This is what happens when you get a poet angry

I know that I am not the one who really writes the poem
I feel something compels me to write
I can’t move my fingers faster than it wants
Yet I write!

Someone told me that I would be a better graphologist than a poet
I didn’t know what to say
I don’t write stories or poetries to please anyone
I simply write.

The types and styles of poem don’t affect me
Meters and rhymes won’t break my spirit
Without worry for fame or fortune



Lets come together and write about compassion, said Ms Spence,
I took it up, told you I would and kept you in suspense.
I decided to write my personal thoughts on compassion
Hope they make you think and you make it into an action.
I try not to yell at my sister when she does something wrong
Or talk back to my aunt when she still scolds me for long
My dad forgets to close the tap sometimes,
I listen to my mom complain about it and all his other crimes

I don’t get bothered over the angry drivers,
the long checkout lines or rude neighbours
Or over the baby who cries in the flight,
I go try to pacify it so her mom knows that its alright

I try to help my husband when he gets late for work
and also tolerate his antics and all other quirks.
I share my smile with all and pray for the people on the road
I sometimes help friends take down their load.

Here is how I try to practice compassion, everywhere I go
I try to be patient with every sister and bro.
Care and tenderness is all it will take
Imagine what a beautiful world it will make.

It would be a lie to tell you that in anger I don’t shout
or crib or cry or even pout
I understand that these are parts of me that need healing
but I don’t let it get in the way of  compassionate, me being

It is not always easy, and a saint I am not
I have learnt from my mistakes and thankful to the teachers who have taught.
I try to remember the most important person of all
Yours truly needs a little compassion too, she is a human who is still learning after every fall.

Though love is what everything boils down in the end
Try it, its not difficult, my friend.
Don’t give up when times look bad again
We are all learning together, share your experience to help me strengthen


I shifted to Willimantic at the end of fall,
The fire on the trees had me in enthral.

The yellow leaves dazzled in the sun as I drove in the car,
The elegant houses seemed to bask in the glow and beckon me from far.

The cold weather for an Indian was a little too much
Until I saw the real cold and its frigid touch.

The history of the town built by threads is interesting
The story with the frogs is very intriguing.

I find the people open, loving and so helpful
It is a nice place to live as it is beautiful.

I am still new here and have much to see.
I look forward to the street fest and a part of it be.

The town has it all,  museum and theatre
With so much to do, the days have gone in blur.


This poem is for an upcoming series of poems by Silver Birch Press. The theme is to talk about where we live. I was thinking about writing about my experience here since a long time and, I got my chance. Please share your views on it. I hope it gets published 🙂