My Father Poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma

My father was a born teacher;
He shaped scores of future,
By teaching his best to dusty feature.

My father was a born orator;
He could mesmerize full class room learner,
Of rude and rusty stuff, but without teacher.

Teaching to him was a prayer,
At home prepared hard he, would utter;
Greatly pleased to see pupil enjoy in butter.

Each word and sentence,
He spoke, aimed over and over, with credence;
For his pupil, his presence lead to confidence.

My father stayed close,
At Khurja with worthy acceptance,
A teacher, a preacher, a man and an Indian resilience.

Shakespeare, Vivekananda were his chase,
Deeply liked them for their stuff and promise,
Overwhelmed to see free and innocent teenage applause.

Each night back at home with views;
My father was in love with national news,
While the radio fought its battles with China and Pakis.

He never liked to leave dues,
Always a happy pal of social lives,
Helped and guided the tired out of dark chimes.

Words he spoke were softies,
Never chase any quota or favor routes,
His heart melted for merit weak, always.

The entire city,
School, shrines, precinct, with all vanity;
All section of populace branded with my father's charity.

One sad wintry and foggy day,
His heart pained to force him fly,
His towering figure collapsed, left him breathless and dry.

Cried all and one on his itinerary,
He was not for life's tolls, tricky and greedy;
His message was love, honest care and speedy.