Pass it on when you’re done

I can smell the sultry smoke

From the lazy log fire

But I’d like to see it curl and climb

Higher and higher.

 

I can feel the silken touch

Of a baby’s chubby cheeks

I’d  like to see expressions change

As she gurgles and shrieks.

 

I can taste the sour and sweet

As they sit tickling on my tongue

I’d like to see the luscious grapes

In tempting clusters hung.

 

I can hear the sound of waves

As they crash against the shore

But I’d like to see the setting sun

Cross the dusky door.

 

So pass them on to one like me

When for you their work is done

And thus from where a story ends

A novel  would have begun.

 

 

There is too much beauty to quit

 

There is too much beauty to quit
Too many songs to sing.
Too many worlds to create
Seemingly,out of nothing.

Too many voices clammering
To find resonance elsewhere.
Too many waves, of shore denied
Simmering to take on a dare.

Too many hushed whisperings
Subtle, sour and sweet
Too many sighs that cling
To memories of past defeat.

Too many hopes to sow
Too fertile the ground
Too inviting the future, to let go
Too much love to go around

 

Listening to the heart

  Notes floating into the night Each with a slice of the soul Sombre , sad, and  in sheer delight Spinning sections  into a whole.   Distilled grief  sits on the strings And tweaks  a soulful strum Pounding heartbeats with them bring A rhythm to the drum.   Beauty blows soft and slow Wafting through the flute Following where the pug marks go To tame the tempestuous brute   Behind closed eyes, tears lurk Shining with unspoken sorrows Sighs squat while hope at work Paves the road for a new tomorrow.

 

Being and nothingness

Pressed between pages

Yellowed and crumpled with age

A few fossil dreams.

 

They’d seen all stages

Of metamorphosis to gauge

Extinction, it seems

 

P.S: Image obtained from the Internet

 

Time is a teaser

Better late than never

Says the old adage

It sure sounds sane and wise

But it may not be clever

To blindly believe the sage

Or swear by that advice.

 

The train that leaves

When you just arrive

Is not a matter of fate

The man that grieves

Even when he strives

May be the one who started late.

 

Time flow on

Like a long sentence

But it has its punctuations.

He is a moron

Who cannot make sense

Of its rules and regulations

 

Our hearts must find reasons

The earth knows no boundaries

The wind knows no walls.

The soft rays of sunlight,

The snow and rain that falls

On the mountains and the valleys

Does not winnow or sieve

To choose one over the other

Their beneficence  to give.

 

Our hearts must find reasons

To align and blend

With the spirit behind nature

And read the messages it sends

 

 

 

 

Not all those who wander

“Not all those who wander are lost”-JRR Tolkein

 

Not all those who wander are lost
Not all those who laugh are insane
Not all those who learn to waltz
Can dance outside in the rain.

Not all the flowers love a garden
With the grass all cropped and clean
Some breathe better in the wild woods
Some , by the lake, serene.

Not all the birds, build nests
Not all that have feathers , do fly
Not all the questions have answers
Not all can stop asking “Why?”

 

Echoes from afar

A speck of a song

Comes floating along

Light  as a leaf

Stealthy, like a thief.

 

It pretends to hide

In ebbing strains

But the swell of the tide

Reveals it again.

 

The horizon smiles

Knowing and wise

Guessing through the guiles

Of truth and lies

 

Accounting

It’s an hour before midnight

As I wrap up the day

And sleep sits at the counter

Piling  up  the coins in the tray.

 

I  guess  it’s an old habit

Reckoning   profit  and  loss

The mind sifts through the heap

The subtle  and the gross.

 

It’s an hour before midnight

Time for drama in dreams

A heart   full of reactions

Bursting  at the seams.

 

Hush!

In absolute silence,

The wind recites poetry

In hushed whispers

The leaves applaud

In a slow gait

The branches sway

Composing music

On their own accord.

In demure grace

The grasses bend

To sing to the earth

It’s favourite song

The frilly lace

Of the river lends

A  spriteliness

As it flows along

In wild abandon

The setting sun

Fills the skies

With crimson paint

Across the fields

The homing birds

Become specks

Far and faint.

Hush,listen to

The nightingale

Forlorn , it sings

Of parting and pain

Feathers crumpled

And its head bent

It‘s teardrops mingle

With the rain

 

P.S: The first two lines of this poem was “lifted” from the Facebook status update of a friend:-)