Beneath the sun I always roam
A happy lark – o so free!
The spacious sky my native home –
My comfy perch up a tree!

Every morning wake up with me,
To greet the bright morning dew!
Take a light stroll across the lea,
Hear my chirpy song to you!

The wild cold wind does call to me –
Its many arms me enfold…
The blue sky offers liberty,
Of more worth than shining gold!

I don’t want to be famous, I don’t want to be rich
But I have to write because I have the writer’s itch!
Compelled to write by a heart, mind and soul on fire;
Not doing it is like standing on a live wire!

Many new toys have I…
The universe is my playpen.
Ideas fall from the sky…
I ask not how or who, but when.

When I get a buzz in my bonnet
I am glad it is not a hornet
But an inspiration so intense
That I have to write it down, condensed.

Poetry is like an addiction,
It is such a strange condition;
I cannot sit, I cannot stand,
I’ve no rest till I grab a pen;
To write down all I feel and see,
Compelled to write all shown to me.
Thoughts and words float into my head,
Be it I’m eating or in bed;
I welcome them all with delight.
Consciousness raised to a new height;
As we have to earth a live wire,
Thoughts need to be controlled, like fire.
I’m bubbling to tell all around,
Your thoughts are alive!...write them down.

As many poets come and go,
I am but one;
When I’ve imparted what I know,
My work is done.

I am here just to say “Hello…”,
This niche in time;
To watch the world, to note its flow…
Put it in rhyme.

Whate’er people may think of me –
Good, bad or mad,
At heart I am vibrant and free;
For that I’m glad.

I bid you farewell now, my friend,
Tho’ we may meet
In distant worlds, should this one end –
As old friends greet…

All things in this world are vain!
All things that we try to gain!
Pearls and gold, cities and crown, all must
Stay behind, when we return to dust!

Have we drunk the wine of power?
Have we seen our finest hour?
Aft we have gained all this stuff,
Do we meet a cruel rebuff?

Look ye, all men, great and small;
See ye all these white brick walls?
Remain but these smooth grey stones
Beneath which are dead men’s bones…

Look ye, and fear, death takes all!
Death hath come from ‘Adam’s fall’;
In this world, we may rule all,
All but death – life’s bitter gall!

Inside houses we may be,
And think from death we are free?
Sadly…into houses death will creep
Right across the room to where we sleep!