The Race -by D.H Groberg

The Race 
by D. H. Groberg

Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure’s face, 
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.

A children’s race, young boys, young men; how I remember well, 
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race 
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.

Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son, 
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire, 
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy’s desire.

One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd, 
was running in the lead and thought “My dad will be so proud.”

But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip, 
the little boy who thought he’d win, lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace, 
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.

As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn’t win it now. 
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.

But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face, 
which to the boy so clearly said, “Get up and win that race!”

He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all, 
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win, 
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.

He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace. 
“I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.”

But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face 
with a steady look that said again, “Get up and win that race!”

So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last. 
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to run real fast!”

Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten…
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.

Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye. 
“There’s no sense running anymore! Three strikes I’m out! Why try? 

I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought. “I’ll live with my disgrace.” 
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he’d have to face.

“Get up,” an echo sounded low, “you haven’t lost at all, 
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

Get up!” the echo urged him on, “Get up and take your place! 
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!”

So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit, 
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit.

So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been, 
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.

Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he rose again. 
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place, 
head high and proud and happy — no falling, no disgrace.

But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place, 
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud, 
you would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.

And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.” 
“To me, you won,” his father said. “You rose each time you fell.”

And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face, 
the memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.

For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all. 
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face, 
another voice within me says, “Get up and win that race!”


-This is a nice poem I found on the net. Hope you liked it.


Terrorist Brother

(after the Saturday attacks on 14 September that killed some 20 people in my city Delhi)

after the  Nov 27 attacks that killed 101 people in Bombay, Mumbai


O Terrorists, So near and yet So far.

Distracting us with explosions that jar.

Are you a man, or Are you a su-ar.


Sending emails before the bombs go,

Do you think this is some movie show.

Your bombs kill Muslims and Hindus today,

Unlike you, they dont stray.


Whats our fault, that we went to the park that day,

to rest for a while, our children to play.

Our government sucks, we couldnt agree more,

But have you tried some other method before.


We would have joined you, Saying 

This government is a clown.

Tell me, brother terrorist,

Why so serious , Why the frown.

Dont bomb this website,

Its bombed thrice enough,

Thanks to servers,

Which cant keep up.



Try and think, you 

were once a boy.

Loved ones you had,

I am sorry if they went away.


Its not our fault, 

Try to hate the government 

with out hating each other.

Else we are just pawns on eaither side

My terrorist brother.


As Gandhi said, he was an old man

Long Ago.

An eye for an eye will leave

A world of blind for sure.


Terrorist brother ,time to wake up 

Smell the Coffee.

It may smell like victory today,

but no lunches are free.


As the Book said,and it is true

Those who live by the sword.

Will die by it too.


Death will reach you,

Reach your door.

No matter how high you be,

No matter how brave you were before.


In those last dying moments,

Terrorist brother, you may dream of the Angel to come.

there are no hoories in hell,

and no glories in a death dumb.