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An unstoppable gamble

It is unstoppable gamble now
I don’t know but it will work any how?
It is going ahead to maintain the lead
I don’t know where it will end or head

It is definitely in right direction
All moves suggest same action
Not facing any hurdle or reaction
Mostly agreed on it without any friction

It took almost no time not even fraction of second
I was determined to push any way and was very fond
It had to cut ice and yield the favorable result
I had enough of it in the form of insult

It wise step to take me to new height
I had thrown all my efforts with lots of weight
It was all that I could do or offer
There were many who did not side with me and differed

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Life is not

Life is not what you think and it seems
It is not trimmed in rhymes and themes
How can you call it life even when completely ignored?
How a sleep can be called sound when not snored?

You are helpless and powerless as goat
You may travel in it like as if on boat
The powerful wind may pull you towards disaster
You should be able to control it as master

You are completely dead in absence of strong will
Any unwanted thoughts may enter mind and kill
You will live thousand deaths in single life
It is double edged weapon like knife

Self dependence is what you call it is like volcano
All desires under control even if burning like inferno
If you become slave of in your home as helpless and prisoner
You will dig your own grave later or sooner

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Deep in love

Why I am so deep in love and called mad?
Why give people chance to call me mad?
Failure in love attempts and feel so sad,
Always get thrashing from kind dad,

It was not complicate but simple love,
Sailing on water like duck and dove,
Getting to know better of her but not to have,
Driving me crazy as she never forgave,

Was it simple attraction or infatuation?
Confronted many times but confused with question,
was I so desperate and running out of time?
Was it the only priority and my object prime?

I may not remain quiet and simply rest,
Earnest efforts with sincerity and follow with zest,
Leaving rest to luck and trying for best,
May be life wants some more crucial tests?

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A change to witness

The world is changing fast
No one knows when it will last
There is no concern for proper food
But anxiety for disappearance of wood

Where is the poverty to be seen?
Everybody wants to be millionare and very keen?
No one wants to be left behind?
All billionaires and no poor to find

Human touch and value is lost
We are at pains to find its cost
Poor are here and rich also here
Same sky same air then what is to fear?

All norms are changed
Money exchanged skillfully and arranged
No one is caught accepting the bribe
Still we call ourselves citizens and not tribes

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Aurora Borealis

    A crystallization of color spreads from the upper regions of the dark sky towards the trembling nipples of the waves. The feathering fringes of clouds fade behind pillars of green light. Transparent curtains tremble every-where. In the arctic temple, the hidden Samson of light shakes the moon-green pillars of the night.
    Color these crystals with sudden blood; it is dawn, or else the last consumptive saliva of the dying day. Heartless hard light!
    In the crisp light of the frozen tinkling stars, no waters flow. The ice-stars are icebergs in this black ocean. When the green glass cathedrals crash, the light and the pillars of light and the green pillars of moon-green crystallized light are reflected through space and finally settle like sharp blades above the trembling nipples of the waves.
    Samson moves in the glass cathedrals. Samson and the bull and Samson and the sun and the sun is the bull and Samson is the sun and is the bull.
    Let crackling twigs of green-white light weave fantastic tree-patterns on the mirror of the sea. Let the deceptive sky celebrate the fall of its ice-cathedrals and its icebergs and its ice-stars when darkness hardens the black waters into the sullen black ice-pack of night.
    Red Samson the arctic red sun is moving in the groves of green pillars. There is the red tinge of consumptive blood flickering behind the moon-green glass pillars of light. Blood of red Samson, red blood of Samson, the red thief is sprinkling blood on the slanting pillars of the falling sanctuary of light that is doomed to succumb soon to the black ice-pack of night. Then there will be night and, suddenly thrust into dark night, the red sex of the Samson-sun must later rise out of eastern whiteness and destroy the night.
    Then the pillars of the black shattered temple of night glow with a white light and a red light of consumptive blood, but again later comes night then again the same Samson as the temples crash each time when the red thief scatters blood on the pillars of the light or the pillars of the night. And the thief is Samson and the red sun is Samson and Samson is the thief and Samson is the sun.

poem by Edouard Roditi
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A life is circus

The life is like great circus ring
It consists of happy and tragedy wings
Every character has to play an important role
The circus as such is combination of whole

The joker occupies central position
He is tragedy king but nice composition
He makes every to laugh with his funny actions
All the time children come out with “once more” reactions

Everything moves on with systematic way
Whole area is illuminated with light to make it like day
Animals and trained staff move in orderly fashion
Special precise shows in air and ground not covered with cushion

This all is doe to please circus loves and people alike
Children love it most and what to talk about dangers shows on moving bike
It is limited show but all dangerous moves staged
Lions too roar at ring master even if hunted in cage

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Giant In Glee

Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls;
O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls
Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed
Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.

Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,--
A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.
He is weak, very old--he can scarcely uptear
A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;

But here's to replace him!--I can toy with his axe;
As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax,
And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees.
How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!

I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps,
I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps,
And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds,
Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Metamorphosing Into Poignancy

There upon the soughing coughs of
the interminable vacuum of gravity,
the poems sprawled intermingling with
a desire to be read along with tatterdemalion
tragedies awaiting for the fall of Troy's defenses
to succumb into the unsolicited succors
cloyed upon your generous hands

Bibliophilic remedies only revives the flowers
felled in your gray-faced mausoleum
along with the bard's crooning to the
marigolds prancing for rain and sunshine;
The reflection in the blood-spattered tiles pries
for a sangfroid perchance that barters treasures
for these despondent malingerers' desire

Defenestrated with a roll of tobacco-lust,
the effluence of smoke carrying your faint
ambers crawled into the sky before it fecundated -
skin to soul inward-fulmination, and gave birth

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poem by Norman Santos
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Listen to my voice my lost love

Listen to my voice my lost love
Within me it pants and cries loud for you
From the depth of my soul my sighs reach above
Wherever you are; for you I endlessly rue

Listen my love in far land to my heart's throbs
Wherever you are in this wide wonder globe
Within me rages the tempest of your sweet memory
Since long you left, you abandoned me in agonizing misery

There was a time I remember when you were kind
When your voices were softly waving into my mind
And their words gently inspiring and inviting
To yield these divine thoughts so exciting

There was a time when love for us was blind
And the whole world was a dreaming song
And the song was lastly maddening
Then it all crashing went wrong

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poem by Isaac Ziv
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Dead, Dying and the Dreamer

Desire offered me a Joyful Blindness
new each time from the Caldron

such that I succumbed each time
moved thereby
to cheat Death himself
accepting thereby the double
conundrum
that a too intense Desire

can kill the Dream it inspires

and sometimes too, kill the Dreamer

condemning him or her perhaps
to surfing the tides of blowback

the Damocles Pillars of Blame and Time,

seeing Fate toss dice

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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