My Poems

New is coming a big basket on head, Laden with hopes, desires and lucky chances And looks utterly promising to lead Us no fail to health, wealth, happiness...  Will Old be old, who was new a year ago?  Will he like a dead leaf off the tree fall And leave his place for New to fill and grow? Or like a folio of a distressful novel Flow to the next -- like flew the foregoing? Same things again, again in New all over, Same setbacks, shocks, pains, sorrows, sufferings; Contagions, killings, crimes, conflicts yet more? Howe'er, caught all in a whimsy of celebration, Bet'n going and coming by a sham of provision. -- N P SAMAL 

There does exist e'er a distance bet'n us. Perhaps that's why our love does endless prosper, As none does dare for the distance to cross Lest love with fleshly touches should be impure. So I meet not her, nor does she meet me, And gone are years in our estrangement; But I'm what I'd been, she's what she used to be, As love goes e'er more long, more strong, more ardent. Howe'er, can e'er the moon and the lily meet? But each for t'other does in raptures bloom, And they--connected by some holy spirit-- Each in the other get entirely subsumed. Thus in love is gayly lost each being, That no physical love's so gratifying.  -- N P SAMAL 

Millions are born each day, millions do die; And one who's born does die one day, howe'er, That death does follow birth does signify  Life that one gets, of life becomes a loser; So loses all--hills, heathers, suns, and stars, And not sans parents, children, friends, relation, So pleasure, happiness, and love one savours; And come back none; once gone, once gone,  once gone; And I am going to go and lose each thing I have, and they too will forever lose me: I think I should have waited, for my coming, Than shortly live and in the past fore'er be! That, waiting for a future life would've been A life--more long more good--more interestin'. -- N P Samal 

We all do know how life once out did flow, From the womb, does make a restless run To meet the grave, and it does travel through  The body's each formation, each condition; And body's ne'er denied to run with age, From spring to summer to autumn to winter, As both remain the life's abiding allies And stop not at the pile of ruins or treasure: Life does come and life does go, does tell How it did live and 'so how it did die, But tells not why for death does it have a zeal And, if so, why are many means to live by, What livings are to life's no-end momentum Through the events of design and doom. -- N. P. SAMAL 

The body's bent, the head is hanging o'er The predatory feet of pains, as failures One by one bearing down on