A robin lands on a Gulmohar tree
He peers through the leaves at this vibrant land
And sees a farmer toil, happy and free
He sees the oceans and sparkling sand
He sees the child collecting pretty shells
And hears the bangles jingling on her hand
He sees the women gossip by the wells,
He hears a child laugh out loud
And hears their dainty anklet’s tinkling bells
He sees the peacock strutting, ever proud
He hears the cry of the village boys
And sees the bazaars with their bustling crowd.
He sees the stalls selling color and noise.
He sees the spices and silks being sold there now
And sees the child play with her wooden toys
He tastes fresh milk from the friendly brown cow
He sees the lush green fields and poultry farms
And sees the tired farmer washing his feet and wiping his brow
He sees the mothers with plump babies in their arms
He sees the pretty young girls with manners so mild
And sees young men showing off their charms
He sees the fruits and nuts so neatly piled
He hears clear, blue rivers, so many times crossed
And smells the lovely fragrant flowers growing wild
He knows this treasure must never be lost,
He must preserve it, no matter the cost.
-------------------------------------------
I did this for a Multi genre project at school last year. This poem is a perspective of the British Rule in India.
On Ethan Allen
Hiking through the forest green,
Are merry men so rarely seen.
Their leader wears a laurel crown
Marching his men through dismal towns
And the men, who at one time jeered,
Hear trumpets blaring, and feared
For while they stood, jaws agape,
He strode toward them, with his shining cape,
And to the fleeing Yorkers shame,
He shooed them back to whence they came
- 6 -
In the Meadow
In the meadow, old and withered,
The grandfather of all trees.
Of rustling in the breeze
Gone are the days of standing,
So proud, wise, and tall.
Gone are the days of being,
The best one of them all.
Yet, come the silent night,
We find not all is lost.
His spirit still stands there,
Yet, at a heavy cost.
Every day he sees,
The suffering of his kind.
Desperate thoughts flitting,
In and out his mind.
In the meadow, old and withered,
The grandfather of all trees.
Every night he stands there waiting,
Waiting for his release.
-Shivangi Narain
11/20/08
