Traveler's regrets
He had been a sailor all his life, a traveler trying to find
the boy he left behind in the haste of becoming an adult.
An autumnal leaf falls into a stream, follows its course
but sometimes, there is a tiny inlet where the leaf gets stuck with other debris before getting loose again and drifting where the stream meets, a river that ends in the sea, becomes a mud bank full of nutrient-attracting
red snappers.
Often, he senses the pain the world suffers at the pain of
the futility of life, to stop for a moment contemplating
He thinks the boy will know, he has lived long enough
to not chase rainbows, a fleur-de-lys is but pretty and disappears from view in a dreamy haze
Perhaps it was the voyage that mattered, not how it ends
Crimson red braces a snowy dreamscape
Huddled in dense twigs, dons a showy cape
Plumage a bold rich scarlet, an exuberance
Nay can’t hide its immaculate beauty’s trance
Christians believe you symbolize the blood of Christ
Christmas bird who’s remained in zeitgeist
Colonists saw your red feathers as red robes
worn by Catholic Cardinals and a hat upon lobes
Together always like your flock, hence your name
O nightingale your loved by all—a pillar of fame
Arctic winds strong, cold unlike south’s gentle breeze
But seek shelter friend in branches of conifer trees
Like the wind rose traced to maritime maps
God’s gift of navigation finds you maple saps
I look to my compass and note the design
Resembling petals of a rose that align
This Fleur de lys indicates winds direction
The east rim of the rose shows a cross, an indication
The direction in which Jesus Christ was born
The wind rose symbolized and was never shorn
The traveller’s regrets
He has been a sailor all his life, a traveller trying to find
the boy he left behind, the haste to become an adult
an Autumnal leaf falls into the stream follow its course
but sometimes, there is a tiny inlet where it gets stuck
with other debris before getting loose again and drifting
to where the stream meets a river that ends in the sea
where mighty rivers add nothing but mudbanks that
are full of nutrients and attract edible snappers.
Often, he senses the world ache of the futility of life
to stop for a little while for inaudible contemplation
not to hunger for what he cannot acquire, the ease
of a life well lived.
He thinks the boy will know, who has lived long enough
not to chase rainbows, a fleur-de-lys is but pretty and
disappears from view in a dreamy haze.
Perhaps it was the voyage that mattered and not how
it ends.
If i were King my Crown would reign
Of the purest gold from the Sun
Inlaid with precious gems and a cross of platinum
Blue sapphires and emeralds of green
Red rubies and diamonds galore
Topaz of orange and enormous pearls adore
With the softest velvet underneath for the head of the King
Alternating points of Lions and eagles
Silver fleur-de-lys arch so regal
My Crown would inspire songs to sing
If I were King
If I were King
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