My neice Shreya on the right

This is photo taken in Dunlap Peoria USA somewhere in August 2013 at play home PALS. To the left is the class mate of my neice  GRACE

MY SCHOOL

Not far from my home,
on taking a little roam,
a vast stretch of land,
with buildings well planned.

My mother crossed the rail and road,
to get me and my brother  on time aboard,
many a time she brought us lunch,
finding us in a some student's bunch.

Oh let there be thanks to heavens above,
that thrust me into this schools love,
as i yelled and rejoiced in its precincts,
over a long decade's stint.

There was laughter, there was pain,
there was running, there was game,
there were classes and exam,
and playing in the farm.

At times I stood at the school's gate,
wondering why my father was late,
somwhere beyond seeing his trace,
bounty of joy lights  up my face.

Some wandering saint put up this place,
long before I was born,
an edifice of inner grace,
never making one feel forlorn.

There was'nt academic pressure,
of learning there was treasure,
they taught us principles of life,
to avoid future strife.

Counsel was regular, not to drink or smoke,
they said it could lead to stroke,
they taught us temperance,
which we followed ever since and hence.

Then I have seen many a school,
they go by the law and rule.
terror in the face of the child,
all behave with him wild.

Then I have seen many a school,
crampled room and stair,
pushed around like a mule,
with very little care.

There was a meery go round in the corner,
a large farm yonder,
rock solid buildings in the crux,
and many a tree in the flux.

Sometimes in an awry mood;
I take a stroll through the school for good,
flashes  of lightning of days bygone,
fill my mood like an old ballad or song.

As I ride on the road beside,
inadvertently take a look inside,
my hands bow with reverence,
for education received within its fence.

Twenty hundred students at that time,
all dressed in uniform,
multitude of young humanity,
at any time you could see.

There was a downwell in the farm,
beside an old jumblem tree,
farm and sprinklers beside,
with a grove of oaks aside.

Why doth I write of my school long bygone,
for most have gone to one such place,
but as i look at Lowry Memorial School with hindsight,
feelings galore that they did things right,
nay, with students they weren't partisan,
crafting minds with skill of an artisan,
appreciate the larger context in life they said,
at the same time needing to be well read,
never miss the spirit of joy,
when one is a little boy.
from that spirit comes a larger verve,
to face life with every nerve,
hidden deep is a sullen faith,
into which i often bathe.
and uprise every now and then.
as this world tosses me as a writing pen.
emerging with a stronger face,
some lingering skill handed down by this place.