Though your enemy, I am sweet,
Without poetic seed there won't be prose. The entire network of branches, twigs, flowers, fruits and leaves is nothing but a commentary on the small poetic seed. So all ye wannabe writers, nurture the poet in you, who understands the value of pause in life, who moves slowly to watch everything, sight and smell everything. Brushstrokes of poetry softly touch the soul without disrupting its restful muse and bring out nuggets of love, compassion, harmony and peace. All content © Sandeep Dahiya
Parental love loops around with a new ray
on an early winter day,
The mighty lord whispers in a soft voice,
‘My son grow thou strongest in spirit
and sire chances for those without any choice!’
Holding a dream in my fist,
Staring at the misty past
and forcing myself not to see the future
eager to unfold itself too fast,
I wave at the nostalgic strains
still beckoning and faintly alive,
How I wish I could dive
back into the pools of the past,
To have my moments last
at a place that held me in its cradle soft,
That pious embrace which still holds me aloft!
A few night-blossoming jasmine flowers muse:
Dewy fun under nightly sun
Swathed in the cool shades of a dewy night,
We stand brave with smiles and innocent delight,
When all sleep,
we hold the beacon of love and light,
The moon is our sun,
When you will get up in the morning,
you can't imagine how much was the nightly fun!
Be the seat of my strength, not weakness.
Be the seat of kindness, not cruelty.
Be the source of light, not darkness.
Be the source of energy, not idleness.
Be the source of creativity, not limited vision.
Be the source of love, not hate.
Be the source of smiles, not tears.
Be the source of happiness, not suffering.
Be the seat of optimism, not pessimism.
Be the seat of gain, not loss.
Be the source of help, not obstruction.
Be the seat of leadership, not just sleepwalk.
Be the seat of a better human being.
Be the source of a more loving person.
O my mind, my seat of potential,
take my journey further.
Please choose the better half
of all the dualities for me.
Forget about the hoot and holler
emanating from the world outside,
And give an ear to the soft and murmurous
cooings emanating from the soul,
It has a soft and sympathetic
message for you only,--
your most personal message,
meant only for you,
Listen to these delicate chimes,
It’ll help you in finding peace in chaos,
In getting a foothold in the stampede,
In feeling rest, repose and respite
against constant buffeting by the world around,
It’ll help you in breaking
the hardest of superficial layers,
which suffocate and limit your identity,
And put you face to face with
your true self, your real worth,
Listen to it, close your eyes,
And pay attention with all your heart,
Just for a change,
don’t look far, look closest at yourself,
It’ll be as uneventful as looking
at a dust particle around your feet,
But it changes the universe for you,
You will have the biggest message
in the softest of whispering phrases,
And it’ll help you in finding yourself.
I am the moth
and I love my flame!
My fire!
But I feel the burning core of
the glow around which
I helplessly circle around!
I know that I cannot stop
the fire from burning,
So I throw myself in a fiery pit
to forget my dear flame's burning plight!
I throw myself in a bigger fire
so that I forget myself
and my flame's cries!
Too far and deep,
I have gone into the pit of gloom,
And lost in the cavernous folds
of the impending doom,
Even the brightest big suns
now appear too far,
Faint stars these now
that just flash their feebly inspiring rays,
The feeble raylets reaching me
cannot take out the ship caught in treacherous bays,
I know the futility of the beckoning light,
Even in its brightest folds outside,
hope was always out of sight,
Now I go deep into my night,
With nobody as a witness to my plight,
All cherished dreams out of sight,
A wingless bird that tried to fly
but then crashed from its struggled height,
Now I just silently walk
into the dark hold of my night,
Alone
and forlorn,
The echo of my soft moan,
carrying me into hitherto unreachable zone.
The story told by the soul to its own corpse:
Once I flew and frolicked high,
Now the flesh and blood gone dry,
The real me withdrew with a painful sigh,
They say, 'I was destined to die,'
It's but the biggest lie!