Category: poetry
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Among few things there is no binding,no divisions, neither any surroundingLife is round , so is the world,So went the last year in roundingMeasured quantities of sharp emotionswith discontent and hued notions.Becoming more mechanic each day.I survive and dine on potions..it all went, it all then came…There was happiness, there was painWhat stayed was the worthless moment,passed away often in vain !wisdom arrived disguised in experiences,cruel and striking at the heart,taking away each timea part of me cut apart.The raging past reminds me againto redeem that which was lostTo rise and walk againand bury the sins of the past.No comments on The Look Back
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Writer’s block ?
A lame excuse
given by many
who try to set a price
to an art or few words.
a shield used by those
who don’t wan’t to deal with life
you can find them everywhere.Creativity demands patience
a thing every true artist knows
so don’t rush it
we are not machines!sometimes I go months
without having written a word
for endless days I feel
locked and caged like a bird.
I know these aren’t blocks
for I am no writer
these by all means
are my stepping stones
to life.
these silences
are responsible for
the music in my life.Whenever I have stopped
I have begun anew.
With new meanings added to life,
Everything changed ! -
As life rolled by
It took me long enough
to realize
I was only looking
not observing.
Hearing and not listening.
Clear as light
now looks the world.
I hear and I hear myself
When I speak !
Curtains lifted
The stage now
looks clear and true.
Ignorance was a bliss
but knowledge
prevailing made me
understand bliss. -
How the seasons change?
With them the colours,
the trees,the animals and the skies.How the days and nights go on?
In an eternal cycle.
Melting into each other.In the day the sun,
replenishing ,re-energising,brings light.The evening,
a canvas of colours blending.
Masterpieces of nature emerging.Then the night falls
and swiftly comes the band of stars,
lead by the moon.
The clouds hiding it
and sometimes giving it away.
A game,a sort of child’s play.How the wind blows?
Carrying on its wings,
the message of rain,
which arrives soon
hidden within clouds,
which burst open,
stabbed by thunders.How the snow falls?
Like little stars falling from sky,
only they remained so little.
Melting at a finger’s touchHow the time moves?
Ever so silently,
yet announcing itself aloud
Centuries,decades,years,months,weeks and days
and their hours and minutes,
passing away into tiny seconds.
every moment ticking away,
leaving change behind it.How beautiful the universe is?
Never could it be captured in words,
no matter how deeply they are written.
For it can only be seen and felt,
with two eyes and a heart,
which is one with it. -

very often two glances meet
In a crowded street
Puzzled, smiling, expressionless sometimes
In such fashions , each other, they greet
New strangers,new faces every moment
And the glances repeat
Few eyes meetin these ephemeral glances
Strangers come together
In these subtle chances
Life gathers in tiny traces
Reflected in two eyes
Upon backdrop of faces
The stage is setCharacters come and go
Some move along
Few break the flow
Destinies unfold while humans conceit
With planned coincidences
Do Strangers meet.
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Atop the kailasha
amidst snow and coldsat a hermit
with his eyes closed
indifferent to differences
unaware of appearances
abiding by no laws
never taking a pause
from his deep meditation
lost in deep contemplation
clad in tiger skin
all animals his kin
a snake garland
ash on forehead
destroyer and life-giver
the hermit was Shiva
rejected and an outcast
never dwells on his past
neither a teacher, nor a preacher
never thinking of the future
he is guileless and tough
lost and unbound
if you look hard enough
within you, he may be found
to be like Shiva
all you need to do
is open that third eye
and take a view
if you can
wield his trident
strike down every impediment
which stands between you
and the Shiva in you.
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Scourging the crime in dark alleys
riding down sharp valleys
striking hard blows to stark realities
indulging myself in theatricalities
know that i am not a mere dilettante
the wrongdoers fear me,
so they call me the vigilante
Lending voice to the underdogs
raging my anger on the hogs
cleaning up every murk that clogs
my streets, my town, my blocks
through pointed punishments I establish shanti
the gangsters, scared of me,
call me the vigilanteNothing great I do
I fight, is all I do
Injustice, crime and criminals I hate
Who needs my help, I simply anticipate
I do only good in this world so scanty
The politicians despise me
And they call me the vigilante.
Posted from WordPress for Android by Mayank Mishra (mayank.mishra@stu.upes.ac.in)
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There is an anger
Hidden Within all of us
Only Few can Control it..
Controlled by it are othersDriving us, dividing us, trifling us
Making us imprudent and unwise
From within like a serpent thus
Evil plans it does deviseThere is some anger
Pushing it’s way to outside
Through words and deeds
When expressed, spreading viceBlaming us, defaming us, claiming us
Playing with our emotions
From within manipulating thus
Creates conflicting notionsThere is little anger
Within all of us
But if you can kill it
Or just ask it to hushCompress it, suppress it, express it
Forget it and never recall
If you can just somehow control your anger
I promise you can control it all.Posted from WordPress for Android by Mayank Mishra (mayank.mishra@stu.upes.ac.in)
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I am not the broken star
Which falls solitary at night.
Nor the black sky,
Which craves for light.
I do not belong
to this majestic world,I am but a lonely bird.
I am not the falling rain
which regrets, why it fell in disdain.
I am not the lovely rose.
With pleasure,
which fills people’s nose.I am but the tender wine.
Slipping upon a shiny lipline.
I am not the gushing wind.
Nor I am the surging breeze
I am your deepest thoughts.
Not the drenching rain,
But I am all that draughts.
I am not a helping hand
Nor a shoulder to cry onbut I am that fainting light
which blinks far far away
and says to ‘go on !’I am not your last desire
neither hope nor a fireI am but a speckle, a splinter
Which shall never retireBurning brightly though small
this is what I am
and that is all.Posted from WordPress for Android by Mayank Mishra (mayank.mishra@stu.upes.ac.in)