Showing posts from March, 2018

The Busy Orchard

In a far land where thoughts are woven with clouds in the sky. Where the nature of minds grew like a paradise. It wasn't the beauty made when some magic hand was laid. It was an orchard knitted out of countless failures and tries.
Ponds and lakes by rains were made. And shaggy trees stood in the soothing soil. And when the night falls and the twilight fades. Along with stars, the moths lit up their tails.
The bees and bugs and butterflies. The frogs and fishes and quacking ducks. The cotton clouds hide the birds that fly. And the wind ruffled the grass, there, the music lies.
Amongst this cherished land of life. The little Wasp wanders lost out of time. Down and up and right and left. He wonders- what can be the purpose of mine?
The whole orchard all too busy to see. What the little Wasp all day has to feel. All the things this beauty can turn from sadness to glee. But the black Wasp as he was, blue he always is.

The Voyage

A ship of flesh and bones caught up in a storm and time comes in waves high and low. This voyage is strange it twirls and turns but never stops, never backs, forth it only goes. With the wind or against the wind, it listens not to your will, it is on its own. On whose command? On whose plea? Hidden where is its key? None has ever known. Row, row wherever you might, pray away faith as you like, the needles point the same. Some drown, some lost, some sail till the end, at last, we meet from where we once began. The same old land, same old void in distant time and space, all aboard, we sail again!

What shall I speak?

What shall I speak when I speak of her? The red red rose is taken. Daisies are all chosen. For lilacs, someone has spoken.

What shall I write when I write about her? All the books have been written. All romances have been smitten. Hitherto hearts have pounded and broken.

What shall I sing when I sing about her? Every note and scales are played. All pitches high and low attained. Words have rhymed and all is explained.

Shall I address the moon and the stars? Describe her in their context? Make her my work of art, And muse like thousands rest?

Shall I scream or dance or paint her pictures? Damn the artists have left- No stones unturned nor neglected! If I do it then is it not theft?

Another day, another poet, another poem for her! Nothing to say that is not yet said, Or to make what is not yet made. One by one another wall of verses I create.

A Poet I must say my bit for the matter at hand- That all the joy that comes and also the pain, Every day that comes with warmth, cold or rain, It seems to worth more than i…