The Ark of Good Hope

The Ark of Good Hope

Our ship; our vessel is battered and damaged,

Sleepless nights have left the crew famished.

And over each and every decaying log of wood,

My worthy crew, once pompously stood.

But now, they're thrown to every corner,

I beg of them to bear with me a little longer.

The raging storms have left us all battered,

And the black horizon above: hope's shattered.

Oh how we long to the warmth of the sun,

Oh if we could lay our hands upon some bun!

But I've got keep them from wailing and despairing.

You see? I say. Our hope, the Ark's still sailing.

We'll soon make it ashore, to the bells,

To the harbour, the sun and the sea shells.

Oh men get up and take your positions,

We won't abandon the finest of expeditions!

And ah! finally! Some hope within them stirs,

The storm we then faced, my memory it blurs.

Yet when we opened our eyes through our shrouds,

Our star; the sun, shone brightly through the clouds.

Oh wake each of you from your deathly slumber!

The Most Merciful has made the storm encumber.

And see! At a distance is an earthly piece of land,

Our ship will now only rest on its golden sand.

Our ghost ship was greeted with whistles and bells,

And although my tattered Ark now peacefully dwells.

It's safe in the harbour but that's not what it's for,

It's meant to sail the oceans, it's meant to explore.

Regardless of it being made of wood and scrap,

It's meant to sail beyond the edges of the map.

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Gladiator

Gladiator

Standing by the Colosseum's door,

In the shimmering armour he wore.

He grunts and takes a step forward,

As the massive doors open inward.

His metal chains clink as he paces,

Staring up at the thousands of faces.

That greet him with screams of death,

Fueling the gladiator's so fiery a breath.

A table is laid over which the blades rest,

He tries them all, then chooses the best.

The choice of which he makes,

There is no room for mistakes.

The sun batters down upon the field,

He looks upwards and raises his shield.

Standing at a distance is his foe, 

His death would be painful and slow.

Both ready to fight till the death'd bite,

Either or both of them and end this fight

With no further thought they charged,

As the massive doors were barred.

The crowd burst into screams of life and death,

As dodging a blow, he swore under his breath.

His adversary was furious, he no less,

Each move counted, like a game of chess.

Blows he'd dodge and blows he'd give,

It was for what he'd come down to live.

The crowd chants death as if it were a hymn,

Spilling blood had become routine for him.

And when it was felt they fought equally hard,

One swift move of his caught the foe off guard.

The crowd erupted into screams once again,

As it looked like he won his part of the bargain.

The foe numb with pain, started to sway,

Death for him was just a fatal blow away.

He crouched, now at the mercy of his foe,

Closing his eyes, awaiting the final blow.

With a sword in his hand, a helpless foe at his feet.

The dominance he felt, was strangely incomplete.

Although the sword he bore was at his will,

Ready to strike down his worthy kill.

A faint conscience somewhere within him stirs,

Which expeditiously grows till him it blurs.

An ominous silence now covers the crowd,

As guilt, now hovers above him like a cloud.

Astonishingly, his sword rises to take the blow,

Bringing it fiercely downwards then he lets go.

It's a moment previously  unwitnessed in history,

That someone lets go an inch away from victory.

The crowd, their mouths now wide open,

His deed, screamed what couldn't be spoken.

Cowardice! Someone from the crowd bellowed,

Soon enough, across the Colosseum 'coward' echoed.

He ignored them and turned around,

His feet still felt shaky on the ground.

But his mighty heart was content at last,

Never had he felt happiness so vast.

His foe though hadn't forgotten his part,

He had long practised, mastered the art.

The final blow, he was the one to impart,

As he put his sword through a content heart.

And as he fell, a feeble smile escaped his lips,

As with both hands his bleeding heart he grips.

The feeble smile now a painful laughter,

As he'd achieved the much sought after.

The hooting crowd now fell dead silent,

Was the scene for them a bit too violent?

Or perhaps the dead had become the valiant? 

Hearts were moved. That was apparent.

And even as the gladiator peacefully lay,

People had learnt a lesson, if only for a day.

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The Radioactive Man

The Radioactive Man

This is my humble tribute to the radioactive man,

Who returned to the nightmare from which everyone else ran.

And for 4 years, he's been working hard,

In a region from which everyone is barred.

The Fukushima incident  brought great suffering,

Yet the survivors had someone for their comforting.

But what about those who were left behind,

Living souls like us, their salvation denied?

A great population, pretty much like us they were,

Then what? They were left all alone to suffer.

Some were left as they were, in cages or chains,

Others roamed helplessly, scouring the drains.

This was the plight of the animals of Fukushima,

About rescuing them? Neither a  plan nor a schema.

Their road was more or less heading to a dead end,

But there just happened to be for them, a luck bend.

By the way, who said heroes were young folks?

Naoto Matsumura is worth dozens of those blokes.

At 50, his family are the pitiable survivors,

Of the 12.5 mile radiation zone with no supervisors.

He'd returned for them, knowing the risk,

Whose effects on his body'd be quite brisk.

In a city where nothing's left but standing stone,

'The Guardian of Fukushima's animals' he's known.

Lives in his farm, surrounded by animals,

He being the admiral, they his generals.

Alone he takes care of not only cats and birds,

But of dogs, rabbits even cattle and their herds.

"I couldn't have cared less" he casually says,

When people point out radiation and his ways.

Redefining love and affection here comes a man,

We proudly call him, 'The Radioactive Man of Japan'.

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Dreams

Dreams

Close your eyes! And get ready to dream,

Light 'em up with your imagination's gleam.

Create an intricate mystical world of your own,

Fill it up with all the quixotic stuff you've ever known.

The closed door that's blocking your view,

Gently knock at it and just walk through.

It's the door of imagination, of fantasy unheard,

Which as a rule would seem most absurd.

Take a walk in the gardens of fantasy,

You shall come to face with a reality.

The reality of dreams, so profound, so true,

It's sparkling beauty, hiding in plain view.

Dream as though you never could have thought,

Of all the beautiful places you ever sought.

Of open fields, warm sun, and the unending sky,

But, most important of all, never let them go wry.

For they are different, original like people's views,

And now as such I'd quote Sir Langston Hughes:

"Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die,

Life is a broken-winged bird,

Unable to fly."

"Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go,

Life is a barren field,

Frozen with snow."

Thus, dreams are precious and now you know why,

So wake up every morning but don't say good bye.

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Introspection

Introspection

The Brain

The brain always found its human weak,

Impractical, sentimental, emotional. Meek.

Yet the human preferred over it its counterpart,

The unpredictable, unworthy organ. The heart.

The heart would make him laugh and cry,

'Encourage him to set futile goals sky high.

The heart would warmly console him then,

As he'd fail to achieve his goals time and again.

The brain had no feelings towards the pitiable soul,

And felt that it alone should be in control.

Of his body, his actions it'd be the supervisor,

As it was more practical, therefore wiser.

The Heart

The heart was a gentle, humble piece of flesh,

And unlike the brain, it'd constantly need to refresh.

Yes, it was sentimental yet it'd feel strongly,

Against any deed done to a person, wrongly.

It felt sad that the human favored the brain,

And yeah, the brain's maturity it'd never attain.

But nonetheless it toiled hard and more it would,

To keep it's human happy and everyone it could.

The human tries to find the logic behind everything,

Love and compassion means to him nothing.

He lives but to fulfill his unending greed,

Yet the heart would be there when it he'd need.

The Human

The human felt neither of what the two said,

He'd try to stop their arguing till he dropped dead.

Amidst brain the practical and heart the sentimental,

Was stuck someone. Human the judgmental.

Was always at the loss of words and deeds,

Owing to the two viciously arguing fiends. 

At times he was firm, cold and practical,

And at others, he'd be overly sentimental.

Each would draw him towards its worthy self,

In an effort to completely merge him with itself.

The human would resist, but sometimes he couldn't,

When some trouble got the better of him, he wouldn't.

With the heart breathing fire in his veins,

The brain tormenting him with losses and gains.

He eternally chained each one of them, utterly rebellious,

Each to the other's view competently impervious.

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The Philosophical Kid

The Philosophical Kid

The world was a strange place for a little kid,

He used to feel accountable for all that he did.

There was no evil in that world he knew,

Only good. In everyone. That was his view.

Yet, one thing about that child was really odd,

That clothing of all sorts, he'd label them as fraud.

It was a strange fact, very strange indeed,

But the little brain had an explanation for the deed.

For it would change the people he'd recognize,

Not people exactly, their personalities to be precise.

The way they'd walk, and how they'd behave,

It would all confuse the little child so naive.

From casuals to fancy suits and dresses,

Their behavioral changes met his guesses.

Expensive clothing had a serious effect,

The clothes themselves demanded respect!

The child went on and on with his imagination,

He concluded. It was all an act of domination.

With the clothes ironically, the masters,

And the people; slaves of their captors!

People could only behave, he admitted,

The way their fancy clothing permitted.

And obliterated was the idea of men born free,

Enslaved they were since their first clothing thought he.

And while fancy clothes stood by waiting to be adorned,

An innocent little kid, into a philosopher had transformed.

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Countryside

Countryside

Across the meadows, over the fences,

Every inch therein is a feast for the senses.

To describe it to perfection where do I begin?

Well, it's a perfect worldly abode to dwell in.

It all starts with the first breath you take,

As the first rays of the sun wash over your face.

Illuminating all that there is to see and behold,

Having left nothing for the darkness to withhold.

Open fields, as far as the eye can see,

The blue sky above, stretching endlessly.

With the birds chirping and the flowers dancing,

Trust me, it's all quite mood enhancing.

As the day progresses, several scenes unfold,

A farmer boy and his flock of sheep strolled.

Water was drawn and fields were irrigated,

While at the local store, a short queue waited.

The weather was perfect, landscape picturesque,

Horses trotted and would happily spree.

The entire scenario was so lively!

With the sun at a corner, shining brightly.

Soon it was afternoon, evening thereafter,

And in the air there was a distinctive laughter.

Of men coming home, having toiled all day,

All in a light mood, though they'd been away.

Finally, the chapter closes as the last rays,

Fall upon the countryside, assuring happier days.

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