WOMAN THE SECOND MOST

To me she wasn’t just a teacher

But more than that

To her it wasn’t a work,

For she loved what she did

Bell and bill didn’t rust her heart

She became the lesson itself when it she taught

She pulled me if I were to fall

And pushed me to go up

I detect her step and scent

And admire her accent

Though I don’t have eyes,

I have her hands to lead me

Though I was with her just for three years,

The walls of my heart still echo with her presence

She said, “To me you aren’t just my student”

Our poetry continues...

CURSE

To be a poet to weave words -

To be a poet lover to weave

Sad words.

Melancholy hid in my sleeve

Each second hit a thousand swords.

Maiden of sorrow

More beautiful

Than the angel joy

Beauty backside of it curse

Poetry lives in the nostrils

Of death.

MY WAY

I’ll lay my own way

To walk my journey

I’m neither self-conscious when I toddle

Nor downbeat when I tumble

I don’t care a paisa when you jeer

Seeing the way I walk

My every step keeps me in progress

Bark at my tail I won’t give ears

When I lay my way as I walk,

How can you get ahead of me?

So you can only beat after I’ve beaten

Since I lay my own way,

I won’t erect any obstacle

I know I can walk alone

Unhurried, unhampered

In my way

I might lie dead,

But I won’t lie defeated!