She is an old village;
Naïve, crude, not low in age.
She understood very little,
Wasn’t sure if trust was so simple.

From the refined distance he came;
With strength he showed his shame.
With feeble resistance she succumbed
And all that’s hers he well combed.

Because she paid well he kept her
And married her from leagues afar.
She never nodded or was asked
But remained his and tasked.

They got a son after a while;
The bastard was proud in his smile.
With time he knew mother and father
And truly had cause for bother.

Claiming justice the father withdrew,
His loyal son he let rule like he knew.
The complication wasn’t at first obvious.
As time tells, it also is very envious.

The mother weeps for her dear son,
For the father has the whole person.
Their bastard is what he knows
And in this nature all does grows.

Tomorrow’s sunsets come inevitably,
Carrying vague identity’s loyalties happily.
Nursing dreams of his father’s riches;
Their bastard made wills of wishes.


Masters to conquer as we wish,
Subjects for elements to ditch.
Amidst plenty we are so cosy,
Most dispensable pest too nosy.

We have all we need in warmth,
And yet we ponder on the truth.
Even in the calmness of comfort,
Peace endures only to comport.

All and sundry counted as conquest,
Still amongst us is a long contest.
In boast we sweat over our fears,
And we remain parted by its tears.

From the search we then learn,
We’re uniquely put in the plan.
Overtaken by the lust we sought,
In our own webs we are caught.

We are old and our story yet done,
Age conspires to leave us in none.
We’ll reach and sit to just wait,
To find out we are the most late.


“Well,” they ever said indifferently,
“You can’t eat your cake and have it.”
‘Bug off!’ I puff out most angrily,
‘You happen to do so every minute.’

“Ah! But it is so, my mate and son,”
They grin with eyes all a sly glint.
“We can all have the same bait on,
Yet I catch and you’re still skint.”

‘Never alive?’ I wonder not so loud.
‘Like déjà vu?’ And I’m yet helpful.
“Where many danced your dance proud,
You will be jeered and hailed a fistful.”

‘Is it me then, and my own luck?
Need I add fate, destiny’s slut?’
“We agree to prove only to mock.”
‘Then I’ll set bait and eat my lot.’


As age so munches,
Right hands touches
Our hearts so better
And how it’ll matter.

Heart’s own shutters,
In muffled clatters,
Doesn’t open or close
As they want or choose.

To an end all beats its drums;
Summing all songs it hums,
When time will all freeze
And heart beats cease.


Lonely trust is an egg.
When it does break;
Like omelette or not,
Live with it henceforth.

For when trust’s shell
And its faith to tell,
Is gone for so ever,
It will return never.

When faith is broken
That much is chosen;
Egg as an omelette,
Embraces a silhouette.


Born on a tree up high,
I became a Monkey’s child.
Swinging for I don’t fly,
All else to me are blind.

Hatched in a beach’s sand,
Missed as monkeys’ feast.
Shelled in water as on land,
Only a true Turtle at least.

In the pursuance of meals
The being does its claim.
Just to only take, it steals
And lives to answer its name.

One’s ways mild and subtle
Sustains another’s in praise.
Whether Monkey or Turtle,
Rests on an act of divine grace.

Beneath sand or on a tree,
Can easily have been neither.
For such I have come to be,
Doesn’t say much for either.


The beats of sounds speaks out
To be heard outside thought.
Taught mind holds out its arms
Which melodies caress and disarms.

Balance placed all around is
Fondly rolled out like this.
With august carpets welcomed
To change moods succumbed.

Beauty revealed in rhythm
That alone fills the chasm,
Teach that nature is a song
Sang in the world it belong.

Listening to living all about,
Natural in whisper or shout.
Speaking like a language
For all alive, of every age.

This one common dialect
That nature would select,
To talk to all its wards
Over whom it does lords.

Into the rhymes of beats
Even the soul also eats.
For the monastery of man
Isn’t too lonely to jam.

Drummed beats within ribs
Carry breath beyond its cribs.
Heard inside ears’ own confine
Till sound buries its own coffin.

This atmospheric gaol of man
He has only, all he does plan.
In its whirl spin of mystery,
It entertains man’s misery.

Trunk sounds nosy trumpets
Like fluty birds in high nests.
Peckers tap wooden gongs
As leggy harps chirp songs.

The hiss lull of breezy air
And crescendo a storm blare;
Conducts brown, green and blue
Into a harmony hardly new.

As sound speaks and entertain,
Nature so musically maintain
The oneness of all it breeds;
Sanely soothing all it feeds.

The metaphor portrays the act
That cannot dispute the fact;
That the fruit of this only life
Metamorphose with all alive.

2 thoughts on “POEMS: Wills of Wishes, Human, Luck Sucks, Heartly, Trustworthy, Neither as Either & Musical Nature

    1. It speaks to me too & it is some kind of a shield as well. It keeps me on my toes & wary of those I’ve no choice but to trust. Glad you liked it.

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