(After -- Sonnets from Idea's Mirror by Michael Drayton)

(After --  Sonnets from Idea's Mirror by Michael Drayton)

I sit to write my verse or sonnet or free haiku,

It flows as the seeds as with sweeping toll;

let not my critic censure  me with stern comments

as  that of my taskmaster or GOD the supreme ruler;

or tap my flow with grace and savored taste;

my papers stay   as usual with a nonchalant look,

yet, I am not susceptible to any criticism

or swayed by any praise, my spirit stays

as Swan like in any  pond or stream;

keep printing or arranging the printed

in shelves of fragrance lest moths should

corrode, waiting  for good days or Dawn;

some earnest publisher will knock at my door

luring me with prospects of  good catch.

My love, bosom love reigning always                  

in heart, not craving for costly attire

yet to be dressed in elegant and tidy.

All thoughts, creative ideas proceed

Swelled not with pride, but with attire

 of  humbled wisdom passed on from

generations of tutored culture.    

My Muse waits there for more

To be tuned in writing.