'Angels come and go, but God stays with you'- Sunil Rao.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Magical Colors Of My Life
Orange makes me smile,
Makes me go the extra mile,
Makes me love the river Nile,
Even when the day was never mine,
Grey makes me moody,
Makes my face appear gloomy,
The contrary of being happy,
In a world that’s both cool and crappy,
Green makes me sick,
Makes me feel like jumping into a creek,
Whence all is not fine and I’m meek,
As this feeling will help my heart tick,
Red makes me love,
The pleasant white dove,
Perched on the rooftop and will never move,
Even when it spots danger from up above,
Black makes me feel classy,
In a town that’s full of the fussy,
Ever ready not to go out messy,
When the weather is ever present to make one Muck’sy,
Blue makes me hope,
During days when I could never cope,
With the fast-paced lifestyle that never seems to hit a slope,
Never losing energy like a hybrid coupe,
Yellow makes me flimsy,
When the light is lit dimly,
In a corridor longer than a chimney,
Walk straight down of it and you’ll see me shortly.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use it without permission I plead.
Makes me go the extra mile,
Makes me love the river Nile,
Even when the day was never mine,
Grey makes me moody,
Makes my face appear gloomy,
The contrary of being happy,
In a world that’s both cool and crappy,
Green makes me sick,
Makes me feel like jumping into a creek,
Whence all is not fine and I’m meek,
As this feeling will help my heart tick,
Red makes me love,
The pleasant white dove,
Perched on the rooftop and will never move,
Even when it spots danger from up above,
Black makes me feel classy,
In a town that’s full of the fussy,
Ever ready not to go out messy,
When the weather is ever present to make one Muck’sy,
Blue makes me hope,
During days when I could never cope,
With the fast-paced lifestyle that never seems to hit a slope,
Never losing energy like a hybrid coupe,
Yellow makes me flimsy,
When the light is lit dimly,
In a corridor longer than a chimney,
Walk straight down of it and you’ll see me shortly.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use it without permission I plead.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Night, Day, Winter & Summer
The night was told,
That the day was old,
The snow was cold,
And the sun was bold,
Bats come out to have a snack,
Wild dogs hunt in a pack,
The bear was gentle to create no crack,
Whilst the camel was told to hit the sack,
During the night, creatures nocturnal are on their killing spree,
During the day, creatures diurnal are able to see,
During winter there's no sight of a bee,
During summer the ice melts, revealing what looks like a broken knee,
Lights glow brightly in the night at Manhattan bay,
London loses not its gray complexion during the day,
Russia's north is covered by snow they say,
While kids under the scorching sun bathe in the open in a manner all too gay,
The night is both mysterious and puzzling,
The shining sun causes the surface of the water to appear puzzling,
Under the blanket of snow life is teeming,
People wanting the rain are singing.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.
That the day was old,
The snow was cold,
And the sun was bold,
Bats come out to have a snack,
Wild dogs hunt in a pack,
The bear was gentle to create no crack,
Whilst the camel was told to hit the sack,
During the night, creatures nocturnal are on their killing spree,
During the day, creatures diurnal are able to see,
During winter there's no sight of a bee,
During summer the ice melts, revealing what looks like a broken knee,
Lights glow brightly in the night at Manhattan bay,
London loses not its gray complexion during the day,
Russia's north is covered by snow they say,
While kids under the scorching sun bathe in the open in a manner all too gay,
The night is both mysterious and puzzling,
The shining sun causes the surface of the water to appear puzzling,
Under the blanket of snow life is teeming,
People wanting the rain are singing.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.
War
In the springtime ferrets flee,
Hiding in their burrows from the one who see,
High above with wings so large,
Making shadows on the grounds of life,
Scent is the gift of smell,
Let’s predators and scavengers tell,
A dead thing in the not too distant land,
That has parted from this earth and sand,
Beauty is such a gift,
With it one can persuade anyone in a swift,
Making them not think twice of their actions,
In a world with a great deal of expectations,
In a fairly low density quarters Far East,
Political instability sends some away from their feast,
To carry arms and AK-47’s,
Firing bullets and sending many into tears,
Asked a man; is life a real-time war-game?
He answers; if so, I am pretty bad in getting some game,
Not that I don’t know how to pull the trigger,
It’s just that I’ve not the heart to be a killer,
In the past, waging war against another nation,
Was so commonplace without any sort of notion,
People were most probably bored and left for their station,
Having no Nintendo nor a Play Station,
War is such a beautiful game,
Especially to those who win and fame,
Come knocking to their doorstep,
Not so much so a grand occasion for those who lost, cry and weep,
The glory of a nation depends on,
A leader who’s in charge in running the whole operation,
For instance if you have Hitler,
Then you’ll most probably win having also a leading member in the form of Himler.
Hiding in their burrows from the one who see,
High above with wings so large,
Making shadows on the grounds of life,
Scent is the gift of smell,
Let’s predators and scavengers tell,
A dead thing in the not too distant land,
That has parted from this earth and sand,
Beauty is such a gift,
With it one can persuade anyone in a swift,
Making them not think twice of their actions,
In a world with a great deal of expectations,
In a fairly low density quarters Far East,
Political instability sends some away from their feast,
To carry arms and AK-47’s,
Firing bullets and sending many into tears,
Asked a man; is life a real-time war-game?
He answers; if so, I am pretty bad in getting some game,
Not that I don’t know how to pull the trigger,
It’s just that I’ve not the heart to be a killer,
In the past, waging war against another nation,
Was so commonplace without any sort of notion,
People were most probably bored and left for their station,
Having no Nintendo nor a Play Station,
War is such a beautiful game,
Especially to those who win and fame,
Come knocking to their doorstep,
Not so much so a grand occasion for those who lost, cry and weep,
The glory of a nation depends on,
A leader who’s in charge in running the whole operation,
For instance if you have Hitler,
Then you’ll most probably win having also a leading member in the form of Himler.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.
The Deceased
The rustling leaves on sorrow’s road,
Unhang the wind chimes and let,
Huge gushes of air blow unhindered,
The ever present child at the playground is today’s absentee,
I pluck a string and it snaps,
I thread the path on which beggar’s nap,
I take a sip at a nearby pond,
Not very far from a place that once was fun,
The large windows of a dwelling at the very end of the road,
Are like wretched eyes that stared from the very beginning,
Whence its wood was pleasant and satisfactory,
Until the termites stepped in and caused it to rot,
Energy, what use is it to a dying man?
But a curse to prolong his suffering,
Therefore, to end it all he commits that which God didst allowed us to ordain,
That is to take his life with his own bare hands,
He will always be remembered as a hero nay,
A dubious coward and fraud aye,
Fearing pain that which is only but a feeling,
A tiny fragment in his ocean vast mind,
Dim the lights and silence the chirping,
Of birds with a loaded shotgun,
Vacate the road from the house thereon,
Let the Grim Reaper ferry the body to where it should lie inhumed,
I recite a prayer in front of a gathering crowd,
That circle around the buried corpse,
My voice emanates in a divine manner,
I feel like Orpheus the Macian musician and poet,
The prayer moves those who break into a mourn,
I lament after a bloodline that’s lost,
Into obscurity, that resembled mine,
But not that of my mother’s.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.
Unhang the wind chimes and let,
Huge gushes of air blow unhindered,
The ever present child at the playground is today’s absentee,
I pluck a string and it snaps,
I thread the path on which beggar’s nap,
I take a sip at a nearby pond,
Not very far from a place that once was fun,
The large windows of a dwelling at the very end of the road,
Are like wretched eyes that stared from the very beginning,
Whence its wood was pleasant and satisfactory,
Until the termites stepped in and caused it to rot,
Energy, what use is it to a dying man?
But a curse to prolong his suffering,
Therefore, to end it all he commits that which God didst allowed us to ordain,
That is to take his life with his own bare hands,
He will always be remembered as a hero nay,
A dubious coward and fraud aye,
Fearing pain that which is only but a feeling,
A tiny fragment in his ocean vast mind,
Dim the lights and silence the chirping,
Of birds with a loaded shotgun,
Vacate the road from the house thereon,
Let the Grim Reaper ferry the body to where it should lie inhumed,
I recite a prayer in front of a gathering crowd,
That circle around the buried corpse,
My voice emanates in a divine manner,
I feel like Orpheus the Macian musician and poet,
The prayer moves those who break into a mourn,
I lament after a bloodline that’s lost,
Into obscurity, that resembled mine,
But not that of my mother’s.
This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.
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