The Poetry Marathon

A painting with blue hues
Portrays a stone buddha in all his glory
Serenity, tranquility, contentment
The expression not unknown
A show of benevolence

And it’s me, who looks at this visage
Reaching for, wishing for
Who knows what?
Maybe the peace reflected
Maybe it’s the thought of mercy?

Praying, without words
Asking, without opening arms
Thinking, is it possible
To have something without paying for it
In this world…

Of Gods, made of stone
Of people, made of greed
Of my own soul, made of avarice
And a heart, full of blood and life
Whose price was the death of a star.

The tinted glass of
my windows Keeps the sun out
But the light is Not
something That can be stopped by
Curtains, the cracks remain still.

The sun peeking out of treetops
Is a beautiful sight
The red flowers on the highest branches
Reflect the rays just right
The crow family cawing at the sun?
They just like things that are bright
The early morning dew shines
Like pearls scattered on sands white
Under the same blue sky
A painted picture of true delight.

(Context of the poem: Every one is a poet in early morning hours… Philosopher as well? They certainly feel at peace.. one with all nature ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

The longest day of the year
Brings with it
Warmth, hope, change

And also heat strokes, sweat, tan
Oh! And ice cream
That melts off faster than you can eat

Air con is a relief
But electricity bills aren’t
Neither are bugs waiting for evening

The longest day of the year is a good time
Unless you are poor, a student
Or both!

The last day started just like any else
I didn’t know it was the last then
When the final bell rang
I was still in denial
The next stage should have been anger
But all I felt was emptiness
Nothing made sense

Nothing made sense
Least of all the passage of time
I learnt about days in kindergarten
What’s the use?
When I can hardly tell them apart
Still keeping an ear out for familiar steps
Today feels like just any other day

Today feels like just like any other day
Except it isn’t
Nothing is true anymore
Nothing I can accept
The days, the finality of the change
You are not here anymore
But neither so am I.

Out is the world
With sun and plants and strays and rain

Out is alive
With little bugs and weeds and flowers

Out is new everyday
With the same scenery different somehow

Out is colorful
With splashes of rainbow here and there

Out is fun
With new people and their old lives

Out is a dream
With me here in this small space

Out is where I wish to be
Breathing fresh air is such a fantasy!

It was an old building
With at least a hundred steps!
(Or so it seemed to the me who was six)
The steps gave way to a small hall
With passages on either side
One, to the contemporary, newer world
Another, leading to the old, ancient ones.

I, of course, went for the second one!
That’s where the smell of books was the strongest
That’s where the stories of the old books
Waited, for me, for anyone really
Who was willing to listen
The words were too tough for me then
But I loved it all nonetheless.

Everything from the feel of old, wrinkly pages
To reading the names of people
Who looked at these same words before me
And I hoped I will be someday
A part of them, for others to see
Who will come here one day in this room
Where the smell of books was the strongest.

The Pinboard in my room
is full of messages
From friends, family, my past self.

It has drawings, lots of them
From childish crayons to prudent pencils
And reckless splash of paint.

The to-do lists, quite a few of them
And pictures! Small printed moments
Of happiness, belonging, life.

The Pinboard in my room is a part of me
The memory, to remind me what’s important
When I have forgotten myself.

Welcome, dear guest

Tired from the long way

Welcome to this Mago Orchard

Where you can stay

And look at the wondrous sight

Of jewels hanging from trees tall

Emeralds and Sapphires with sheen of gold

Upon earth, they do fall

So stay you must to catch them

Or you will be full of regret

There is no cost, of course

None you will ever know, I bet

So come along now

Oh you must

Hoard all these treasures

Before they return back to dust.

Wecome dear guest

You are the first one today

As were the others before and after

To come here, if they may.

An unmarked grave

Sans name, sans words

Lies outside the town

Somewhere around the old library

My friend says, it must be a poet

But I do not agree

Surrounded by weeds

Only wildflowers to be seen

This tiny space in earth

Must be a resting space

Of someone’s dreams…

Their words stolen

Their story untold

Their imagination, fascination, wonder

All buried to make way for life

Real life

Of dragging oneself

This job to that, this chore to that,

The whole practicality.

So you see, poet or not

they live still, albeit pragmatically

It’s only the naive hopes

That were dealt a death blow

And laid to rest

Inside this unmarked grave.