Delicious flavor of freedom
lingering in her eyes,
The only way to taste it
was
through her lips,
Loving warmth tingled
in her body,
Giving a feeling of vast space
in her intense embrace.
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
Delicious flavor of freedom
lingering in her eyes,
The only way to taste it
was
through her lips,
Loving warmth tingled
in her body,
Giving a feeling of vast space
in her intense embrace.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.