POEMS: All Hail the Abiding Sparrow, Loathsome, Blind Sight, Fine Times, Zebra Crossing & British Branded Civility (BBC)


Even the sparrow has found a home made
In the shallow nest she makes for her young.
For in those periods all so dry, dark and dead,
Despair is a refusal to struggle and belong.

While I sat thoroughly disillusioned in a park,
With a disappointed heart deaden to all hope.
Like it wouldn’t often do to anyone; even in the dark,
A little sparrow bird picked my hand and on hopped.

Then my mind tugged at how amazing a sparrow is;
A very small feathered reflection of true doggedness.
As through all the four seasons the rolling year is,
The sparrow lingers on the land’s harsh barrenness.

Chirping cheerily in the dreary winter ending year,
Perched on bare brown twigs of the bleakest days,
Begging on frost glued door steps of a starting year,
Abiding through yet another year till its wintry days.

While the swallow darts off after the sun elsewhere,
The sparrow stays home and braves stormy blasts.
So can I; if it can fight it and still remain right here.
Its gaily lesson brought me back from despair at last.

Hope took on its feathers and perched on my soul.
Sang without any words and never stopped at all.
When despair over takes us and erases our goal,
God can come to our aid and we really never fail.


As you strut and malign,
Mean malediction you align.

All the beauty of the bile
You manage to make vile.


Willed to mind those seen,
His checkered tale has been.
Sworn to swell only his own,
Cursed man’s ego as borne.
What he sees is in the look
As much as the view it took.

From beneath, night twinkles
Like tiny fire-flies in singles.
When above, man and plants
Appear the mere weed or Ants.
Within these eyes’ perspectives
Are dark truths held captives.


Winners so abound,
Strapped and bounded.
Elated all around,
Joyously dumb-founded.

Those fine times
Speaks for all kinds.
Saying as do chimes,
That time do binds.

Rare times of winning
Brings forth the hidden.
Revealing all missing;
Fingers in the mitten.


Long nights had passed by,
I still stray into the dream.
My tears had filled my try,
My beaten milk isn’t cream.

Donkey’s years pass on along
And made me an ass all alone.
Donkey’s oversized head belong
To the horses my very fate own.

The will shade appear itself
And I can not be too careful.
In crossing to my other half,
I find I am the Zebra’s fool.


By the waves of the BBC, which sits us down,
There we wait, where we’re reminded of our world.

So let their words pierce our hearts,
And our meditations mould all our words,
To be respectable in common fairness to all deeds.