The Two Lads

The old lad and the not-so-old young lad
Started to walk together by the beach,
One had a stick and the other sunglasses,
The night swallowed the rays of lightness,
And crows would appear from the horizon –
Extremely distant that the two lads found
It excruciatingly painful to stare at, and so,
One of them sat on the snow-covered
Deserted unscathed wooden bench that
Was genetically engineered to survive
This apocalyptic world of many shadows,
The old lad went to his pockets and
Spread his palms out where seeds laid
There: warm, still, and totally silent,
The not-so-old young lad was extremely
Observant and stood firm in a great pause,
What he saw was something magical
Where extinct small birds and huge
Pelicans would soar high encircling
Those seeds, but the darkness changes
The beach and a whistling sound alarms
The two lads where they immediately
Walked along the coast in calmness,
One had a stick and the other sunglasses,
The old lad and the not-so-old young lad.

Writers’ Society

Is this the beach where
The sun-kissed air form
A sand to walk on and where
The eyes fish the horizon
From afar, yet closer
Than the writer: that’s one,
And two, you, whom made
The whispering dance
Melodic – a ritual for the ears
To invite a third: the listener,
Sit beside me to sing a poetic
Ode, but back to number two
Since the circumference
Of this circle is two times radius
Times pi. One. Two. Three. Four.
Five times two-pi: around thirty one,
Such is the glamour of
Writers’ circle – no, spherical:
A volumetric evolution,
A colourful blueprint of
The beach ball, an old kid’s
Heaven. Yours and mine,
But is this truly the beach where
The sun-kissed earth form
A rock to climb on and where
The eyes fish the clouds
From afar, yet closer
Than the timer: that’s it! Pens down!