FROG AND CATERPILLAR

A frog lived in a vacant well

that had water from little to none.

There it did seem to happily dwell

as life was contented and full of fun.

The sun peeped into the damp

for nearly a full quarter each day.

Like eluding the dark with a lamp

as nature destined its short stay.

One day a locust fell with a thud

swept by far-off distant breeze.

With broken wings got stuck in mud,

clinging to a leaf from the trees.

The frog awoke from its sleepy trance 

and saw an insect of verdant shade.

Felt pity life's solitary encumbrance

and figuring what did Almighty bade. 

Prasenjit©2023

FIERY FLAME

What glows is just a crimson flame

and what burns is just the fire.

A start of the end - it is life's game

and what burns is wrath and ire.

The dark smoke that mingles up

and the glow that flickers all along.

Slowly the time fills our life's cup

as devotees for blessings do throng.

As the oil lessens, the blaze wud' die

like sacrifices past generations made.

A life of heat and light - it did fully try

just as the sun sets as nature bade.

Once white wick, now it is black -

it's how nature treats one and all.

Devoted to duty keeps us on track -

till in life's winter we finally fall.

Imagine the pride the Sun takes

when onto the land of God it sees -

The duel that the flame always makes -

as it holds onto its place in the breeze.

Prasenjit©2023

AMERICA - 1865

It was always darker than a dungeon

and was still as dark as it could be.

Like lifeless ashes kept in an urn -

those chainless captives couldn't flee.

Some lived life, while thousands earned

and had more than their needs be.

Blinded in gaze, while others they shunned

but towers of pride wasn't for all  eternity.

Rain doesn't fall and neither their tears;

their hearts don't beat, it's nothing new.

Some pain remain in illiteracy and fears;

standing up in darkness is done by few.

What a dictum written on the godly slate;

some hoarded more than they gave.

Some dreamt of food on an empty plate -

while a demonic master whipped his slave.

How could white skins' tears go dry?

How did those slave's blood run cold?

Does it differ - negro or a white child's cry?

Empires built on tortures, four centuries old.

Prasenjit©2023

THE EAGLE

He holds onto the crag with razor claw

while the rest shudder in shock and awe.

He lives alone and is close to the sun

while a terror like him, there is none.

His wings glide through the azure skies

as above the fleeting clouds he flies.

The branches of the junipers are proof

that overhead the predator needs no roof.

The wrinkled waves of the sea crashes

while chilly wind under the wings gushes.

He watches from the mountain ridges

where no soul lurks, none there trudges.

The Creator must surely think with a sigh;

of the power and aura of an eagle's eye.

Prasenjit©2023

YESTERYEARS

In the dark corner of a dull dark room,

the dark flickering flames dimly burn.

Memories piled here in want of groom -

unwanted tears each take their turn.

Memoirs fade like the old album pages;

thoughts like dust settled at the corners.

The heart aches to ponder on past ages,

while the bygone is unfolded by mourners.

Prasenjit©2023