I remember a place
a place of being a child
where being a child was a fun
as eating pizza and playing arcade games.
This was a well know place
every child knew it's name.
For the moment you walked
through the revolving doors
bright lights displayed every game.
There were slide with twists and turns
even a ball pit and the best part was
the childhood memories of all of this.
To a Certain Poet
by Frank Daub
Your modesty -- regarding talent? BECOMING to your SOUL.
The decision to embrace this thought? Belies your role –
As MESSENGER.
Long ago you took the mission
To tell beauty in words and lines.
Now time has blurred your vision.
Now doubt has wormed your mind.
Think about the adulation –
Deny those words are true!
It is you might stop creation –
It is you must see it through!
Hi I’m an object a very small special object and my name… well …my name is NOT important!
I have been called many things.
Just know I am the most powerful object in the world because
You humans agreed that I’m important.
So important in fact that you humans practically worship me!
You humans do what ever you must to just to have possession of me.
Even if it means hurting and mistreating each other.
However, little do you realize that it is I who has possession over you. Your whole life existence revolves around me.
There is nowhere you can go
Nothing you can do
Nothing you can have
Without me.
Even-though I am not a living sentient being your validation and admiration of me brought me to life.
Don’t blame me for being me.
You humans made me what I am.
In the misty dawn,
Gently rising hope
Praising, a poem
Written by the sun
Who has melted night
With her still beauty
Five little tails! The sixth is big poet and big tail in the same time!
Arising out of
The primordial poet
The poetry soup
It's not what evolves
As each writer creates on
Tabula rasa
Like a phoenix does
Dancing in the skies above
Using silly words
Like spelling goop in
A bowl of poetry soup
Alpha and beta
And rising out of
The poetry soup, a group
Best quill and inkers
________________________
These two pieces captures the soaring arrogance, profound pride, and fiery confidence that characterize some poets’ iconic style. Amrit Ghayal (the first quatrain) was legendary for his fierce, larger-than-life poetic persona, and this specific quatrain perfectly showcases the sheer power he attributed to the poet's pen. The second quatrain, a part of free translation, adds to what he said in the first.
_____________________
For nectar of life fend I can,
Vie with Death’s hands--- defend I can.
My song of life a life-giver,
I pen, make dead stones stand I can.
With fire of ink, life blend I can,
The decrees of Fate bend I can.
Though time erases empires vast,
The history’s lease end I can.
_______________________
Reflections | 25.09.2026| death, life, poet, song, Quatrain
Note: The first quatrain is a free translation of a Gujarati Piece by Amrit Ghayal as under:
Amrit thi hoth aentha kari shakuñ chuñ,
Mrityu na hath palmañ hetha kari shakuñ chuñ.
A mari shayari ae sanjivani che, Ghayal,
Shayar chuñ paliya ne betha kari shakuñ chuñ.
With a pending pen, a pensive poet ponders
As he wonders when and where to wedge the next rhyme
To split the rhythm hidden from passerby eyes
Only heard then, by those willing to wander
Daydreaming bare day, with just a hint for misty skies
A hint is but a hint to the tint of a poets eyes
So many wonder why his eyes open amidst his slumbers
When the seemingly soothing rain gently knocks lullabies
Call his name once, you'd think he turned a blind eye
Call his name twice. Do forgive his ventured mind
Bear in mind, like most, he bares the best of tough love
That Mother Nature gives along with swift Father Time
Bare in mind, his mind will write his every struggle
So give him time, peace of mind, a piece of yours shall come
By the boldest boast of thunder post the tundra coast
With his oldest, mostly tattered, tightly tethered poems
Roams the pensive poet - tired - holding on Dear Hope
Such is where the pensive poet's mind would wander most
The Blue Collar Poet
I am but a poet of simple, rigid mind,
With formal education, where hindsight isn't blind.
Sometimes I look at TRUE poets of education in the lits,
And wonder if it's true or if I'll ever fit.
For I look at other works of art and see that I'm quite plain;
I don't have the background to achieve the glory, fame.
But I am quite popular among my workers on the crew,
For my simple message just shines right on through.
I can speak in riddles, backward, or in rhymes,
But my simply worded message creates the best of times.
They are my blue-collar audience of hardworking men,
Soaking up the poetry as an honest clan.
I hope I've brought a little hope or introverted thought,
Something they can take with them that wasn't even bought.
Sometimes, when it hits with them, it's like water to and fro,
Wetting down the soil and planting seeds to grow.
Sometimes there's a snicker, sometimes there's a laugh,
But when they go quietly, I know they feel my path.
Yes, it's true I wish to master my art,
But the day my crew don't know me by my heart or my pen,
That's the day I wrap it up and truly say amen.
They ask me what is race —
I say: a border drawn in skin,
a lie that learned to breathe,
A wicked seed planted from within.
It’s not blood. Blood doesn’t know color.
It’s not bone. Bone doesn’t hold grudges.
It’s a story — told so long,
so loud, so often,
we mistook the telling for the truth.
Race is a costume
A made up competition
Of existence.
HIS-Story made us wear.
Prejudice is the cousin
Of racism for they both go hand in hand.
While they prevent every color and creed from coming together and joining hands.
Some days it fits like armor,
some days it cuts like wire,
but underneath it, every time,
is just a person
asking to be free
of the box somebody else built.
So don’t ask me what race is.
Ask what it costs.
Ask who it protects.
Ask why we’re still drawing lines
on a map that was never really there.
10 The poet’s dream
Say my friend,
What would you like to reincarnate into?
Bee first, or dragonfly
but life would be too short,
So as an elephant,
But I would be chased into the Savannah,
No, actually,
In jay, swallow, or seagull
To fly every day,
AND never have any worries.
the saddest poem
words for the end of the world~
the science was right
Dear Poetry,
We met when I was just a child,
Still full of dreams, a little wild.
But then time held me in your grasp,
So many thrills, my soul forever clasp.
We found each other on summer nights,
Unburdened by plans or tempting delights.
Life took us over some slips and turns,
When my spirit knew its deepest concerns.
We knew the amazing of autumn’s mist,
Such love when September and October kissed.
Joy would tremble inside our soul,
Playing a song that would make us whole.
We once died in the arms of a prayer,
Feelings blessed by praise to share.
In the wind, I felt the breath of grace,
Needless to say, you – time wouldn’t erase.
We knew each other when things were good
And, with you inside, I always felt understood.
Melancholic, excited or elated – I always knew
You were the music that felt so fresh and new.
We wouldn’t believe that our story would end,
You were the answer to a prayer that God would send.
I’m thankful for your friendship, one so very rare,
Because of you, my friend, I know how much I care.
Gotta get the kinks out of his keyboard
warm up well before he performs
Like a fencer plays with the tip of his sword
sets his fingers to fly like a unicorn ...
Ah, but that's simple: it’s a pianist, you say
poets don’t speed along their way
Consider this, though, my newfound friend ~
poets race their thoughts as they round the bend
If a poet writes in a forest,
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a poem?
The jury is hung, the verdict is split.
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