MIRAGE

How possessed the show of life floats away!

Self-absorbed and self-satiating eyes

perpetually ogling at that last ray,

Shines which with trayful of exceptional mundanities,

delicious crumbs and specks of pleasant trivialities,--

Prize’s lesser essence exaggerated manifold,

How deceiving has’n this mirage since times untold!

The rioting mob, meanwhile, creating a stampede and storm—

Thirsty, hungry, eating and breathing sand,

Trying to outpace each other

to reach that coveted oasis land,

where the mirageful sweet speck lies

and the supposed spring of will never dries.

God created us to walk brotherly

on the lush green pastures hand-in-hand,

But we take the path lost in treacherous sand

to out-run each other,

Leaving each other dying

and lying to be buried under those sand dunes,

So much we lose and force others to lose

while running to catch those boons,

Blindly we trample orchids

to catch up with the call by those sandy sighs,

And see, so many die with sand in mouth and eyes!

See that fellow huffing and puffing like an animal

going after that ever-escaping destination,

Like an oxen sweating out the precious drops

to drain out even the last ounces of humanity

from those strained innards,--

The orchid inside suffers a drought,

Aah! How valiantly he fought,

But unfortunately always had’n taking unnecessary shot,

And then the chase became unbearably hot,

Desire’s hallucination sparkles in his eyes as the loser’s dot.

Ever pretending to kow-tow the pious injunctions,

most often we do the opposite,

How coquettishly we keep God

unaware of our motives true!

The characters outsmarting the creator’s real hue,

Betraying thus God and trampling orchards,

whose seeds He planted,

we move ahead,

Unaware the spirit is already dead,

And the title deed with the creator

torn and tattered to its last thread,

Then we go out without any dread

and tread over each other in blind race,

Spit each other in the face

to stop (or made to stop) finally at a place,

where there isn’t those presumptions’ single trace.

                                                    Phoenix

In the fire of my passion

people say I will burn my wings,

And then I will not be able to fly,

How mischievously society takes a dig sly

at those who dare to be different,

For rutted path’s stranglehold is luring,

doling out short-cuts aiming massive gains,--

The ordinary paths avoiding the penanceful pains.

Burn I’ll myself in my own fire

to ashes and ambers,

Or the inferno will bake the skill raw

To turn gold in my soul’s chambers,

Either ashes or gold—

Though the path full of miseries untold,

But even this treacherousness has exceptional charms,

Its forlorn sand is pregnant with virginal solitude,

Its uncluttered loneliness, a mine full of possibilities!

Far away from the crowd

How brilliantly shines that prospect!

The solitary walkers on this path

either die a lonely, ignominious death,

To become the unencumbered particles of its ungutted earth,

Or if somebody carries through the desert,

He arrives at an oasis of gold,

where the creative bliss takes him in charming fold.

These sufferings might turn me into ashes

or turn me into gold,

If the ash is my fate

then I should not hate

my passion’s flame,

For I turned out to be a horse lame

that lined up for the toughed race,

Or with inferno lurking on my face

I play with the fire

and make it my mistress to sire

the golden-winged off-springs;

my consummation signs with the infernal houri,

That wedding night’s taming with creative fury.

The moth is aware of fire’s fury,

Still it doesn’t hover

around a desirous flower’s utility,

With passionate ambers smoldering in its guts,

It goes for a dazzling display around fire;

Its perilous, exciting, flirtatious orbit around the glow,

And the flame laying snares for the deadly blow,

Yet with intoxicated zeal

nearer and nearer it comes to kiss and feel

that finest nectar hidden behind the fiery eyes:

The honey sweeter than any flower for which a worldly honey-bee dies.

Fuelled and fired by every ounce of its instinct

it buzzes around with ecstatic swirls,

It lives life thousand times more

than the ones lured by worldly flower’s lore,

Even its death isn’t just painful plights,

It is merely the pinnacle of its

gradually graduating love flights,

And when it meets its end that explosion of its flesh

is the acme of its fiery passion.

Likewise, I’m the helpless satellite

of the sun of my art,

Hardest I might try,

but from it I can’t part,

Its my life and source of light,

Without it everything is a blind flight

and nothing of purpose in sight,

Hovering around my inspirational sun

is the only form of my fun,

Even if it means the final

crashlanding into the fiery ball,

For the artist it is still a regally carpeted hall.------Sandeep Dahiya

Donky

I think it always (without exception) helps not to lose your temper. When you lose your temper, you not only deprive somebody’s chances for more happiness; you in fact deprive yourself of the same. So why fall in the trap of such a bad bargain. If nobody gains anything out of it (except perhaps that hypothetical and flimsy enemy of ours, called “ego”) why invest in such a loser scheme?  —Sandeep Dahiya

                                       *******

May be there is a fixed quota of suffering in the cosmic account book of karma to be doled out to the humanity. If that be the case then feel proud for bearing the heavier load from the destiny’s side, while so many others trudge ahead with unjustifiably lighter weights on their shoulders. Feel proud that God considers you as a tough guy capable of handling the issues on the wrong side of the fence. While you sweat it out with the larger issues, possibly your each and every step paves the road for some easy stroll by a frail fellow human being. Just carry on mighty guys! No use in browbeating now! You have been chosen for breaking the tough nut so that many a weak teeth can munch survival crumbs.    —Sandeep Dahiya

New Year

This foggy, cold midnight says,


The next sun will have rays

that will warmly gloat over wrong shades

bitingly, filthily draped around that beggared mass of flesh,

Tomorrow it just won't be mere trash!
**********

V salute the rising sun and upcoming fates,

And dump the rest as mere names and dates.

But this year on death bed (or in labour pain?) sighs,

'Dear, forgrt u those promises amidst these hasty byes!'
******

Far ! Far ! Somebody is in need

Far ! Far ! Somebody is in need--Let me soak miseries all
Let my tear drop

Where there is hunger and pain

And too many sandy grain

For a single drop of rain;

Where in eyes drained, hopes never prop,

Lord! Let my eyes give fullest crop!

For their slightest pain

Let my heart bloody drain

The terrain, where death grope.



Let that infant’s puzzled look,–

Due to unholy experiences first–,

Cast gloom, pain over my face

For the childhood hanged by hook,

Let me begone of my thirst!

Hold me back from life’s race.

Moral Dilemma

A tiniest of puppy was stranded on a busy road. Before it added to the sins of a fastly moving wheel, I picked it up and placed the tiny being on pavement. Driven by larger selfish cause of reaching office on time, I hastily moved ahead. But the obliged little thing was running after me as fast as it could. I just ran myself out of its reach. But while doing so I felt like doing more bad than good.


Now the dilemma arises. Is it possible to do a good deed in part? Or goodness requires the completion of a cause? Just because most of us are incapable to see through our act of beneficence to its destination, is it justified not to take that littlest of step which might keep the chances still alive for someone in need?

On Intimacy with Mysterious Moment

99. On Intimacy with Mysterious Moment




Hath I known the time

When the sleep came

Over me like the name;

Thou great mystery infinite!

With that instant to ignite,

I could light small rhyme :

First maiden to be kissed firstly,

Or, ye lightening sky briskly

To quench the thirst of yore

Eagerly awaiting first downpour.

Me doth but fail,

Like a disappointed lover hail

The start of love days :

Gaze first, first meet,—

Time caught in crazy ways,

Again but sadness beat

Its unlyrical, unrhymed tomber,

Lost is that instant

In noise huge of the bomber.