My childhood world

Since to words my eyes were wise

Tales of England met my eyes

From Georgie Porgie, Jack and Jill

To Enid  Blyton had my fill.

What all of Indian heroes I read,

That too in English words was said

But Blyton’s England wooed me more

Than all come since or gone before

How oft I sat on my “Wishing Chair”

Ans flew off to lands afar or near

How oft I wished that I could be

In the hamlet by the “Faraway tree”

In those surroundings I could find,

A home and rest for heart and mind

So “Willow Farm” was my journey’s end

And “Brer Rabbit” a bosom friend

On wings of fancy did I fly

On the rural banks of Thames did lie

with a shaded patch of grass for a pillow

and felt the charm of the “Wind in the Willows”

With Badger, Ratty, Toad and Mole

Spent many warm evenings in Toad Hall

Of jousts and tournaments I dreamed

Where armour, shields, swords, lances gleamed

At time I sat at Arthur’s Round Table

That legendary setting of many a fable

I admired Sir Lancelot of the Lake

Who’d stake his life for honour’s sake

The beloved, most honoured knight of all

That graced Camelot’s hoary hall

These and their other fabled kin

Did serve my childhood heart to win.

But years have piled on that sweet time

And undermined that joy sublime

When the world weighed heavy on my heart

My childhood friends and I did part

The cynic, sarcastic reigned on all

Of disillusionment built a wall

that cut me off from my own past

Alas! Those days were not to last

The busy hours did wear me down

My smiling lips were taught to frown

and I was exiled from my ken

into the realm of greedy men

But still, sometimes, I find among

This pushing, striving, grabbing throng

A little space to rest my mind

In those short, sweet moments I find

a narrow crack in the self-made wall

I squeeze through slowly, lest it fall

Rewind my past, unwind my soul

then hurry on to my worldly goal.

(15th-16th Feb, 1998)


The mirrored view

I walked by many a window pane

But what I searched, I sought in vain

I looked ahead, I looked behind

I looked within my teeming mind

I looked without with tireless eyes

I looked despite my tired sighs

Was that the window that contained?

Is this the one that shows unstained?

That child, the image of the past

That man, of moments next to last

I ask of every pane I see

Are you the one? Mirror to me?

IMG_4463-mirror 9-7

0W5A0771-mirror 9-7


It’s really not.

If you can’t rhyme a rose

Then why not call it prose?

If words do not obey

And meters slip away

Then why not call it prose?

A lovely thought arose

It was perfect, or close

You grabbed a pen and wrote

But it struck false a note

Why can’t you call it prose?

You hear anything goes

Read jumbled, versèd rows

But poems ought to rhyme

Do try another time

And just call this one prose!