The Baton

The Baton

Twinkling little eyes, chubby little fingers,

Pink was complexion and smile that lingers.

Object of our life and soul, apple of the eye,

For your welfare, oh child, we were ready to die.

 

Pages penned by us on your first word,

Murals filled walls when you drew a bird.

Tears filled eyes when sickness befell you,

Joy ’flowed hearts when you stood first too.

 

Scraped was your knee on fall from bike,

Pain in heart of your mom and dad alike.

Pride fluttered in hearts on your graduation,

Glee knew no bounds and so did adulation.

 

Alas! Career carried you to shores far away,

Miss your face and your word, every which way.

Nary a day passes, nary a sleep winks,

‘How art thou, child?’ bleeding heart thinks.

 

And then arrived a missive you’ve found a spouse,

Burning embers in the hearts, oceans cannot douse.

Blend we did whole-hearted with your family,

Dreamed of our joyful unit bonded cosily.

 

Alas! It was a pipe-dream, realise we did not,

Child you are married now, not a tiny tot.

Not in hearts or in minds were you ever a burden,

Why baton of life’s race slip your hand then?

 

I was a child loyal, discharged baton dutifully,

I was a parent loving, failed in life woefully.

Continued race, baton in hand, ever moving forward,

None behind to receive baton when I saw backward.

 

Still did not renounce boots, still running the race,

Despite creaks in joints and wrinkles on the face.

One hand with walking stick, another with baton,

Life cannot be standstill and the show must go on!

 

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My Little Flower Garden

 

Come into my garden, oh my friend,

Morn and eve, this is where I spend.

My heart, my soul, here’s what I tend,

Make it vivid and grand, that I intend.

 

Here are the dahlia, hollyhock and rose,

Write your poetry, verse or your prose.

Why seek paradise, when heaven’s close?

Leave all worries, why are you morose?

 

Pluck not flowers, beautiful on the bough,

Many a sweat I shed and many a plough.

Tender are these hands that did sow,

My pain, effort and toil you must know.

 

Children chasing the darting butterflies,

Collecting honey the humming bee flies.

Squeaking squirrel to crack a nut tries,

Chirping bird catches a worm that cries.

 

There’s the honey bee flitting over flowers,

Above the plots and beds and the bowers,

Ignoring weather, undeterred by showers,

Flying and flitting in the garden that’s ours.

 

Come, sit on the bench, with us do converse,

Paint a picture beautiful or do write a verse.

Stars on sky, flowers in garden are our Universe,

Good bye my friend and please again traverse.

 

by Shyam Sundar Bulusu

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