Stop this plague called rape

I’m greatly distressed just as several other right thinking citizens across this country are, as I read & hear of the growing incidents of children being raped & sexually molested across India.

I hope & pray this deadly plague of rape which destroys millions of children around the world will come to an end.

I hope the people who indulge in this perversion understand how utterly wrong, debased & filthy it is. Raping children is nothing short of demonic and is a terrible abomination.

I hope these people understand  the implications of their barbaric acts on the innocents who are traumatized & scarred for life – physically, mentally & emotionally.

I hope & pray this plague will end. Soon.

Wrote the poem below after recently hearing about another innocent child who was raped & her happy life forever altered…

 For no fault of mine

Loved & happy
Free as a butterfly
That’s who I am.

*

I am a little girl
My family loves me
That’s my greatest strength.

*

I go to school to learn & play
It’s a new world out there
That’s what I love to do.

*

I made many friends
We laugh and we play
That’s how I grow.

*

The teacher uncle I trusted
Tells me he cares
He holds me & does things
That’s when I know its wrong.

*

He rapes me.
A word I didn’t even know
And my happy childhood he brings to an end.

*

A butterfly I was
That was then
Now I lie sad & wounded on the ground.

Taj The Beautiful

A beautiful poem by my niece Eden.

Taj The Beautiful

A gem in white
A gift of love,
It sits amidst clouds of fog.

One will stare, in awe,
Marveled by its beauty
Fascinated by the intricate patterns that are engraved in the precious stone.

A ray of light will appear from behind
As the orange morning star emerges
It sheds light on the truth,
The reason this artistry exists,
Making her death, seem the most beautiful part of life.
Making their love seem immortal,
Which it is.

The tomb, is a symbol of passion,
The structure’s excellence, powerful enough hold it, through anything,
But not as strong as the passion that created it.

So it stands,
Unbreakable,
Protected by the everlasting devotion,
It is the Taj Mahal.

O frabjous day!

It’s always enjoyable reading Jabberwocky.

Lewis Carroll’s utterly nonsensical poem written in 1872.

In the realm of nonsense poems, this is considered one of the greatest 🙂

Who said everything had to make sense in any case?

So as you go galumphing through the gyre & gimble of life,

Or have those uffish thoughts,

Clutch your vorpal sword & mark those frumious plots.

It will strengthen you.

I hope.

Have a frabjous Sunday.

~  *  ~

Jabberwocky

by

Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
 All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe.

*

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
 Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
 The frumious Bandersnatch!”

*

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
 Long time the manxome foe he sought —
 So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

*

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
 The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
 Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
 And burbled as it came!

*

One, two! One, two! And through and through
 The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
 He went galumphing back.

*

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
 O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

*

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
 All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe.

**

Poetree

While my name means poetry in Sanskrit, the talent in this sphere has been found to be severely wanting.

I stumbled upon this poem I had scribbled  years ago on the evil of dowry &… I was impressed.

There was hope to live up to my name.

So what if there’s no rhyme or meter & all other things the literati define?

Beautiful ornaments
Around my neck,
Based on which they
Decided my worth.

*

How miserable
That the sheen
Of the heart,
Judged by the glitter
Of a diamond’s art.

*     *     *

The Bread Knife

A poem by my dear 12 year old niece, Eden.

The Bread Knife

A bread knife I was,

A bread knife I am.

I sat there on the shelf,

Of the Winchester’s store.

*   *   *

A man walked in,

One fine day.

He took me, and made me,

Cut all the bread.

*   *   *

I cut hard bread and soft bread.

Fresh bread and stale bread.

Wheat bread and flour bread,

Until one day I could cut,

No more bread.

*   *   *

He tried to sharpen me,

But I could not be sharpened.

He tried to shape me,

But I could not be shaped.

*   *   *

He hadn’t taken care of me,

He had to throw me away.

*   *   *

A bread knife I was,

A bread knife I no longer am.

*   *   *

Space

I can’t think of a more eloquent description of the need for space than this beautiful piece from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran –

 

Let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.