Is this the voice of happiness ?

Today I heard it,

After such a long time;

The sound of happiness!

It was a scream of joy

unchecked,

Escaped from a young girl,

Who was dripping wet,

Enjoying the rain.

She could barely breathe,

As the drops came tumbling

One after another,

They did not wait

for her to catch her breath.

 

My heart sank.

For I could not recall

The last time my voice

Had made that sound.

 

Ages had passed

Since I had

truly laughed.

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Wither Away!

 

“Pressure makes things grow more”c7d314cd05de08c71c1733036643353f-2.jpg

 

Is a ridiculous myth!

That’s a terrible bore.

The flower could have

Lasted a little longer,

had the tools Blasted

the warmonger.

Instead, they played

Filthy games

With the hues and shades,

of the colorless petals.

c7d314cd05de08c71c1733036643353f-1The pressure to bloom

In fifty seconds.

Was on the bud.

For ready was

the suit of the groom.

And the flower on the lapels

was to be

the exact shade of Canadian Maples.

It was of course too much to take.

And as the huge cake

They took to bake

Something ugly happened.c7d314cd05de08c71c1733036643353f-3.jpg

The man blamed,

the half opened flower

because it died

before the ceremony

of the marriage.

But none could know

How had it cried!

In the solitude of night,

Before his eternal flight.

The Man under the Tree

Man-under-tree

I cannot be certain

Of how and what happened.

The other day,

or was it the night?

Perhaps a movie

with the old theme,

Of a Dr. Jekyll

And a Mr. Hyde!

or was it because

of the two pieces

of the cheese laden pizza?

I don’t know the reason

but it happened so

I found myself split in two;

a man who was a farmer,

And I in my home.

We were both the same

But different each.

How we reached,

each other’s thoughts?

I really do not know!

He said he was not happy

as he sat on the grass green

in the village

of his town

I was on my bed

In front of me, a TV screen

in my hand was a cup of tea.

I was happy that he envied me.

then he said he was sad,

I told him a poem to write

or a great picture to paint.

he accepted my offer

and drew the beautiful site,

Scattered around him

Too vivid and yet faint.

I felt a pang of jealousy

for I found out

a skyscraper hiding my moon

and the air wasn’t either

Free of pollution.

we talked and talked

till the night

passed on.

He told me he was hungry.

I asked him what he’d eat

he showed me fresh butter and cream

and soft bread as I could only dream

I looked  down at my platter,

dried beans, nutrient less meat

right out of microwave appeased me.

 

I told him

he was blessed

a man he was, free

standing under a tree.

for all my sources of shade

had long come under the blade.

My only protection

against the heat

were ACs.

he could not understand

and left me as he said

“you are indeed

a thankless weed”

When the Curiosity Burns!  

 

sky-404061_960_720.jpg

A bird once sang,

Outside my window,

A song too sweet to understand.

I heard her and applauded,

She bowed with her wing.

This became a routine.

Then I made,

The fatal mistake,

Of asking her,

What she means,

When she says,

La la la ummm?

She got offended,

And flew away.

Never to return.

I waited for her,

But not for long.

 

Then a breeze,

touched my cheek.

I giggled.

This again,

became a routine.

One day I asked,

From where she came?

How she felt

In the foreign lands?

She rebuked me

For having

racist thoughts.

Never had I,

Since found her,

Blowing my hair.

Here and there,

And everywhere.

 

I missed the bird.

And now the breeze.

Next I fell,

For the glorious sun.

I then asked him,

A million whos,

Whats, and whys.

He loved filling,

My curiosity.

Until one day,

I asked of moon,

For I thought her beautiful.

The sun turned hot,

Hotter than usual.

“She steals my light

And shows it off

Around the world”

He said of moon.

His jealousy burned me.

And the regret killed him.

We were too close,

To save each other.

 

The moon,

However,

Shone that night,

A little too bright.

Once in a lifetime

downloadfile

Lets live life,

Moment by moment,

Infinitely!

Not in hours and days,

Neither weeks and months,

And never in years, definitely!

 

Centuries, you ask?

Oh but that is the best.

There is nothing finer,

Than living centuries.

But it must be done

In a single moment.

 

Centuries in a moment,

Never pass by.

I know I had spent

That moment with you.

And now you live it,

Every bit,

With someone else.

 

Yet, I have

My moment

with me.

Preserved forever,

For centuries.

The funeral of a white rose

In a garden of red roses, she was a white one and her whiteness was even more pronounced for being singular in all the redness around her.

Yet, she did not derive her beauty from the striking difference of hers but it was of deeper material. For unlike her friends in the garden, who thought that after a period of blossoming, they all will die, she knew that before withering away, she must bloom!

Bloom,she must but not in a routine manner but like a princess, so that even for a second, but the universe must stop and admire her.

And it did.

For all the artists passing the garden, painted her, all the writers penned down classics on her and oh the poems…..

Yet, they were not about her bloom only, rather they were odes to her death!

This is why white roses are presented at the funerals, not because they symbolize death but because they honour it.

So you see children (and adults), when we live well, we die even better and in doing so, we live forever.