The Happy Wanderer

Cobbled streets. Cement roads. Cross-bridges. Junctions. Signals. Breezes. Open spaces. Dreams. Thoughts. They're just words. But, Ah... If it were not for stories.. Have you ever thought, Of a lane? Of a way? That you've caught a glimpse of somewhere. Oh, not the same somewhere. Somewhere else. Where roses were pink. Think For a while. Think. Why do you positively 'know' that place? Why? After all, There was Just a barren dustrack. And its twin. Empty spaces. Think. Dig hard. And you might find That you saw A Santro Pass. In both Poona And say, Hyderabad? Think again. Maybe Since we are all human And there is more Alike one of us In another Than there is In anything else, Maybe More than one someone, Wished to ward off evil, By means of the 'traditional remedy'? Perhaps you saw a brother and his other, At two ends of the world? Or you might have seen A protruding rock Or a stray? Or a child Speak to h...

Poets Aren't Geniuses. No, my friend. No, pal. They aren't geniuses, my dear. Nowhere near. Who is a poet? Is he is a parson. Or a person? Is he a bard, With a beard? Is he a mouse, With words As his house? Is a Stratford Upon Devon-er, Is a Shakespeare, Someone who thinks Till he can Barely Hear himself Out? Is he the God, Without A Truce? Is he an Overwhelm Hemmed With Creative Juice? Is he a catacomb, Who Can't Locate his comb? Is he Number 4, Or Number 6, Or Number 7? Or, Is He simply a miracle With a tryst with Heaven? Is he A scholar Who Gets things right? Can He be A playwright? Or, Just think awhile, Can he be An Ordinary Someone, Who finds, That he can't write, At a certain point? O Poet. You are tougher than suet, But you have thoughts That Just Can't Do It. You Are Normal. You are Normal. You are Normal. You are a Poet.