It seeks disposable scraps of paper,
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
Friday, September 29, 2023
Shy, scared verses
It seeks disposable scraps of paper,
Monday, September 25, 2023
New
Tuesday, September 19, 2023
Broken toy
You broke me beyond repair,
each piece lying scattered in despair,
You, a child playing with a toy,
full of joy,
Then on a childish whim
suddenly went for the bud's beheading trim,
Giving it sorrows full to the brim,
Kicked it away
and moved with swagger and sway,
To make a fresh heart’s hay,
Away, away!
Here the broken toy lies,
Its each broken part separately dies,
Multiple deaths these are,
While you play again far, far,
With another toy,
With marvellous ease and joy,
While the broken toys aren't fit for love again,
Catch they no child's fancy chain,
They just keep the memories and the past
through sad nostalgic blast
lynching their broken parts,
Gain some unprofitable arts,
And then crumble
with silent rumble
and die finally with a sigh
and a sadly smiling bye
to the child far away
playing with full heart's sway
with another toy,
All joy, all joy!
Sunday, September 17, 2023
Moving on
Anger should mellow down a bit,
and melt later to turn sorrow,
then change into forgiveness,
followed by acceptance.
And maybe then dear friends
we can afford a gentle smile,
And welcome a new day;
anchor the bruised self in a safe bay,
And remember the past with a painless nostalgia,
And move on.
Journeyman, that's how we ought to
proceed on our path.
A higher dose of love
There I walk in a little hill forest,
A sad heart broken beyond repair,
Broken dreams and soul in despair,
Everything seems just a futile glimpse of shifting mists,
Big questions stare in my face,
is it light embracing darkness?
Or darkness welcoming light?
Loss, longing and love
brewing a mist in the morning forest,
I walk on a lone path,
Then the sunrays streak in,
Everything turns into love,
Loss and longing glide away with misty vapours,
Love is nothing but all the lesser emotions sublimated fully.
Saturday, September 16, 2023
Ode to silence
Each word is incomplete,
just an abstract, broken fragment born of
thoughts arising in the mind.
And the mind itself a grainy fragment
of the overall consciousness,
Words are mere grains of sand,
With sandgrains we try to make castles,
huge castles that we cast in pursuance
of the ever-missing meaning of life,
And then the sand slips,
we go for awkward flips.
Words are mere broken arrows,
How will one even win a battle with broken arrows?
Words are mere sparks,
temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence,
They just give a little flash of light around our feet
as we grope in the darkness,
seeking a way out of our puzzles.
Words are mere temporary twinklings
on the vast canvas of silence,
They themselves tell their story of incompleteness,
their own meaninglessness
behind all the meanings ascribed to them,
And the moment we listen to their story,
we arrive at the moral of the final story,--
The moral of their story is silence;
Silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening.
As I write this,
huge rumblings of megh naad,
the rumblings of clouds,
buzz across my head:
A booming cosmic storm
that chucks out the outer shell of words,
crushes the stones to spread the sand
to go flying with the winds,
The words getting sucked into
a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy,
And beyond that silence, stillness and emptiness.
September
Rains and more rains,
Mold in the pickle jar,
White coral mushroom on the rotting plank,
Potatoes with spikey sprouts,
Baby frogs everywhere,
Lots of nests in the trees and plants,
The sky laden with flying insects,
Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads,
Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers,
The air with a musty smell,
The railings more rusty,
The sky just a cloudy canvas,
Hot teas and spicy pakoras,
Smiles,
Gossips,
Love and loss in the season of moss,
Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in
and take a shelter in the autumnal camp,
Well, it has been too damp,
Welcome now the sunny lamp.