Birth

Birth of a pure cry

What is painful doesn’t pain
Eyes behold smell smile

Liar

Profit money gain

Work stops shuts down easy slow
Liar! Sky did not fall

Friends

Bombs are like babies

Unaware of their pranks sounds
Patience O my friends

The unstoppable

Growth speed style pelf work

All kept in the dustbin yet
Fruits flowers plants bloom

Spoilsport

Rushing for meeting

Cars splash mud on the shirt face

Cells crying in pain

Leisure-pleasure

Sheets of rain pouring

Town washed out of gear no ride
Paper-boats sailing

Hope

Leaders’ hands are tied

Those who are led are tongue-tied
Head tide clears the knots

Realm of a poem

Realm of a poem 

A poem is born through poets, not from them;
Emotions nursed in propriety, in the worlds
Now lie in the hearse of words;
Totally cut without possession…ugh…c’est complètement parti mes amis!
C’est fini, alors c’est fini,
This mayhem!

Readers take over now,

Criticize; analyze, love, slaughter left and right,
The poet drops the pride and the vow,
Joins as a reader in the ugly pretty fight!

Wrong is heavy and loose

Let’s delve in the write so high and light,
Whatever be the choice we have nothing to lose,
Threw up everything on the page toute à l’heure in delight!
                                  
Let’s love the poets, who think otherwise,
For they, like us are also right,
We transgress as readers, wise, unwise,
Without prosecuting visitors;
For us – as part of them,
There aren’t any trespassers,
In the realm of a poem!

Messenger

Cliffs bring the sunrise

Light spreads into the valley

Morning teas wake up

Alarm

Hands jam hungry breads

Day queues up with many chores

Work honks at the door