Tag Archives: self
Milky galaxy
Me at night, up at high; exploring this beauty; creative, Almighty.
What thinketh this was made;
Like a crown of glittery stones, embezzled in a mess.
White river of flowing stars,
Hung together, close, though far.
How beautiful;
This kinship bizzare.
Bonding close with thee I have;
Greeting my great,great, great grandma;
up there.
People say, who leave here, live there.
Since then I accompany her, lace;
It's been long, I miss her tales,
sometimes squirrels;
sometimes whales;
Sometimes, it's been;
truck and rails.
In this lonely, city of fast moving nowhere.
Aimless;
Mind trembling with fear, what about anxiety, worth to share.
At my roof, I stare;
This Holy relationship they care,
Dancing collective down to heel.
It might cause, all wound to heal.
What a meaning, it shows,
In meaning less world,
that once goes.
Life is here, Life is there;
You will remain no matter where;
Cheers the beers whenever,Wherever ,
As love remains hereafter, thereafter.
An Evening
This fear of loneliness, breaks mirage of togetherness;
This substitute of courage, reduces strength of happiness.
Hyped complacent theory of adventure, creates fear of Vagrancy;
This worry of ageing, dampens glory of Constancy.
Fighting with pace to find peace, while;
Living in solace, has been a mess;
Cowing to clutches of past disgrace,
Reserving some seats; fortune erroneous .
This silent evening, in hubbub of pleasantness.
This hangover of misspelt cast, weakens, urn of spiritedness.
This dawn of today will bring morrow, with unspoken hope; lit in heart; wounded hollow. Hands shaking, energy diminishing; questions worthiness, this Ambition holds.
This symbolism of life births, at island of continuance. This spike of revolution, changes; subsides, All previous disturbances.
RAY OF HOPE
CHANGE
Time changes, rhyme changes.
Changes role and responsibilities.
Rose and daisy makes no difference, Love seems not changing though.
Changed has colour of TAJMAHAL,
Not what changed, Poetry of Shah and Mumtaj.
Changed been robes of body; not soul;
Once more,once again;
Rebirth and Renaissance, Just to visit the change again.
LOST
I am lost, in the wooden forest of past,
Euphoria of work, seems dusted and rusted.
Excitement has been replaced by the hegemony of Failure vast.
And the enchantment of sucess, looks blurry in fast.
Stuck in quagmire of admire I was attached with,
Now it’s Choir of satire I am attacked with.
I know I have to begin, somewhere;
But this being of mire is everywhere.
Finding a way out of it is dreary and gloomy, and strength of mine is teary and weary.
Hold or let Go
What’s gone is bygone, rightly said.
How long a chef is going to cry for her fallen dessert, that she cooked with utmost care.
How long a Potter is going to stare at his broken ware, that he designed with so much dare.
What happened, just happens.
What broke, just breaks.
No one can capture that flying time, just because he has some grudges with the timely rhyme.
No one can erase, that memory of bad, howsoever sad.
How long a person, who was so deeply in love with her partner, going to destroy himself, by drinking to death, or smoking to rest.
How long a person is going to revenge, for the sake of betrayal, with himself at waste.
It’s not a question, but a thing to wonder,
Life is once, we all know;With time, we all grow.
Running, chasing, find and trace;
To save things; place, people and race.
Day we retire, with torn attire;
smelling with unwashed tears and tire. Will we be on jest, with little breath, at the end of, the so called Death?
There On The Banks of Ganges
Me and you have been there, worth citing: being forever, there on the banks
The beautiful circles by throwing pebbles, we watched together, there on the banks.
The ringing bell and the evening chants, we heard together, there on the banks. That sunset who has hiding beside the drizzling cloud, and that running fast at the fear of getting cold, there on the banks.
Bunking classes to roam on streets, buying dupattas matching bangles with coloured green, there on the banks. Praying Shiva, while quietly holding our hands, there on the banks. Listening folklores and having hot tea, in shivering cold; there on the banks.
Passing time, there on the banks. Saying goodbye, crying alone, there on the banks. And then continuing visiting again and again, just to feel your warmth, there on the banks.
I am old, you are gone, still things are same, there on the banks… If rebirth, I will be waiting, come with me, there on the banks…
The Rainy Song
Music has it theory, whenever it plays it either shocks or takes out a shock, ha, ha!
There is hardly anyone who doesn’t has any kind of music on its preference
But, have you ever heard The Rainy song, maybe some of you might have heard it, if not, then thanks to my discovery!
For one side of people it’s their first love, of course, we had our first rain before our first kiss; it’s the music we grew up dancing with. And why not, it’s the sound which comforted us on our painful but just happened: break-up, and later again we thanks it, when we find peace further in our life.
A cup of hot coffee, and the window: matter not, glassy or wooden, for people like us this rainy song is the life we are alive till death apart.
Wait, how could we forget the universal line: human species are full of contradictions. May be its not contradictions but the experience they have, defines their behaviour( this is what sociologists says)
And for them, this song is nothing more than the experience they bear in mind. I still remember, while on my way to visit my village, an old enough uncle declared, his whole chronicle of flood in his village, that’s when he shifted to the nearby city, though he was saved, many others could not, he told me that with every lyrics of this rainy song he misses his hometown( by somehow, it was raining that day). Well this is just one of such people, we all know many others…
[I think:(it could be good that by this, he misses his hometown, otherwise there are people who feel shame sharing their roots). Talks apart. ]
Since it’s about a music, how could we forget the lyrics and lyricist! His appearance is very gentleman type, a fluffy tummy, wearing black -white large hat, and whose voice is same as we make with hungry stomach.
And then when he sit to write, since his torch is on and off he can’t write nicely. sometimes its continuous, sometimes not; with a break, sometimes not.
With all his struggles, when he dare to complete, he shows it to his great composer windy wind to compose, and last all their co-worker comes together, ready to begin… This Rainy song… And why not to leave interpretation, since it’s 🌧raining I enjoy this song:the rainy song…
*torch is lightening.
* fluffy tummy man is cloud.
*
shortisokay 