What are we, but similar, distinct
Patterns in a platter of the same elements?
Why don’t we see a common conscious hint,
Despite the same fundamental blueprint?
The answers lie in the combinations –
All the attentive atoms which, unsure,
Arranged themselves in fashions
That fate has prepared the plans for.
So, is it fate that distinguishes you from me?
But isn’t fate just chaos and its entities,
And isn’t chaos just a set of unidentifiable, ordered patterns –
Patterns that decide to form you and me from inanimate matter?
As much as we love to ponder over life’s purpose, in tones hushed,
All we are, are egoistic, irrelevant, individual specks of dust.
The way we are selfishly depleting resources in the name of development, with complete indifference to mankind’s future – this poem on an apocalyptic situation, requires very little help of the imagination.
Every rain cloud is another belief
To be downtrodden by nightfall,
Not a morsel goes in without reminding
The misery that this may be the last of all
Every grim face at my dinner table
Takes the same question to bed,
“The way that it is being forecast,
What if, come ‘morrow, I’m not fed?”
The fields look modest and moan
For what seems like elixir now,
But was truly life’s safest cradle,
That suddenly we decided to do without.
The skies seldom seem to say sorry;
They enjoy this backfired vendetta’s glow
Amidst the darkness that’s now mankind,
Their ex bosom-traveller and now prime foe.
Most of us write poems to vent our feelings in some manner, but they sometimes don’t give us the needed refuge from despair. These pieces of ourselves, however, often take the role of a shoulder on which others weep out their burden.
The artist wields her pen, no doubt,
In a bid to make herself better –
But literary sculptures seek out
Similar suffering souls to shelter.
These clouds that seem to drift away
In truth, only leave her high and dry.
Embodied feelings thus go astray;
They rain down elsewhere, where others cry.
As I wait for decompressing boxes
To extract important nothings,
My cursor drifts over familiar codes
To alien territory, an outlet –
A window that opens a platform
For me to scream intimate things,
With no fear of being hacked into my mind;
Since, it’s now for all to sublet.
Crying out to my “loved ones”,
To hear out my desperate plea once –
A prayer to let us live with love,
But all I see is that, from here above,
They can’t hear what love is.
How much longer should I expect
To wait for days you won’t reject
My idea of spending life’s moments
Amidst gifted family and friends fervent?
Can’t you see what love is?
A slight mention of the possibility
Of committing my cultivated fidelity,
To a soul they haven’t themselves sculpted,
Tells me that despite all the education fed,
They don’t care what love is.
Standing at the gates of acceptance,
Dreaming of a united existence.
It’s been ages waiting for change.
Let’s start walking back, love,
They just don’t love what love is.
Six days of industrious service
To justify the six figure returns
Have vacuumed out enough energy
To disallow any worldly concerns.
Tonight, the heavy, hustling highway
Seems to retreat to its plushy cushions –
But, as the fading dusk paints a soothing hue,
Let me share, love, what I wish to experience.
Our mother star has ceded the reins
To the partly veiled disc of white.
Distant relatives of the mother keep
Company to this mirror in the sky.
Come, my hope, let us lie beneath these empyrean beings,
Souls bare, bodies raw and our mortal minds dreaming.