Appu was nonchalant and seemed to look at a distance in deep thought.

” But , then after a while I would get bored, for I cannot meet any new birds like me. And I would be bored, I guess”

And there was a definite sharp tweet from Appu. Oh boy! It was as if the sound penetrated my bones.

“So I guess, now you are bored, unhappy and sad at the thought that you have no freedom to really fly”

Appu nodded ‘yes’.

“I heard Gopi is going on a tour for a week. I guess this would be a good chance for you to fly around and make new friends. May be you can return from your tour when brother Gopi also returns.”

Appu had turned its head at an angle as if in thought.

” OK ! I will ask Gopi, but I am not sure if he will let you out. You know he loves all the birds here, that is why he takes care of you very well. I am pretty sure that he would like to see you safe here all the time.”

saying this Syamili turned . At the same time Gopi was there with food for the birds, some grains and milk. The eager child wanted to feed the grains to the birds, and Gopi allowed her. Her tiny little hand would be as big as the birds themselves. And Gopi was concerned if the birds beaks would hurt her hand. The birds were delicate and enjoyed their dinner thoroughly, they all made some sound which was like a chorus music.

Syamili requested Gopi to let the birds go away for one week and come back when he returns from his trip. Gopi patted on the child’s head saying ” I am sure they won’t come back even if they try to . This is because Freedom is heavenly pleasure. And no creature would trade freedom for anything else. I feed them and take care of them . These have no meaning compared to them enjoying their own freedom. I appreciate your concern Syamili but I will not let them out. ”

“But then, have can you go on a trip and enjoy your freedom and not let them go ?”

For which Gopi replied ” I like them so much that I don’t want them to leave”.

Meanwhile, some friends had just brought in the news of a new finding of rose apple tree. And a child’s mind is so dynamic Syamili said a quick ‘bye’ to Appu and ran with the folks for her share of rose apples.

 

Next week, I was sitting at home like a caged bird, with nowhere to go. It was raining very heavily. I had not joined Gopi on his trip because it was his family’s tour. And then I had 2-3  days passing between the 3 teas that I had everyday in the morning , the brunch and the evening. Clouds parted and it was sunny for rest of the holidays. I joined the local group of Cricket gang and went to hangout with them. And the 10 -day school break just got over and I thought I should visit Gopi just before we were busy again.

There was this pleasant smell of from the red hibiscus flowers from Gopi’s garden when I took the turn to the entrance of his house. I could hear Syamili’s giggle as I entered the gate. Gopi was there playing with a puppy dog which was licking Syamili all over. And more giggles followed as the puppy played with her.

After a few exchange of pleasantries regarding the days of raining and his trip and my Cricket and his new puppy, I felt that something was missing in the background. The smell of hibiscus was somewhat stronger inside the plot. I checked to see how big the plant has become and there were undoubtedly lot of flowers ready to join the many others which have fell on the ground. And in the foreground to my surprise the bird’s cage was empty. I could not help wonder and asked Gopi what had happened? I asked if he had let the bird’s embrace their freedom. And then Gopi replied ” The birds were all dead when I returned from the trip.”  I was shocked and asked ” how and why ?”

He explained   ” There was this strip of coconut leaf hanging from a dwarf coconut tree that just about touched the bird’s cage. The ants had initially apparently come for the grains and later consumed the bird’s too. And when I returned the cage had only dead birds. And I cleaned the cage and threw all the remnants at the base of the hibiscus plant.”

I said “that is very sad, If only you had let them out . Atleast the guilt of causing their death, by capturing their freedom could have been avoided”.

With nothing more to say. I hung around with the new puppy. And left in sometime taking with me some of the hibiscus’ smell and the little girl’s innocent giggle. And at the gate when I turned to wave ‘bye’ to Gopi and Syamili , my eyes may have deceived me but I definitely saw a yellow hibiscus flower among the red.

 

PS: Adapted from True Story by Aneesh

 
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Posted by on March 15, 2016 in creativity

 

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AC Gayatri

Srikaalahasti is a really very very old temple of Worship. It is so old that the temple tower had collapsed some time back.  The temple is visited by people all over the world. It is situated in a very hot place for people who are not used to Andhra Pradesh.  Therefore, someone had very generously provided Air conditioning units in the sanctum . It is so positioned that we feel that the A/C also gets a feel of being side-deity-idol, as is common in many temples. Definitely the units there would feel so auspicious themselves by having Hundi in front of them. And therefore it is of utmost importance for a devotee not only to pray to God but also pay obeisance to these divine entities. A prayer to go with that in the metric of Gayatri is given here.

 

|| ॐ उष्णनाशकाय विद्महे

शीतकारकाय विद्महे

तन्नो ए\सी प्रचोदयात् ||

> In Romanaagari

||Om Ushnanasakaaya vidmahe

sheetakaarakaaya dheemahi

tanno A/C prachodayat ||

 

 

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If you are using this for any commercial / advertisement purpose you should get the permission from the author

 

 
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Posted by on January 23, 2016 in creativity

 

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Snow

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The boy once asked for a land full of sugar

The God asked “fine or coarse grain, dear ?”

The boy said “finest fine is fine for me”.

And it was granted in cold white fine dust.

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The boy was mesmerized by chilly bus rides

Through the clouds on road which winded up the ghats

He asked for days of travel through the clouds

On the land, and there was cloud on the roads.

Inner Clock Tower Commons UB

The girl would shout with childish clamour

Excited when the container of rice flour

Fell on the floor, for she could walk and slide,

As if on snow; the roads were spread with white.

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The baby elephant who once tasted salt,in infant fantasy,

Wanted a world covered in the white powder,so tasty,

All over the surface, where it could roll, happily

Have a little or all whenever, it was the snow.

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The child in the grown-up wanted to fall

And never break a bone whatever the fall

And the coincidence happened near the fall

Niagara and the lake effect made it fall.

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The teen who got a sniff was addicted to the drug

And wanted the dreams through the stuff come true

In a sense of a joyous life full still on the brew

And sleep and walk on the white dust of the crew.

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Taking upon the task to complete the task all at once

How much was needed was beyond the measurement in tons

So, it was made simple, to let the cloud pass over the road

Make it feel chilly, cold, dusty and out of the world.

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The snow was made, not without much thought.

Based on the wishes as dreamy colourless white,

Shapeless, flaky, powdery, featureless sight,

Restless, slippery, forgery, seamless light.

IMG_20160112_131005

PS: Walk on the snow, Courtesy – Lake effect Advisory at Buffalo.

 
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Posted by on January 12, 2016 in creativity, poem

 

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Mental block

 

A wanderer by soul would wonder

To act, to go on to achieve what

To have the dream enact

Made possible without a bar

 

As I said I had to act I ran

To catch the bus if I can

Which was powerful yet busy

I thought I could catch it in few strides

 

So I ran, my legs moved so slow

I felt I moved, I was heavy,

But even after a fair “run” I did,

Made me nothing closer to destiny

 

Finding myself breathing heavily

It was not so much fun as a try,

Not even an exercise had made

To my schedule in a long time

 

The weighing machine doesn’t lie

Comments on my posted photos

Say the same that I have grown

And fatter than I thought I was

 

It was fall and trees had shed

Leaves that decorated the branches

Now lay coloring the ground

In hues other than green henceforth

 

Somehow the bus had waited

For the less privileged who could not

Make it on time, for it was usual

Among students who over slept and what-not

 

I meant business on the way out of bus

Of the bus that carried so similar dreams

All burst out onto the ground but

Kept moving without wind that blew the leaves

 

I barged into the class and I was

The presenter of a topic yet unknown

With guts of steel I approached the audience

Only to find me breathless with a struggled inhale

 

I blabbered on and on till they could take

No more; that was the idea to get

The applause that was uninvited

And a way to react and break away

 

The wind was cold and air was heavy

As lighthearted and peaceful I tried to be

But why I could not, I did not know, till I made

The discovery in a couple of steps to go on the way

 

I had the stimulant from the solace of

Tea that almost always had that punch

As I walked I came to face

The childish face that I admired

 

This kid had light lit on her face

And I had told her that at once

She took it for something else

Emotions of life that I had not explored

 

I was struggling to breathe, air I lose

Couldn’t Guess what she read on my face

It would have had evoked a joke in case

Lest I was stuck with something in my nose

 

Then it struck on me as I went my way ahead

The transparent look on the child left behind

What stuck on was just the mucus I had

To blow, to let off the blockage and all was set

 

 

PS:

Thanks to Dr.M

 

 
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Posted by on November 24, 2015 in creativity, poem

 

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I have a girl

This is a story/event as told by my friend Sarath.

There was this day in the middle of some other days. Sarath was travelling in the Delhi Metro. The climate was normal, as normal as Delhi could be. And the time was perfect, just like any other time. The travel was regular, as expected out of any Delhi commuter. Life became pleasant, in memory of this and many other funny incidents. As one may not expect, this was just the same unassuming, uneventful commute in life a Delhite. The train coach was full and still people came in. Occupying whatever space is left. The people quite talented at enterprising to get a foothold on this competitive world. And so there was this constant feel of getting pushed and getting squeezed in the crowded train coach. Pick-pockets create an additional effort to increase the pressure so that their job becomes easier. In middle of this there was this old lady who was quite self aware. She shouted at the boy who was standing next to her. For she was getting pushed. And if it was just the push for which the shout was aimed then again no one can help it. Further, the lady shouted at the boy for being disrespectful to women, and probably she spitted out quite a bit of her thoughts with venomous tongue standing for the collective emotions of womanhood. It is very unfortunate that the boy, whatever his intentions (known or unknown) got a tongue lashing in the public. A man of status in the boy could not bear it anymore. And there was something that he had to do. He had to prove his stand about his self respect and also his respect for the womanhood. What could he do? What reason can convince this lady that of his good upbringing? He needed a good defense shield.

With much courage this guy found a girl of his age next to him. He called out to the lady and said ” I have a girl, why do you think that I should bother you?” Saying so , he put his hand over the girl next to him.  This for sure silenced the lady. As an observer Sarath must have expected some reply from the lady. The crowd must have felt at peace for the defense of the boy and their expectation of an upright society, the boy being a building block of it.

And not a word was spoken later. Until the lady got out of train for her destination, grabbing the hand of the girl.

She was probably the lady’s daughter.

 
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Posted by on November 7, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Hands on Limerick the first time

I guess this piece works like Limerick,

form of poetry that maverick,

lines of thoughts jumble,

the words unclear mumble,

And this made my mind work with kick.

 

The journey of twenty six form

squeak and shout in mix quarrelsome

What is where is known

to the one who own

the power to wade through troublesome

 

 

Limerick Formula :

5 sentences:

1,2,5 longer, end in rhyme

3,4 shorter and end in rhyme

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Haiku on International Women’s day

God created her,
Hands that take care; mind that fare;
To help, love and share .

 
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Posted by on March 9, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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