Love loops
around on an early winter day,
In the
heart, endless things to say,
Shines a
gently warm, bright ray,
Before the
icy winters shout, and chuck it all out,
Enjoy and
make hay!
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
Love loops
around on an early winter day,
In the
heart, endless things to say,
Shines a
gently warm, bright ray,
Before the
icy winters shout, and chuck it all out,
Enjoy and
make hay!
Fragrance scented and colours prismatic,
Flowers seduce with surrendering softness
and intoxicating aesthetics,
This alluring, sweet poison slays many,
Parasitically it creeps into
the hibernating, sleepy male vitality,
And the red, gushing blood of sense and sanity
turns into silly swirls of bluish oblivion.
Foolish torrents of bewitching beauty follow,--
A marvellous decolourisation of
flesh, vision and potency!
The woman does the same with the man,--
Her moves lie under the surface,
Letting loose amorous tremors,
The tamed beast clinging to feeble, unmanly chains:
the emotions, cooings and the mellowed stone,
Then she slaughters the prey most manly,
Bravo! Salutes to the femininity:
the hardest heart under the shield softest.
Weakness has its strength in vulnerability,
Don’t mistake power by the steel in muscles,
Soft flowers and seductive women
thrive on the dew shower of temptations,
Eyes thirsty, pining senses;--
The altars of the insected, infatuated masculinity,
More the offerings on the altar,
more the Goddess thrives,
So many wither to bloom a smile
in her sly eyes.
But her demands from the worshipper
are never satiated,--
Greedy Goddess!
She thus hunts around,
But greed can never make one complete,
So she just remains a fraction,
Men cut themselves to the same
to complete her missing portion,
The happy Goddess then
laughs at the follies of the maimed.
Black bee, man sacrifice to
prove the worth of an ounce of femininity,
Rivers eat mountains, while the stones
surrender to the fluidity of the majestic masseur,
The woman meanders to fragment the man,
Making round, harmless, cuddly pebbles.
As the feminine dreams web around,
The ensnared caterpillar hums the songs of love,
The spider salivates and chuckles,
The trap of seduction,
The cobwebs of death,
The river thus triumphantly
rolls on with mighty boulders,
The song of macabre swirling
among the torrential giggle and frightening moan.
Femininity wins through its weakness,
The flowers smile and bloom on showers of tears,
The woman makes the man a means to her end,
Travels on his strong back
to reach her destination
and find the purpose of her life.
Oof that soul entombed in misery!
The ragamuffin, the beggar,
Great potter’s potsherd he was,
Those decaying, yellow teeth
splashed and sprayed this world
with misery and incurable jaundice.
His trifle weight could outweigh
the fattest people in the street,
And eyes ever so colourless
could gobble down springs all.
The ears like the deepest gorges,
could accommodate a billion sympathies
and countless words soft,
The tongue would talk to millions,
if the opportunity arose,
Alas, the milling humanity around
pretended not to be visible at all,
People scampered past with the
careful eyes of a cautious thief;--
saving both their conscience and money.
His emotions lay buried deep
in his famished breast,
This was his treasure trove,
He kept it safe,
Afraid to take them out,
lest they slaughter these as well,
His bleeding heart would have
painted this planet in gloomy red.
A dog, cat poop, wrappers, dust, snoot, phlegm,
And he just another addition to these,
Almost indiscernible in his insect kingdom,--
Dusting, rottening, petty and cast-out.
The accusing emptiness,
And the hallowed universe around,
Holding his mocking lighthouse,
Throwing feeble, exposing light over the
fallacies lolloping under the abounding waves
of the booming sea of hilarity and well-being.
My story is strange,
To understand it, you need less brains
and more open of a heart,
I was a coin with lots of shine,
Then I passed through hundreds of hands
one after the other,--
The moulding darkness gave me fearful creep,
And I was lying at the top of the mint’s heap,
Somehow I was given to a young guy,
Who tossed me in air and made me fly,
Then I was given to an old lady,
She kept in a place that was very shady,
I noticed I had lost my shine,
And I didn't look young and fine.
That is because I had grown old,
Now, I know my life's story is told,
There are endless scars
and imprints on my soul.
I have lost my value in my own esteem,
But they
still haggle over me sometime.
It has been months since
I last lit my faith's lamp,
So many days have passed since
prayers chimed in my dark den's air
damp,
My meditating self,
Now gives atheistic yelp.
Lost my faith!
Lost my prayer!
Lost my rituals!
Lost my meditative trance!
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 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 soulful
embrace which still holds me aloft!
Flower you were always beautiful!
Those balmy days blossomed your
wonderful petals.
Then the weather changed,
Stormy winds, furious storms
took sadistic bites at your soft
petals.
Bleeding flower,
You but kept your smile,
Nature’s fury lashed you,
Biting winds lynched you,
Like a sinful rapist they groped
you,
You but smiled forgivingly.
Now the sinner stands
robbed of its fury,
And you smile more beautiful than
ever.
Love, beauty and harmony prevail,
Hate, anger
and lust always fail.