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A Half Dozen plus One

Featuring poetry by a most prolific bard, Sir SAI PRAKASH, from India, a collection of poetry (half dozen plus one), his poems chosen throughout the months either as Poet of the Week, Poet of the Month or a random Editor's Pick. His poem, "Every Poet's Dream" was chosen as Poem of the Month in August by Contributing Editor, Mr. Steve Lyman.


When thoughts from his heart pouring out
A poet wastes no time to ink the papers white
A perfect contrast of black and white
Like the dark and silvery clouds

His voice and verse a bit shaky
Like a toddler from crawl to walk
May be an infant cry in some cases
An assuring hand and a little pat on the back
A clap or two
A nice review
Like a well watered and manured plant
A poet develops a strong root and shoot

His wings aided by more air
His vision more precise
His imagination expands

From a tip of an iceberg
To the peak of a mountain
From unfathomable abyss to shore crashing waves
Across the oceans over the mountains
His voice and verse reaching new destinations

Irish highlands
Scottish Piper tunes
In tribal song and and folklore

He wishes his verse to be on million lips
From dreary desert sands to Siberian winters
From autumn leaves to spring flowers

His never ending dreams of versatile creation
Reaching every reader's heart
Bringing tears or a child-like smile

What else can he wish
Other than a page in history
A flower in front his epitaph
Shady tree and a bench near his grave
A visitor reciting his favorite poem aloud

Like Abou Ben Adhem
May his tribe increase


She stopped watering the plants in her garden
Began to sing rain song (raag Megh Malhar)
The enthralled clouds bean to shower their sweetest nectar
The fragrance of Petrichor
Began to fill the air
The plants in tandem with her dance
Began to sway their heads



You faltered at each step
Time and again
Pleading guilty
The poetic community at large is in threat

You pick one or many at times you make a chutney
How can you be excused!
You have no art of your own
Stealing and owning is a big no
A white collar crime

Poets spend sleepless nights to write a verse
You never felt the pain
Cut, copy and paste adding your name and fictions copyright

You may escape a few eyes
Not all the time you will succeed
Don't ever try to hide behind the curtains
Saying you suffer with a condition, 'Compulsive Neurosis'

You are neither welcome nor praised
Plagiarism is a crime
You, a compulsive plagiarist, must face the ire.


Once I saw a man in his fifties
Carrying a jute bag across his shoulders
A bit soiled and torn
His unruly hairs to support his torn attire
His lips were murmuring something not aloud but a steady flow of words
I went close to comprehend

Oh! What a beautiful verse
Pristine like the brook that flows from East to West
Those silvery gushing waters he does remind

I stayed there until he finished his ritualistic recite
I felt like listening to hymns
I wanted to greet him
In fact, to offer my ovation and ovations

He heard my clapping
Opened his eyes with an unfocused gaze, he murmured further
Hungry, hungry he added thirst, too.

I ran across the road to fetch some things he could relish
On my return I saw him lying on the grass
His face kissing the mother earth
His palms pointing to the heavens
Half a dozen books with variety of titles
Peeping from the torn bag
Embossed, his name in golden print
A letter written in his bold and beautiful handwriting

I started to read each line
Tears welling, running down my cheeks
The letter title much bolder it proclaimed.


Sunrise, shooting stars, moonlit nights
They all enthrall my psyche
The blue sky with silvery clouds are
My favorite

Walking back from school or
Sitting near the windowsill
I observe these celestial paintings
On the vast canvas

My moods and feelings well depicted in pictures
Is it my portrait that is drawn across the sky
By the excellent painter
All of us call him, The Almighty?

Often remembering my school uniform
Sky blue and white
Set in motion by the slightest of breeze
A portrait in motion, reels of a cinema
Frame after frame

Those white cotton candies floating across the skies
Carrying letters of separation and love to far-off places
Inaminate and animate subjects coming to life
I saw an elephant, others saw a hare
Enticing imaginations though varied,
Each comforts and endures



I tried many times, on advice and for myself
Those habits die no easy death
They come back to haunt me, each and every night
Those verses, grand or meek
I rejoice, I try to change their tone and tenor, but I fail
Deeply embedded thoughts, I read, haunt me down my psyche
Until I turn to paper and pen, to write my own version
At times applause, at time, ridiculed
The owner, never realizes
It is my old habits, that never die
I tried but failed, to write on my own, a phrase or a verse,
But I admit without shame, all my trails futile
I hide in the shade of others, as I cannot find mine
Thus goes the saying, it is far more easier to duplicate.


As I open the window on my East
I saw silvery clouds
Paving a grand carpet
Where else can I see such a splendor
Except from the hilltop I live

Walking on the green grasses below
Listening to their whispers
I stand at the edge of the cliff
Resisting my temptation to take a step further

Oh! Creator, what a wide canvas of creation
Even in black and white
You are the master of art
I offer my sincere oblations for granting me
An entry into paradise while I am still alive


A Half Dozen plus One
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