Random rhymes

Don't cry, Daddy,
your l'il girl is far from astray!
She knows not now how or why
she needs wings to fly
but let her be, Daddy,
all she knows now
is she needs wings to fly -
as she struts past mirrors
with daisies and flowers
and stars in her eyes,
let her be, Daddy,
for she knows not now
what sadness lies tomorrow
when her dreams and memories
will take wings and fly.
Don't cry, Daddy,
let her dreams soar
let her tender heart hurt more
for the love that you crave for
is in the life you give her.
She will remember you one day,
when she finds herself high and dry,
with nary a soulful eye
as she searches for someone to lean on and cry,
or for that happiness and joy,
that she knows not now how or why
she missed out in her need to fly.
Don't worry, Daddy,
your l'il girl is now all grown-up,
she knows not now how or why
she needs all that make up,
nor the mascara or the gloss in the sly.
Had you been there, the look in your eyes
would have got the shine in her face
but now, she knows not now why,
with her face all blown up
in magazines and flashing lights,
with all the adoring hugs and admiring cries,
and bouquets of roses and high lunches,
and sparkling dresses and silvery heels,
scintillating speeches and brushes of cheeks,
the love in her heart never soars up to fly.
Don't cry, Daddy,
your l'il girl is...alright



O, no, magpie, that is not the way you fly!
it is the breeze that is making you sway;
had you your own mind, with the sun bearing down on the day
and the flies swirling around the hay,
would you not have fluttered your wings the other way?

O, no, little smile, not that easy, oh, no,
you do not appear and disappear
as if a disowned heart with nowhere to go;
O, no, stay a little while more
the eyes are oh-so near.

O, no, mischief of mischief, despair,
not you, oh, no, don't break that heart again;
it is just the one with none to spare
not an end to gain,
go elsewhere and be vain.

O, no, innocence, this is not the same!
the gait nor the limp on legs lame,
nor the glory nor the fame,
for the glitter heeds not the heart aflame
but seeks for some hurt to pain and blame.

O, no, sweet magpie, that is not where you perch,
as far and wide it may search
the breeze, that caused you not to lurch,
does not make its way as it used to;
go elsewhere and let be everything as it used to.

O, yes, sweet smile, stretch as far as it reaches
fill those dimples deep into the trenches
and let not they take a nip and drown;
let happiness take sail on blushes
come again, sweet smile, and stay awhile.    


Death, death ... two in two days
or sometimes, millions over a few days
but always creepy with a mask donned
So, how now, you have become planned?
Different for the rich, friendly and dignified
but still a bitch
and for the poor,
brazen, uncouth like a wound without a stitch?

Sometimes, you make an announcement
with a bang that jolts senses and breaks hearts;
sometimes there is not even a whimper
nigh silent as if a whisper?

Treacherous as that smile
like a lie that has no foes, on regardless
of whether it reaches the eyes,
unwelcome, except for the murderers
and the merchants with the deals.

Truth is, as the water gushing,
you are unwelcome, for so joyous is life
and yet, you come, unflinching
with only the Undertaker for a welcome.

What a dreadful thing you are
unliked by so many and yet you are,
feeding on wasted and withered souls
snatching friends, near, dear and far,
without flinching at the dreadful thing you are.

Stay away from me, cry many,
but do you hear, do you heed?
Crippled, hurt or wounded,
do you care, do you heed?
but how come, for the rich,
you have become planned
and for the poor, like the witch

on the broom, arrive unannounced?


Blessed are these sculpted rocks
that have been shaded and scraped
and dented and pounded from other rocks
did one get called David?

Blessed are these sculpted rocks
that are so loved and adorned
by doting eyes and content sighs
did one get called David?

Blessed are these sculpted rocks
that have lasted down the ages
unsmeared and untainted
did one get called David?

Blessed are these sculpted rocks
that are so admired
and yet are only shapely rocks
did one get called David?

Blessed are these sculpted rocks
that are so full of life
and yet so lifeless
so full of passion
yet with nary an emotion
so admired as masterpieces
yet only rocks
so adamant in postures
yet flowing in form
why did only one get called David
but no other as Goliath?

That what could have been

What could have been is a love long lost
a longing as forlorn as the yearning
of the ground in the deep forest
as the light turns dark in the evening

the days go by and the sun
sets, yonder and hidden,
for the ground to sigh of what could have been,
had it not been for the warmth long lost.

What could have been is a joy long lost
like the music that drowns the cacophony of thoughts
in the sheer symphony of what was love
and what was lost, leaving no room for joy to last

for what was lost, could not have been a joy long lost,
for short could be lies about a love long lost
or lies about lies and about lies till it was all lost
but what could have been, could yet be a love not lost.

For reason to serve as an anchor
for the chaotic thoughts of the wanton
there flits by many more reasons de coeur
that could have been but for raisons bon

What could have been is as what
as what could have been
had there not been what could have been
for that could have been.

for not what battles that were won
nor the cringes at the kisses not won
for love is not a battle nor a woman to be won
nor a game for those for whom hearts are not won

for the joy is in when not love lorn
and yet kisses adorn

the hearts that are won...

The Astrologer

Astrolger...astrologer... tell me the story...
Afore the endless abyss that is history
What was the story ?
Was there anything worth your while
Or for that matter, worth my while ?
Hither and dither wanders my mind as I
Try to fathom deep silences of rooms
Wonder do I at the sounds of silence of such rooms
Evokes as it does, in one's mind the silence and
vastness of the sky
With its endless space and vast spread of color.

Came a time when the calm of time
Entered into the unsettling nature
That was man's fickle nature
And wrecked havoc of mother nature
Scum was the verdict of destiny
When man ended the endless abyss that is history
By recording events and passing it down the ages
Agents of time and agents of the beyond
Became one and the same
And born were there new superstitions
And newer gods....but.....

Where from came the astrologer?
Day in and day out
Studying the countless stars
Predicting and prodding the stupid intellect
That was man's superstitious nature
Wherefore is nature in this strange design of the astrologer?
Wherefore went the newer intellect that was the design of science...
When this man with his prophecies on destiny and man...
Trotted in, armed with a few leafs...
And fewer stars, predicting and prodding the stupid intellect...
That was and still is, man's superstitious nature. tell me the story...
Afore the endless abyss that is history...
What was the story ?
Were there democrats...
And was there a Tory?
Was there the talk of Queen Mary?
Or was it all just a story?
Many years have passed me by...
Many years have I passed by...
But still there remains this story...
That the years were stolen away by destiny...
Is it true, astrologer, this story ?

Ravichandran J.V.

Copyright ©2001 Ravichandran J.V.
Festive rejoice

Festive rejoice

Wonder stalks the mind
when the lips twitch and stretch,
into a smile, that may bind
happiness or may joy fetch.

Like the colourful yacht asail
on waters bluer than Monday blues,
joyous words ring out and hail,
the rare moments, in so many hues.

Twinkling lights, scents and incense,
and rashes red, storm the fragrant harbour
of blooming human happiness,
amidst days of labour and endeavour.

Flees darkness in the whirl of celebrations,
as days spin faster than yesterdays,
with cacaphonic emotions in carrefours,
and sinners gasping at the festive rejoice.
Ravichandran J.V.
Copyright ©2001 Ravichandran J.V.

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