Storyline: It’s Swimming, the lord’s watery adage, It’s Swimming, the goddess’s heavenly adage.
Teacher’s, a tool of wisdom,
Time’s antonym to boredom,
Precious, egg head, clerkly,
Priceless, gallant, deity.
Every nation, and continent,
Possess in ‘em, souls who’re pertinent,
Of traditions and customs, a sumption?
Of Race, religion, languages, an assumption?
Courtesy: Dontgiveupworld.com
On many a dais, with a clear eye,
Went I to listen, Bis-in-die,
To sages, saints and philosophers,
As a boy, but not as gongoozlers.
Fortunate are those who heard,
Those eternal preachings in a herd,
Afraid am I at the sight of modern-day ethics,
Receding and denigrating in thoughts like maledicts?
Of highbrows and scholars, I admired,
There’s one who made me flattered,
Father time’s crimsoning psithurism,
Howitzering animosities above onism.
Ages and Times flew past by;
Imbibing into me, stoic patience to a sigh,
Pausing at times, to wielding the cane,
Rejoicing, too, at failure’s vane.
Courtesy: pinterest
Of all I’ve, since my birth known,
My teacher’s the one this earth borne,
Adjective to adroitness,
Adverb to pragmatic finesse,
Running parallel to consistency,
Standing tall to efficiency.
It’s Swimming, the lord’s watery adage,
It’s Swimming, the goddess’s heavenly adage.
When I, fair to middle thought,
Of ending life’s drain and drought,
With flagrant sanity,
Dearth of decent dignity,
Eyed me, deeds of Lochte and Phelps,
To leave any underdrawin’ in leaps.
Swimming’s my soul, a picturesque doodle,
Swimming’s my life, antonym to footle.
Courtesy: swimmingworld.com
Swimming’s a perfect riposte to my cynics,
For I in water race to defy, and ravage my critics.
Phelps and Lochte are to me, men-at-arms in lots,
Dreamy solicitations to my indescribable afterthoughts.
I will, till my last breath, embosom,
Shabby remains of defeat, dearth of blossom.
I will, till my last breath, embosom,
The success’ jollity with revered fulsome.
© Ravi T Mandapaka
