Poems by Mohamed Shuaib


a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

A class foments the seed of hatred
neither belongs to the community or society.
Their motives are self notoriety; behalf the name
of the religion they aver renascence.
Rekindling is not through bloodbaths using explosives,
but it is through immense patience and moral imbues.
The guns and projectiles by the oppressors
can’t be forced on the varied moods
against the practices and believes and of the customs to
hem in to the confines.
It is love that one should rehearse and not overlord
before portraying one’s accord on the dogma.
The tyranny of such in the name of religion,
in the name of politics, in the form of super power
induce magnitudes of devastation in the cradle of humanity.
These conflicts will only procreate more terror suppressed
in the minds of the evil that they debate
they follow but against any book.
Contumacy is a pressing need but through peaceful mood
which can be obtained by mutual cognition, love and
devotion to mankind and disposition of his legitimacy.
Thus peace has to be conquered not by hostility
but through communion dialogues amiably.
Let us shore up our stand and voice to confront
the challenge to diapason the global stillness.


a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Every one talking to each other
Perhaps trying to solve the issue in vain
The sister opens the door and calls
A patient in to the dialysis room.
The technician pricks two thick needles,
And connects the tubes to the filter (dialyser),
And asks the weight, and the sister checks
The blood pressure and the patient
Lies on bed for four hours.
In the first hour the attendees come in
To give the patient edibles to eat
As advised by the technicians-
Blood gets cleaned and gives strength,
And also edibles permitted-
Which are not included in diet, list.

I sometimes eat or sometimes feel uneasy.
Sometimes the blood pressure goes down
As the machine sucks the water from the blood
And immediately saline is been given.
And technician says not to drink more water.
My father comes in and feeds me,
And goes back, finds the same place
Or if occupied by others- O’ it pains me,
Poor pops got to suffer along with me.
I feel guilty, but not my fault- blame I
My fate or the maker of it.
He also gave me a new RX and took it back.
I see the buyer riding with a girl friend sitting back.
Every one is tired, from where to get money, I’m gonna
Survive until I have or if govt. provides subsidy.

The hollow words

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Every day I walked to see the holy man
Cheeks quite chubby, beard not very long,
And a green turban on his head.
Holding a school bag over his shoulder
Months after I met him
I got to know the secret of inside.
Well, nothing to hide, ‘tis a bag full of pens collected.
Don’t know what part the pens play.
And a piggy bank to collect money.
His timings are unscheduled,
Around noon or an hour before he
Comes out of his house which he calls
His sisters residence, and walks till night
And finds a place to sit until the call of birds.
As he talks it seems like the words of a Puerile.
But the matured old man is aware
Of everything, even if it is concealed
Or surreptitious, understood by chosen few.
He murmurs to his self, but not in one’s reach.
But thru his strange language he speaks
The point of the compass.
Which may be advantageous and remedial.
Each word of the sage goes no extra.
If our brains are pointed enough to comprehend.
We would see no sorrow but a bright aftertime.
He preaches no religion but humanity.
The mystical man is aware of the material world
Yet considers it not, the patience he bears.
Though he is near not, I feel him near
Everywhere I walk, he is in my sense
The one for illumination I rely on
He knows the self; he’s seen the skies,
He is aware of morrow; he knows the past.
He is in everything, every speech,
He is my preceptor and I’m his disciple.


a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

I was looking thru the window,
It was gloomy with sudden blizzard
The whole episode turned,
The birds hurried to their nest
My instinct felt a possible event
When the jungle was quite till the other end.

There was a bad smell all around,
I could sense the presence of ghost around there
As the dark began to appear
Everything was quite but rain.
Suddenly something croaked around
And the trees danced to the rhythm of the wind.
The thunder with lightening crushed in
Breaking the glass of the attic,
And there I could hear the footsteps,
Its echo trashed the walls of that
Haunted villa again and again.

As it seemed berserk acoustically,
At once I decided to run away,
No sooner of that thought i saw a
Huge wild looking man with long hair
Covering his face and sharps nails
On his fingertips showed that
He had grown it from ages and ages,
His eyes seemed he was ravenous
From since he was betrayed by
Many hands to death, and now
His innate had evoked for revenge.

Slowly he walked towards to me
Sat on a chair demanding me
I was immobile, glaring at
His next step that was unwary
As he began to progress at me
I saw a giant figure approaching
With his terrifying look, and
Swiftly I collapsed down unconscious
On the ground until the morn light.

I got up feeling something strange
In my mind about the night
Lately when I was watching a horror movie
I felt I have experienced the same
Then I realized that I had seen a dream.

Tears of Pearls

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Nigh the river where the sorrows
Sway thru’ the waves over the ferry,
I sit and glare’em or sometimes
Glance beyond the stars until cock-crow.

Miserable days yet persisting,
I don’t know what brings the destiny.
Or will morrow be pleasant to see
Or even more worse than what it is.

The stars that collapse swiftly,
My instinct feels something inevitable,
I’ve heard and brought-up where in
People talk and believe superstition.

Yet believing as such, somewhere
In my mind that gleans acquiescely,
That, for sure there’s a bright morrow
Hidden somewhere in my sorrow.

The Patient and the Impatient

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

The preacher and the leader
Met with death,
They were carried to the burial ground
Dug six feet beneath the ground.
And the soul flies away
To an unknown cell.
When forty steps away the people walk,
Arrives the angel of god.
The body regains the souls;
To ask about the whole.

What you have done in the life
That was given to you?
Preacher said: I preached God and the messenger,
And the holy book.
My regimen was in toto dedicated
Towards His grace.
While the leader hardly uttered a word;
Had he violated the tenets.
He was pretentious, depraved;
Of wealth he was ravenous.

What did you give to the men on earth,
To the knowledgeless?
Preacher said: I spent preaching the principles
Of the book of the lord,
And awareness to the men of the book
That they were decepted.
While the leader denuded the men
Off their rights,
Now, he yowled in deplore
For deriding the book.

The preacher’s soul then again retracted
To rest in peace,
He de jure was remunerated a place
Above the skies,
His grave glittering, the windows wide open
For the glimpse of the paradise.
Among four, the one left window was covered
In defense by the patience that he had.
He cried in joy “Clear the bondage of grave
And let me fly.”

The leader’s soul too detracted but
It never rest in peace.
His heart yowling for a chance to yield:
Recorrect the sins he did,
Lavish style, sumptuous life with it
He nattered and whiled.
Now his repentance won’t be accepted
By the invigilator high.
He cried never the Last Day appear
For he to face the hell fire.

A drop of tear

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

I remember the day
You came in my life,
Like a star above
Shining all the night.

My heart sensed this love all ways
But after I saw you, it came to my realization
That I burnt for you and else no one.
Where were you hidden when I was alone?

Then like a star my heart gloved.
It kept shining like the sun
That shines till the hour of dusk.
I felt the gray skies I’ll see none.

In my leisure I used
To plan, the words I should
Speak to make you mine,
When I would meet you first time.

Days passed, months gone,
But I didn’t find a nice time
To say all that
I’ve for you in my mind.

Long, long later I met you
To reveal you my thoughts
But before I could match the words
You told I’m too late for you love someone.

But I hope that one day you’ll
Understand, and shed at least
A tear from your eyes, for one
Who loves you until his breath ends.

My prayer to you

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Life is getting darker
Without her beside me
O my maker.

Give me her love, make her mine
Or destroy me, I don’t wan’
To live without her anymore.

You try to make me happy
By this wealth, but these
Perishable jewels won’t please me.

How lot I try to forget her,
But your given pain will
Stay forever.

What have I got to do
Without a girl, with this
Shining gold here.

Maker mine you think a while
What would this nature be
Without human beings.

Where would these birds fly
If these trees weren’t there
To protect them from the night.

Every single minute one has to inhale
The air to survive, what if this air wasn’t there,
Whom you’d have asked to praise your grace.

O maker mine, think a while
How can I live without her
Knowing I burn so much for her.

A Dream

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

I saw her in the morning sun,
Seemed she was hoping someone,
Holding a flower in her hand
I saw her face covered
By mist around her then.

She was looking till the far end,
Where the clouds bend near the mountain
She looked to the herds going down
I don’t know who was on her mind
Was it I or the beautiful nature around.

She looked like a jungle queen
Who had no fear of any thing
She looked sharply far away
Trying to know every inch of natures
Beauty that was taking her soul away.

Her beautiful hair was moving
By the speeding wind that was blowing
Sometimes it shined her face
She wheezed as it swiftly moved thru
And sometimes it covered her face.

She, unaware about me there
Fearing if someone saw me near
She pleaded me with gesture to regress
And jumped on her feet
And staggered while descending the stairs.

And I saw sweat on my face
I really got drained in the hot sunrays
And I moved down the road, O! It was my fate,
A phone booth came to my rescue
I rang her-up and called her for a date.

She was looking beautiful that day
Her dress brightened the bright day
She bestowed her hands and shoved
In to my arms and whispered a song
In my ears as in the boat we rowed.

A place of pride

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Your grace indubitable
None can persist but you,
I glean that I glare,
When I amble in gloomy,
Gloaming hour, that glorious
Glory of Yours, the paradise
That I never’ve been to,
Praise I thousand times now
To your grace that’s kept unknown.

This abode I’ve to leave
When ye angels detract my soul,
Keep a place to dwell in Ye empyrean.

Ye people work denies,
Though being disloyal to ye grace
Assures them self of pride place.
I drop a tear, for those Godless,
And goners and I emote asking
You to bless them by Ye grace.
That glitter they run behind,
Glut their prey, and leaves nothing
To whom’ve surrounded skies gray.
But I live with what Godsend,
With that little I comfort my sense.
To Ye govern’ I’ll be a servant,
I’ll prod myself till my last,
Prosper in a Godly way, and
Not let go in vain, my perspire.

I’ll endure though you
Insatiate my desires,
Abide I’ll but never complain,
Adopt in my walks of life,
Sincerity, brotherhood, keeps away
Form sins, and harm none Ye laws.
Endeavor till I get to the mark,
But endue me Ye guidance,
Treat me with lenity, and
Give me also a place of pride.

Journey of Life

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Always I travel by the same way,
Up and down, or take the parallel one
Which is a residential place.
To the net expecting a friends mail,
Or hoping that my poems appear
On the page; the site which I browse.
As I walk towards or back
Bounded by a line, perhaps my limits
Are indicated by the lose gravel.
Many things I notice on my way
Some are happy – insensible to hurdles
Some with obscure eyes sketching their life.
I’m too a walker, expecting good news that it
Is yet to come or never’ll pass on my way.

Nowt but words

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Red flowers all over, dancing
Spritely when on them I shower.
Wish I could pluck one of them,
Or gift a nosegay to my darling.

While in the drab morn
The fog restrains the sun,
There an avis sing and ring
Thru the breeze that swiftly spin.

Cathy are those days we had
But much belated to forget.
All’s right but still I moan,
Besets the test that’s put on.

Fierce my eyes to see you again,
Here overset and haggard in pain.
There’s nowt I bring, but
A few words that’ll make you prink.

Something at once strikes a cord,
O’ the day has come at last,
Sorrows will go apart, if you
Do accept a special Valentine’s card.

A Portrait, A Poem

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

A lifeless picture in my eyes
Grey eyes with that perfect smile,
The ringlets hanging over her shoulders,
He depicts his vain hope thru’ open arms.
Love made him paint artist
As it made me a poet artist.
No how the picture differs to the girl
She was precious than any pearl, in the
Poem ‘The Unsung’, I described her unutterably
Now I can’t represent her too favorably.

When you see me again

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

You may see me when I’m
On the peak of my destination.
People may surround me
I would sign over autographs.

There may be publicity
About a dark horse.
I would reach to the heights
People may talk about my fame.

If fortunately we come across
I may see you with anticipation
You may recognize and realize
The loss or may not even bother to.

The poet insatiate…

a poem by Mohamed Shuaib

Nowt to do nonce, here I
Lie on bed soul-searching.
A night to spend outside the house
Jus’ to feel the pain of homelessness.
But a fear triggers my mind
If it be my case as such.
Praying God a number of times
Show me not that doleful night.

Avaricious of having much wealth
Despite thinking what’s its worth.
Or givingness to the poorest of the poor,
To find a home in this place called earth.
Like to play a part wherein
I’m the master and too many slaves.
Or a role to play in politics
Weal be the motto but not greed.

Like to go all around the globe,
Or die here in like a soldier.
Or a servant of a govt. house,
What I earn in it be autarky.
Indite all that I utter, or gain
A place what’s called poet laureate.
Too many desires thus conflict inside,
But hitherto I could’ve covered chapters.