Poems &
Poetry
Explore a collection of poems by Nathan Pratyksh Khanna, where imagination and storytelling come to life through verse. Discover poetic tales, vivid landscapes, and characters born from creativity.
Leash Me Not – The Lilian Philosophy
In Inwood’s leafy parliament,Where mutts convene and time is bent,There reigns a pup of noble pose —Miss Lilian, with muddy toes. A mix of
The Mayhem Duo: Different Tails, United Trails
Leroy’s a legend with silky strut,Tail like a fan and zero rut.He’s bigger than Callie, but not by much—Just enough to say, “Yeah, I
Carried by Blu
She moves like morning on the grass,A streak of grace you watch go past.The world around her seems to slow,As if it waits for
Ballad of the Bullet Train Pup
She’s young and wild, a furry spark,The queen of chase at Inwood Park.With legs like springs and eyes that gleam,She’s every squirrel’s flying-dog dream.
They Call Me Fritz!
In Inwood’s shade I softly tread,A crown of dreams upon my head.A tiny frame, a noble grace,A sleepy smile upon my face. They say
The Low-Riding Bark Brigade
At the edge of the marsh where the river wind sings,Two little Corgis do marvelous things.Cody, the brown one, bold with his disc,Chases the
The Mailbox That Forgot My Name
There was a time I wore the crown,In mirrored halls of polished brown.Where doors would part with silent grace,And all I met knew well
Where the Morning Knows My Name
Some mornings bloom in softened light,With petals spun in pink and white,And park paths hum a quiet tune,Beneath the gaze of waking moon. The
Visions from the Realm of History
The forest doesn’t speak in words,It hums through leaves and wings of birds.A rhythm old, a breathing grace,Time folded in this sacred place. Each
Mystic Trails and Morning Tales: Echoes of a Poet’s Walk
Go-slo, morn-flow, dawn’s sweet chime,I rise, rinse the night from my skin, step in time.Sun-glow, path-go, the day’s bright start,I skip to Inwood with
This Too Shall Pass: Through Streets of Glass and Hope
I woke to a world that had lost its stars,Neon suns hummed where lanterns once sparked.The wind, a cruel whisper from centuries past,Like the
The Solitary Song of the Woods
At dawn, I part with my little one’s smile,A fleeting warmth that lingers awhile.Through city streets, I tread alone,To where the river sings in
The Man in the Neon Cage
He walks the streets, his head held low,A shadow where the neon glows.The watchers wait, the lines are drawn,One wrong step, and he is
The Colt, Colt, and Boulevard of Ire
Beneath the blood-red evening sky,In 1809, where shadows lie,A lone rider forged of grit and flame,A specter known but without a name. His Colt