What is left of me...

Deeply personal,

A diary of notes.

Archived and etched,

Some friendly anecdotes.

A shelf full of books,

Count of a few hundred.

And most of them,

Regrettably unread.

From when I was young,

Some artistic scrawls.

When crayons were paint,

And canvas the walls.

Also a lot of paper,

About the wealth I've amassed.

And some scraps, that mention,

The degrees I've passed.

A picture of two, the proof,

That I’m a married man.

And to be passed further as heirloom,

A rusty old table fan.

Tonics and balms and bottled drugs,

The markers of my age.

That’s what is left of me,

My life, stage by stage.

It saddens me of course, for,

That's all that is left of me…

Meager, momentous, and truthfully,

That’s all that is left of me...

And Now…

Over to the right side of the room!

Sunny side up!

I've seen it a million times,

Stark and dark, flared and mellow...

I've seen it in every way,

Bright or dull, red, orange and yellow...

I've been through its ups and downs,

Borne its wrath, sorrow or glee...

And whether it is warm, sprightly or aglow,

I've always seen it as a part of me...

To it my faith, my religion, my love is bound.

It seems what revolves round it, is this world of mine...

It is its center, its tither, its soul, its shrine...

And though it is beyond my reach and greatly unbound,

It still is close, for it, to me, is divine...

And to it, myself, I do entwine...

Call it a ball of gas,

Or the life giver,

The blanket of warmth,

Or my lucifer.

It is young,

It is bright,

It sets,

Yet it brings me light...

I say it is my whim,

Others call it a fact...

I worship it in silences,

And pull a non-believer's act...

They call it an emotion,

I call it my one...

Riddle me a thing,

Is it my love, or,

Is it the sun?

Whimsical Reminders

4 pawns and a die,

And that playful hustle-bustle.

6 jumpy players,

And that impish tussle.

2 sulky and 4 happy dice rolling tykes,

A game of chance, yet no gambling vice.

A 100 squares bestrewn with ladders,

A 100 squares bestrewn with adders,

Reminders of the present life,

And the race of humanoid mice.

4 in the evening, ashore,

And that tranquil emotion.

4 naked fishermen kids,

And their freedom in motion.

4 sets of age-old toys of whim and fancy,

That bamboo stick and a rubber wheel.

4 circles on a wearisome move,

All 4 withered in every groove,

Reminders of age of innocence,

Eroded peel by peel.

T.. P..

For once I’d write, about a place to dwell,
It is phonetically funny, so I might as well,
It seems American Indians lived in it,
It is just about a conical animal skin shell!

What sounds funny is it is called a Tepee,
If you plan to have one, have it on the lee,
For it most definitely is a single room,
Whether you use it to cook or to Pee,

Then again, from what I hear

It also is nice to have a warm cup of Tea
Not that in that space one can do much TP,
By TP I mean time pass, and I clarify
Because to Indians it may well mean "tea pi?"*

Aah, so many 'phoney' tricks, and yet some more to come…

For an inverted Tepee may well look like a Tee,
And its frankly is a space so Petty,
Every morn when the family files out of it,
The Tepee looks like a pod for many a Pea.

Now now, before you sigh in exasperation,

I know most after reading this bit about a Petty Tepee,
Would take a break for a leak, or as we say Pee,
But for those who find it more than mere TP,
Give those little Tepees a thought before you flee!

*("Chai piya?" - Again Pun Intended)

This on goes out to a very special Kid who got me thinking about this bit of wordplay! :)