Sometimes I write a poem sometimes I don’t,
Sometimes I’ll write a story sometimes I won’t,
Sometimes a story turns to be an ode or a haiku,
That answers to where, when, why and the who,
Many a times I have many a question or a riddle,
Sometimes I start, at times end, always in the middle,
Please forgive me if I leave you twisted in a twiddle,
My poem to you was, as always is, totally non-committal,

The Silence That Roars

I find my peace in the silence of the night,
When the skies get dark and the stars are bright,
When the only sounds are the cries in my head,
Where the underworld creatures awaiting to be fed,
Silence can be roaring aloud inside you sometime,
With visions of old that you lock up and confine,

Aesop’s Scorpion Sting

The scorpion approached the green frog,
Will you carry me on your back, across the bog?
Why should I do that, you will sting me for sure!
From your sting ,my dear friend, there is no cure,
“If sting you I do”, said the scorpion, “I drown too”,
So the frog makes a decision , yes, why?  I still have no clue,
“This makes sense” said the frog, “get onto my back”,
The scorpion climbed onto the frog back like a sac,
But; as they reached midstream the scorpion stings,
And the frog flips over, as poison death fast brings,
“Why did you kill me, you will now die too, dumb creature”,
“I cannot help it”, said the scorpion, “it is my nature”,