Poetry

When you write what you yourself don't fully understand,
Like the lady that unknowingly smiled on the lustful man,
Then repent for having insulted other poets in their trade,
Like the man who gave reasons to God for sinning,
Then are not able to retreat nor destroy what you wrote,
Like the poor man who spent all building a castle of the wrong shape,
Then convince yourself that you are capable of writing poetry
Like not the jackass and no fool but you yourself,
Then surely you have written not poetry but doggerel, like me.

Verse and my doggerel

I try and try, again and again to impress
Upon myself, that I can write poems too.
But somehow they don't give satisfaction,
That glory that comes due to inspiration.
No, I am just a crow, a foolish one too,
That parades as a peacock, the grand bird.
But will the day come- I am still cawing,
When inspiration will be blessed on me?
Then what if what I write is doggerel.

This poem was written to absolve me of any blemish if  I dare call my doggerel poems.

From Youth to Old

His face was creased, his eyes sunk,
His forehead lined and brow arched,
His age was old and sorrows his untold.
Why do we spurn him,drive him out,
Not give him his place in the hall of wisdom?
Are we mad to dislike the old! sure we are.
To relinquish one's youth is but natural,
And it is not a crime- we ourselves will succumb.
But should not age be glorified, and experience valued,
Is not the brain ugly but its use valuable,
So are the old no doubt weak but their words golden.

Let us fight our primal urge to conflict and contradict.
Think how powerful we will be , and wise
If we have also their brain to back the strength of our youth.
Time is a teacher and a very hard one at that,
It does not speak at all, only does.
To reconcile to facts is very tough, time itself
Being the most truthful of all facts.
Let us value time, let us value age and wisdom,
For all we know we can give the old a chance , room
In our minds to allow their opinion and
For all we know, they may be correct.