Spurting, seam-bursting sorrow

 

The night sky looks so close

and so big

from the top of this mountain,

I peer into it

and read the

voluminous story of betrayal

written with splashy font

in her twinkling eyes.

Freedom Vs Imprisonment

 

A part of me

lost touch with life,

A door was shut

upon a little alley of life,

Then I was blind to

that aspect of life

which the little alley carried

in its journey to the main street.

But whenever a door opens,

a part of your soul comes out

to mix with

a lovely piece of art, architecture,

pattern, design,--

man-made or

self-evolved

on the canvas of nature.

The hunted hunter

 

We are less human

than we think

in our need of love,

We are nearer to raw,

animalistic aspect of nature

as we go hunting our own needs,

which we present as

the selfless bouquet of love.

During our hunt

we carry oldest, pristine fears

and like little animals

we seek safety

in the cave of love.

Nature

 

Once the mind-noise stops,

it opens a door

to the deep melody of soul,--

Nature which is the sum of

all the lesser sums.

Vagrant virtues

 

Her smile

spreading into the sad air;

her laughter

a ripple in still waters;

her words

an assurance in chaos;

her touch

bringing life to a heart

that had turned rock.

 

A sad, soft and beautiful touch.

 

A succulent transparency in her whisper

bringing light into sorrow-swept eyes;

repairing a leaking heart,--

a check dam on the stream of pain.

 

Her soft but alert presence

filling the unfillable restless void.

 

Washed with her memory

here I stand

happy and sad

with all that is

good and bad.

 

Moment to moment magnificence

 

The moment is frozen

but it breathes,

Slowly its stillness moves

and gently leaks into air,

The eerie stalemate is broken.

Reality is just a

series of such moments,

Just like cinematography,--

a moving picture;

just snapshots of perception.

Gratitude

 

How lucky I’m

even to stand amid my supposed

heap of miseries—on land,

It’s a treasure because tight now

someone is drowning—in water;

looking for a toehold

of land—dear earth,

It would be his treasure

just to stand on a garbage dump.

 

I might find this day drab and boring,

while someone would give all his wealth

to get another drab-most, boring-most day

—just a day.

 

How lucky I’m to live, breathe,

see, walk, touch, taste, feel,

while so many lose

their privilege to even these.

 

How lucky to have a home,

while so many go hunting

for a filthy corner

and put a plank, board, metal sheet,

lie under it

and call it home.

 

The clothes I wear,

the food I eat,

the people who love, care and smile at me;

even those who hate me

because they know me at least,

There are scores of those

who don’t have any of these.

 

I’m rich and lucky in being alive,

I hold a treasure,

What makes me see it?

It’s just ‘plain old’ gratitude,

The moment I lose it,

I lose everything,

Then I’m just a cribbing,

miserable, poor, suffering victim.

 

So my gratitude is my key

to the infinite luxury

and treasure I hold.