Spring blossoms litter the floor
a gold sun grazes the door
warmth thawing the icy swing
freezes in— my frozen core
The Indian brave rides all alone
Beneath the mountains made of stone
Under the clouds that go sailing by
With heavy heart and occasional tear he will cry
Lost many tribesmen during the Indian wars
Though white men he killed by the scores
A war of hate from both sides
That’s why a lonely path he now rides
A fearless warrior, a commanding chief
Who had to lead his people through all the grief
See women and children killed at will
Many terrible sights he see’s still
Now he wanders in his buckskin clothes day and night
With his feather in his hair an awesome sight
With his trusted pony his only friend
He will now roam until his end
Chawathka, a last remnant of the Great Plains war
Now he rides and thinks what was it all for
Was it worth all the sacrifice
His people paid a terrible price
As they fought for freedom from the whites
But he still has nightmares during his lonely nights
And he will wander until his dying day
Under the Sun and Moon, riding every which way
"To leave the world behind,
walk with the world till the right time"
Quote by-- Poet
Flow of ancient waters, deep and rich,
Depth that sings a soft and playful sound.
Mother to a million thriving lives,
Father fierce and solemn, darkly crowned.
It surrenders not to anyone;
It girds the world with resonance and might.
Stretching through boundless realms of time,
Cleansing every wound with gentle bite.
High lives its tidal, roaring fury
Waters rise, still holding onto spice.
Existence honors all it carries,
For every soul has surely paid the price.
Love, and peace, and endless prosperity
The Great Indian Ocean still relies.
Its salutation reaches every shoreline,
When we call, the deep blue love replies.
Neither does its vastness see an ending,
Nor does its ageless beauty ever fade.
A single sweep of blue-lit, aching heaven
So old, so wise, and wealthy in its ways.
"The sky is my limit, and the ocean my path—endless, deep, and full of possibilities."
“Our Navy is the guardian keeping this route safe … Indian Ocean is like infinite horizons, infinite sky, and on the other side … infinite powers.” — Narendra Modi
Of the way I wandered ahead,
Beneath me spread an ocean of blue..
So long, so wide, so endlessly deep.
So strong she roared and hummed a song,
and oh! my tiny wings were helpless to beat.
She carries the cradle and crossroads of life,
hiding silent kingdoms and coral cathedrals,
wandering whales where dolphins dived.
Deep within her, a sonneteer rests,
mothering memories older than time.
Each wave spells tales of the brave,
clutching fortunes of courage and will..
Battles bravely fought and bitterly lost,
all sinking softly into her bed,
where treasures of ages lie buried,
with tiny footsteps of love and hate.
She whispered to me and bade me away..
away to hide in some distant land.
She and the monsoon poised to kiss,
and before their tempest twined, I fled.
Oh, my Mother Indian Ocean,
beautiful you are.. ancient and bold.
“The ocean remembers the distant times it has drowned,
reminding that its depth is quiet, and beauty is lively.”
- Quote by poet
The third largest and the deepest of earth’s oceans,
waters of Indian ocean
are the warmest of all the marine expanses.
It helped the early humans to migrate,
spread seeds of civilizations,
hold ruins of empires, carried by great rivers.
The youngest of major oceans,
covering the face of the blue planet,
formed by the break-up of ancient Gondwanaland.
As India slowly drifts to the north
the ocean is still expanding,
serves as the source of the monsoon rains in Asia.
On its shore I feel mesmerized
the symphonic rhythm of the breaking pearly waves,
tenderly erase the footprints
of those who had walked before me,
as if showing me how so secretly
the far-away time disappears,
but is not forgotten, creating the feeling
of belonging to the ocean vastly lively.
“ Vast Boundless Ocean is always Great Grand Gorgeous Glamorous Glorious Gracious
overwhelming and charming humans piercing solemn sublime soul. “….Poet
My reverence to Indian Ocean,
as proud to born in India.
Have feeling : Indian Ocean is ours.
Brilliant bright charming cheerful.
Endless energy in free foamy flow.
Gracious glamorous, dynamic thrust.
Gorgeous mysterious vigorous.
Sometimes quiet, sometimes restless roaring
Sometimes turbulent in turmoil
Unique lovely loud in thrill, yet lonely.
Wonderful youthful in zeal.
Inspirational glorious joyous.
Boundless ocean kissing sky at horizon.
Wide vast wonderful inspirational.
Aqua in opulence marvels us.
Vibrant violent waves thrashing on sea shore.
Sandy sea beach holding clams, crawling crabs,
mollusks, lots of scalps, and alive sea creatures,
whelming exciting visitors.
"The ocean speaks in whispers where the monsoons meet the sun" by Dr Padmashree RP
Pacific holds the world's breadth, cold and wide,
Atlantic roars with ancient storms,
Southern circles ice in endless white communion,
Arctic sleeps beneath its frozen crown.
But here, the Indian Ocean breathes
in turquoise contemplation, warm
where dhows trace paths like prayers across her face,
where spices sailed on gentle monsoon winds.
She holds the sun in golden arms,
cradling civilisations at her edge
no wild tempests, no bitter ice,
just coral kingdoms blooming underneath
her sapphire meditation.
Here the water whispers heritage and silk,
while sisters rage or sleep in distant cold.
She is the dancer, fluid, warm,
the storyteller weaving continents
with threads of current, pearl, and ancient trade.
Between three shores she holds her peace,
serene where others storm or freeze.
"What should I say of the waters that touch the peoples and cultures of the east, west, north, and south!" - By Poet.
The Earth's Oceans Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by: Constance La France.
Three seas converge in my homeland.
Arabian Sea with her waters, grand
Hugs the Bay of Bengal with endless waves breaking
With flora, fauna, and fine sand
Like the heavens and cosmos, they expand.
With jingles and pitter-patters
With them the Indian Ocean chatters.
Every brook, creek, stream, and river merrymaking
With whirlpools and water splatters
Every barrier within them shatters.
Islands that are warm, clean, and green
Fish, pearls, and coral reefs are clearly seen.
White-sand beaches and turquoise water-furls snaking
Waves stand as though frills of silkscreen.
Charming, she looks like a queen so serene.
As though a divine sovereign
In Kanyakumari—Cape Comorin
Has this ocean found a place of awakening?
In Swami Vivekanand's shrine
The Indian Ocean forms its design.
Dusting, as if Second Advent is Christmas Day
Entertaining, from abundance or for mere lack
Cooking with the crockery, banging out souffles
Eating thirds, doubling waistlines, seasonal pounds pack
Merry-making, sozzled so in the festive mood
Baking anything that has a beat, even snails
Expending on material goods till it's rude
Receiving presents, swapping cards and vintage tales
sweetest orendo
intuitive indian
owned by apache
INDIAN SUMMER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn comes as a chariot of nature's flame. From woodland browns are born reds and golds to warm heart and soul. The leaves, like flags waving in every sweet breeze, swirl in a wind-choreographed dance. Soon they rest upon the forest floor, embracing their destiny to feed each earthen wintry root.
seasonal trustees
summertime takes final bow
fall heeds her calling
starry autumn night
season brings artistic hand
harvest abundance
Can we do it together?
“Hi! How are you?” an Indian lady asked me.
After work, I left the building of my workplace.
She also worked there. Just in a different department.
This company is in Greenford. Very nice. It is in London.
“Do you have children? Do you have a family?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t”, I answered. “Can we do it together?” she asked.
I laughed and then walked to the bus stop. It happened many years ago.
She was very young. Innocent. She lived in Hayes, and I lived in Wembley.
I often think of her honest, pure glaze and beautiful black eyes. Hmm.
But I don’t know where she is now. Hmm. Too late. I was very stupid. Live alone
Heat, like fog, engulfs the environment.
Flora and fauna burn in the sunbeams.
Clamminess-filled vapor goes virulent.
Mirages glimmer like unending streams.
Tempests brimming with dust and debris blow.
Unquenchably thirsty, the parched lands crack.
With abstract sky paintings, dry evenings glow.
Thunder peals, on and off, like an earthquake.
Days taunt. Nights haunt. We burn in the furnace.
Sleeplessness and nightmares pervade our nights.
Flies and reptiles perform a crude circus.
Heat climbs the atmosphere's immodest heights.
With the nomadic breeze, black clouds elope.
Timely drizzles, yet, try to bring some hope.
1905
Geronimo went to Washington
to meet the Great White Father
(where he hoped to bury the hatchet)
and save his Indian Nation...
checking into his hotel, the desk clerk asked,
"Do you have a reservation?"
The perfect poker face when playing cards
(his guards were nearly always broke)
said to be blood-thirsty, his winnings used he
to pay for educating children of the Apache.
He later rode with Pawnee Bill
in what was known as the 'Wild West',
(and what a circus)
a chief he never was,
1909
died of pneumonia all too soon,
'Geronimo Now a Good Indian,'
read the headline of The Chicago Daily Tribune.
The Indian guru's
mantra of the day,
tho' somewhat strange,
goes this way...
'When words fail
and at a loss,
contemplate aural hygiene
with transcendental floss.'
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