Seldom

Don’t ask me why
don’t ask me how
I wish I knew the answers
of the wonderful verse
of life, whose meanings lie
in reading, in seeking,
in belief, seldom in questioning.

The only refuge

 

History knows the game
of inventing weapons,
investing in wars, mayhem;
history doesn’t know, how
to survive without them.

Bloody fields, scarlet
with anger and lust,
yet pages speak volumes
of friendship and love.

Civilization had shown
honesty and integrity
in mindless animosities;
it had successfully failed
in all peace treaties.

I have to be hopeful still
about harmony and peace
while some are warring for pelf
and power, others are killing in
your name; history, amidst
all of this has none to blame,
it witnesses beheading itself,
hangs its head in shame.

When I sit and think as to
what could save the world
from the inevitable, suicidal
debacle; what could make history
free from wars of all kinds,
I think of you, mustering minds
to perform your magical spell,
your out-of-the-world miracle.

Feeling the universe

Oftentimes, in the goings-on,
I am in an endless search
of who this is, or, it is
that makes me unconscious,
unmoved of the movements
happening all around, within
the body I call myself, 
the mind I think is mine,
the spirit I sense, cannot see;
of who this is, or, it is
that makes me conscious
for a fraction of a moment,
of the regression of various
parts of the organs I have known
as my own; when the leaves of
the trees quiver, when the stars
rise, shine, set, and rise again,
I assimilate the experience;
the feeling in the being becomes 
me, it forms me, it bounds me,
beyond words, it sets me free,
makes me who I want to be.

All conflicts, arguments,
sense of judgements
appear like dust, meaningless;
births and deaths of truths and lies,
of days and nights, set, shine, rise
in the twinkling of my eyes;
only the feeling of completeness,
awareness of wholeness remains.

For a moment in the gap,
I feel the space, which is
also me; in time, the search
doesn't end, but it discovers,
away from the horizon of reflections
the feeling of the universe.

It's time to unlearn and retrain

The tongue, the eyes, the ears,
all trained to war with the
outside, ignorantly, for years.

With misguided warriors
such as these, how can we
end warfare? How can we
reinstate peace!

But the organs that are inside,
the livers, the lungs, the kidneys;
these are soldiers fighting it out
with their rhythmic art,
keeping their only world intact,
moving, up and about
with a winsome, healing heart.

It is either the soldiers or the
civilians who are the guineapigs,
the scapegoats of wrath,
greed, and power. How long
will this continue? Peoples
of the countries need to do
some real out-of-the-box thinking
to make the leaders understand
the futility of wars of all kinds
and the utility of peace, by all means.
We need to fight from within,
like the organs inside, so our nest
is pretty strong and safe to win.

It is time we unlearn to war
with our own reflections, the world
is like one human being, whose organs
like countries, continents, oceans,
seas, deserts, forests, mountains
rivers and tributaries are but our flesh,
bones, muscles, veins, and arteries;
we kill them each night and day
to weaken ourselves for petty selfish,
self-defeating, incompetent reasons
with processes, guns, and weapons;

It's time we retrain our disobedient
minds so we can strengthen, reconstruct
and rebuild our only living cottage; we
could help leaders unite to found a new
guild, to restore the dilapidated stage.

Play ball

I went to the beach
when I was a child;
played with the waves,
with crabs, their holes,
with the sand and the shells;
I have become old now,
but nothing has changed 
at the beach, it wants to
still play ball with me,
like a child.

The truth

We're scared of simple truths

So we seldom discuss death, 

We're ashamed of truths too, 

So we always mask ourselves. 

The logic we give for lying

Is that, they often help and heal, 

They're far better than saying, 

Bitter truths that ruin and kill.

With this example governed

We endorse tonnes of lies, 

Faking with skill is learned

Truth dies a thousand times. 

If this continues in the world

Violence will pollute the stage, 

Truth will just remain a word

False will poison the page. 

We fight with neighbours and friends, 

We see enemies everywhere, 

That we'd also die in the end

We don't seem to remember.

To be conscious of death

Is the key to bringing peace, 

We'd again be in sound health, 

Be free from warring disease. 

A passing day

 

The sun has set
on the western horizon,
the crimson sea, waving
to welcome the silver moon
that is soon to appear,
with its glowing affair;
there is a shift in the air,
the salty breeze, like a flutist
bringing out a humming
sound from the leaves,
birds are returning to their
nests with the same chirps
they left for the day;
in various branches, different
stories are hanging all over
the trees that, in their
twilight dress, are relishing
the last rays of the star –
a day is gone with the flow
like it did, years ago.

Worthwhile service

 

Worthwhile service

In this day and age
where news spreads like
wildfire at the click of a button
let us not share stories that’d
ignite hatred, anger, and incite
intolerance. The world is tired,
troubled, worried, overburdened,
bombarded with ferocious
insecurities, besides being bruised
and marred by the pandemic, the
uninvited guest that refuses
to leave the stage.

Like sad and grim requiems
there are many tales that can
heal the wounded hearts of
the listeners, for a moment they
can feel their lives are worth living
despite the catastrophe that’s pushing
the souls from the precipice, for
some seconds, men, women, and
children can feel a push upward
from their abysmal mayhem. 

Sharing incidents of kindness, love,
peace at this juncture will, to the misguided,
innocent victims, give solace and bliss;
as a writer, a storyteller, or even as a
modern ‘forwarder’, dispatching positive
experiences that speak of vim and
vigor, that uphold courage and resilience, 
says an emphatic yes to life despite the
odds is no less than a worthwhile service;
we could regain our garden beneath, our paradise above.

Twinkling stars

 

I have lost my stars
I tried to look for them
in the sky, a huge space
my eyes get lost in the 
crowd of blinking lights,
I wondered through the nights
as to which ones were mine
from afar they look similar;
beyond a point, I found them
all over the place, just when
I gave up the search, I decided
to let them be, I discovered 
them all, twinkling in me.

The servant-leader

 

With two eyes I can behold the world
yet, I am blinded by the light,
for I cannot see the sun;
where has it gone, I wandered on and on
with the search, the air got blurred
crowds of clouds overcast my brain
in broad daylight, I contemplated rain;
I couldn’t imagine that in the scorching
light the star cannot be seen, for in its
own light it effortlessly burns,
the service shines, its sign disappears,
thanks to its selfless work, a bit mundane
every corner of the earth lives again.

To have a glimpse I waited till dusk.
When the bestower, like a servant
finished the daily task, my wait was
rewarded for I saw the solitary leader
soon, calm and composed, the planet’s
only boon; I knew it’ll move into
another world then, though will
never keep us in the dark, as in the heaven
will rise the mesmerising moon.

I learned my most endearing lesson
how true leaders alone can serve
their nation by giving impartial light
to everyone, tomorrow there will be
another dawn, I will come again
and see the sun.