Poems

A mould of clay or a child of man?

Image source: Google Images

A dash of black and a tinge of red,

Some sun and,water to cradle my bed,

And air singing lullabies in my ears,

Helping me brave the force and tears,

This is how my existence came to be,

Some people still consider it a mystery.

I was then kneaded and kneaded,

All of my irregularities were weeded,

Sometimes with love I was pampered,

Some days with strictness, hampered,

In a trice, time for preparation passed,

For a new journey, I was amassed.

The wheel of life was amply greased,

Man was to shape me as he pleased,

A steering pain in the middle,

Laid my foundation, as fit as a fiddle,

His fingers then shaped my being,

Seasoned fingers and mind far-seeing.

His internal support guided all along,

External strictness added to my song,

Of I facing hardships with grace,

Struggling at each step of every face,

I gained or lost while he tried,

To succeed, he yearned for and cried.

I began as an elegant earthen lamp,

A crack separated me from my clamp,

Nevertheless he started again,

With new ideas in his brain den,

A vase this time’d be, he thought,

Again he failed, but never distraught.

An exhuberant pen stand for sure,

This time, that could be painted azure,

There still remained a tiny flaw,

And I still wasn’t worthy of awe,

Too much water had made me sloppy,

The sea of success was still choppy.

Victory would be manifested this time,

Finally I thought, I’d get to shine,

However, I was still mistaken,

My over confidence was brazen,

Too much dryness made me cracked,

I thought it was time to up the act.

He was still undefeated though,

Trying to sail us proudly, through,

I thought we would fail utterly,

I’d again be a mould of clay, dejectedly,

Again began the circle of moulding,

Only his spirit was of upholding.

A tiny pot slowly started taking shape,

A new ray of hope started to bake,

There wasn’t much dryness or water,

Nor cracks to add to my slaughter,

The pot kept growing better, bigger,

It started turning into a craftful figure.

The pot had foundation of the lamp,

The neck of the vase; a champ,

Designs of the pen stand too,

Added to my uniqueness too,

My present form encompassed past,

Surviving phases I thought I won’t last.

Innate piece of Earth altered into art,

Due to his dexterous skill and smart,

I lost hope but he kept going on,

Turning each failure into a new dawn,

Gaining new identities round the span,

Am I a mould of clay or child of man?

©Bhagyashree 2022. All rights reserved.

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Until the next time,

Cheers!

8 thoughts on “A mould of clay or a child of man?”

  1. The efficient cause bringing about the material change towards perfection and excellence. The indeterminate lump obtaining one of its infinite actualities. I see young Bhagyashree in the process of realising her potential successively and incessantly so very well.
    Great thought, great poem
    Congratulations

    Liked by 1 person

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