Mercy and forgiveness.

Mercy, so says Portia, is twice blest.

One who gives and one who takes.

What then, of forgiveness?

Does it offer solace, to parties two?

Heart-rending cries rack the soul,

Upon whose eyes befall a fight's crest.

Plead with the giver to wrest away his ego,

Or subdue the taker, to control her rage.

Maintaining aloofness is to tread on a flower-bed route,

And to sustain on hope that a simmer settles.

He who forgives, frets not on a tussle mental.

She who accepts, awaits and acknowledges follies.

Mercy, though, indicates an hierarchy.

Of the giver as dominance, and the taker as subservience.

Mercy, in excess, gnaws at many a soul.

Forgiveness, in excess, feeds many a hope.

Thus offering solace to parties, more than two.

And so I invalidate Portia’s.

To pat or to pelt, rests in a reader fair.

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Word and Action

An intention to do good, be good and say good. Lay in all, lest their growth endured tumult. Her words sang a mellow tune to melt the heart While inconsistencies in action sang another. As the ear sought to resolve this tussle the mind fashioned another puzzle. Of lies, lasses and love Or a dual-blend of the above.

Lend a limb for love.

Perennial is the facet of a river Can it be accorded to her? Persistent is the asset of a spring, Can that tenor ring true of him? Pervasive would the tone in her voice, Can it brook trust amid vice? Poignant are the memories puncturing my thoughts, Is that a mirror of problems fraught? Passive became a friendship, As the mind wrestled with courtship . Portentous was her claim, Of longevity and its eventual maim. Probing her senses, Of fulfillment and satisfaction , Of desires and dreams, Of fantasy and reality, I resolve to reap the fruit of love Latent in the weeds of rejection. Aid me in this search, oh friend, For no fiend w ould value a mind as much !

Why do we disagree?

From the vast expanse of pale cream, a ray pierced the sill Some say that’s the epitome of ill. Never did she utter such trope And never did she hear a dawn's rising chirp. Sans a countenance that evoked despair or drivel, she did glide o'er cold Earth cavorting joy. Encumbered by the shooing words of a restless few and her held wish of an inside hue began she a ritual of healthy hoy. Words that gushed forth like water in a meadow’s pump, Though never held captive by a day's dump Did stem on a lad's cloy. To say that one impacted the other is to clutch a long straw with baby paw. Another ritual of a weekly shed Did in itself a worldly good To the ...

Verses from a recess.

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