A Wise Shoemaker


Curbed in the underbelly of the town,

Lived a shoemaker.

That nobody knew where he came from,

A wise man – he was perceived of.

Early in the morning he sets up his shoe box,

And shouts through the day:

Come, let me mend your shoe,

Don’t have a copper? Throw me a nickel or two;

Let me hide your smelly toe,

Let me relieve you from your pain,

Let me fix your bloody stain,

For I am the secret keeper –

My lips never parted without a reason.

Let me see what secrets you hide,

So, I can mend your sole, side to side.

I hold no prejudice, I hold no race;

I tend every foot, even with a scarred face.

Though I smell of mud and wax,

My skill will shine your charm.

I will polish you ready, for the missies;

I will scrub you steady, for the bosses.

Like it or not, you need such mend,

I am your shoemaker –

I am your secret friend


I am a D major & She is a F sharp

I am D Major


I always started with a D major strum

She always whistled with the sweetest hum;

If only I can grab a harp

Coz my dear loves to play F sharp;

Our notes were way apart

We wanted to jam, she said “but, where to start?”


Cold feet and trembling heart

I hit the first chord – G Flat;

Her lips had the widest smile

Her dimple was deeper than a mile;

Her glow was brighter than ever

Guess I caught the love fever;

Holding the guitar close to her chest

She picked C Flat at its best;


The rhythm got us going

Chords and notes – all started flowing;

Our efforts were in vain

The melody was pouring like rain;

We had hit the connection

The first change was the passion

I have shed the obsession of D major

She smiled goodbye to F sharp

Better life waits – beyond stubbornness

The first change – all what matters

Now we look back to say

“I was a D major & she was a F Sharp”

Call us humans or voiding herd

Humans or voiding herd

Separated by continental boundaries

– The only land where we can exist

Separated by religion

-the only fundamental that binds

Separated by language

-the only sound we can feel

Separated by accent

-the only pitch of emotion

Separated by culture

-the only knot that ties our history

Separated by values

-the only pathway to future

Do we have the luxury for all these?

We are just a species – one in 9 million

We share the same world

Oh! for us its just the land

Too bad we cant survive underwater

Effectively we can only survive on 25% of earth

Evolution never stops – Darwin said

While we are busy destroying ourselves

Ten different species are evolving

If not Earth, they dwell somewhere else

Once we are done with ourselves

And think of repopulating Earth

But oh! We didn’t keep up with evolution

One way or other we are losing our dear Earth

So lets –

Unite by our continents

And call it by one name – Pangea

Unite by our religion

And call it by one name – Humanity

Unite by our language

And call it by one name – Understanding

Unite by our accents

And call it by one name – Passion

Unite by our culture

And call it by one name – Earth

Unite by our values

And call it by one name – Help!

Because beyond us there is no one out there to help us from ourselves

Time to rethink “Call us humans or voiding herd”


A White Whistle

A White Whistle

Clutched fingers & wet skin
Shivering in cold & drenched in rain
Every dawn She stands next to the old tree.

Fighting with the wind & minding her hair
Staring at the horizon even no one care
Every dawn she waits next to the old tree.

Holding tight to the whistle & breathing syncopation
Its a waste – without him its just a commotion
Every dawn she looks at the white whistle & hugs old tree.

It has been five years that he is gone
Embracing her-he had promised ‘I will be back one dawn’
Now the war is over & the world is at peace
But every dawn she waits next to the old tree.

Every dropping tear & every beating second
Her knees crying to bend & her heart aching to rest
With a strong will-she knows its a test
Every dawn she sheds tears next to the old tree.

Bright summer dawn when rays intersperse
At horizon a shadow grows like an aura
Her dry lips seize in a caesura
This is the dawn when she blows her white whistle
Kneeling next to the old tree, She gives him a final hug.

Love was in air as she runs down the slope
She jumps passionately – Kissing her lost hope
Birds were tweeting & they walk back to their home.
Her every dawn marked a memory in the old tree.

Clutching his branches & shedding dry leaves
Longing for the company he had for days
The old creaky tree smiles at the sky
Looks at the green valley & mountainy castle
The old tree says ‘If only I had A WHITE WHISTLE’

Once a notion, now a goal, ‘Oh! My dear ambition’ – A Cactus story

Cactus Story

When my passion & ambition braces me tight, I pull out my pen and write a poem about it. How does it help? If not anything, I feel the connection strong and embedded. This is an electronic form of the ink that I scribed on a piece of tissue paper.

Roots, roots, roots,

A single lingering word in my mind,

Cant settle it, Cant spill it,

“How strong” if they ask,

 Its just a cactus, if I have no mask;

I need no nurture or rain,

My roots grow faster in draught and pain;

Deep beneath the sandy rust,

I find a treasure and I quench my thrust;

Once was the time,

when I shivered and stammered;

Now that its over,

I grow strong and bold;

Budding through my branches,

are little flowery ambition;

Once looked far fetched,

now it looks like a notion;

Million sobbing nights,

to mourn the flowers, who once glowed bright;

Through the sandy storms and scorching heat,

I am proud to have the strong ones survive;

Grew my thorns sharper,

when the times got tough and bleak;

All the time I called them a part of my soul.

Once a notion, now a goal;

‘Oh! My dear ambition’

A Happy Old Lamp Post :)


Last night while walking back home, I stopped and stared at an old lamp post for a while. Lost in my thoughts of empathy I heard the old chap speak.

Never regretted my existence, never have never will,

So what if I am the least admired article here,

I have an old chair here, who I hold very dear,

She might sound creaky and I am half bent,

But how does it matter when we evenly compliment,

I miss her through the day as we work on shifts,

Night falls and I spring into life,

Flickering my way to brightness I see her eyes,

Old as she is, but looks beautiful in my glowing light,

Snapping out of his own thoughts, the old lamp post looked at me in a curious but frightful manner and spoke in calm and rigid voice:

Oye! you young man with a bag,

Are you just a traveler or a drunkard like the last one,

Hesitating I said “I’m…I’m just a traveler. Give me a sec and I’ll be gone”

Be who you wish, but my bright light is plenty in solace,

I give free hugs to the drunk and broken hearts,

I give shoulder to the jaded and exhausted,

I light up a small house for the poor and needy,

Bright minds use me to think in isolation,

Struggling minds use me to catch a breath in starvation,

Greedy minds use me count their greed in the dark,

Thieves run past my trunk leaving their knife mark,

I will tell you what, Mr. Traveler,

I am not sure if I will be in heaven or hell for my last toast,

“But I am sure I am a happy old lamp post.”

Elders are the best guides available for all of us. We like it or not, they will always have our backs. Even dealing with ignorance and part hatred they will always be happy within. My heart bleeds a little when I see helpless old chaps. If not wholly by actions at least I let my words make my stand. I keep my folks close to my soul and one day the whole world will!! 🙂

Dusting pages from an aging library


” I never taught a thing to Albert Einstein or Isaac Newton; never told Galileo how to polish a piece of glass” he spoke placing his book carefully onto the shelf. “Yet they managed to make sense out of flashy lights of the heavens, fallen apple and lurked into the darkness proving we live in a fabric of space and time. Have they been touched by some unearthly wise being who taught them to think the way they did? No one to say in certainty.” Walking down the sliding ladder of the old librarian spoke in a soft and lofty voice

” Oh, if only my words obscure  your thoughts,

Its just a wipe woven to your sleeves upon glimmering dew

Bright minds must kindle, but bright; are you?

Oh, I see how you scoff impious pride from fiends impure,

We are stripped but who to say the thoughts are real,

Till the nakedness draws the false from true.

Oh, fellow visitor with hollow smile and frozen sneer,

The heavens would faint at your thoughts cheer,

For one last time let me unveil the silk off your brow-ridge,

Come with me and dust the pages of this aging library.”

More than his wrinkled eyes, his grey long beard made him look wiser. “But is he really a wise man or just a poet who happen to have a grip on history” I thought to myself. Walking at the pace of a snail the old librarian waved at me for some help. I gave him a hand to walk to his old reeking work desk. The strong smell of old mahogany had an intense grip on my thoughts. “The old librarian does know a bit of sorcery” I thought. Cozying in his creaky chair he spoke “I know the reason!” and coughed swiftly to continue ” I know you are a wonderer. But unlike you, I know the reason. I know the knowledge you hold. I know the knowledge you seek. But my young wonderer! The path you must embark wont give you smile. Nor will it wet your cheerful thoughts. But that’s what they did and you! must do.” For some reason I couldn’t utter a word. I was comfortably numb in my velvety chair. ” Is this a pure act of sorcery?” I thought.

Clearing his throat the old librarian continued “As I said my words will only obscure your thoughts. But young wonderer I am sure in this obscurity you will find you glimmer. Seven billion brains are at work as we speak. Do all of them are conditioned for greatness? Yes they do. But the willpower to peek into oneself and unlock the potential lies with few brave beings. History proves it and so will the future. My young friend, I am an old man who has seen ages of history. People warring over the bright minds. Great achievements! At times caught a glimpse of Archimedes running naked though the streets of Syracuse. But I must say even mind favors the brave beings. Never shy from expression. Pitfalls will come as cushion when you enjoy falling. Fall graciously my young wonderer.”

The old librarian pushed his creaky chair slowly and walked towards the book shelves. I was watching him in seer silence. Few minutes passed and he vanished into the crowded book selves. “wow, that man deserves to be called as an awesome librarian” I thought. Exhausted as I was; I pushed my chair to stand and that’s when I heard his voice again. Looking though a distant book shelf the old librarian spoke sharply:

“Oh! My young wonderer; Never hesitate to fall graciously”