I look,but have far to go,
Scenic beauty steals the show.
Try to realise the belongings,
Its arrangement with the surrounding.
Blanket of air as covering,
Flowers to share an offering.
Grass spread throughout,
Not an inch is left out.
Birds are resting in their nest,
Sun is glazing at its brightest.
Moon is ready to take things over,
Stars are getting a makeover.
With a shift ending soon,
Just similar to a sonic boom.
Nights are even better,
Decorated sky with bright pointers.
with the short passage, will go,
Getting ready for the next show.
The recurrence would never stop,
A continuity by joining dots.
Whispers swirl in tides of haze
Where the sun fractures time
A molten gold drip cascades
Melting the edges of dreams
Sand writes stories beneath bare feet
Footprints fade like forgotten tales
Caught between the hum of salt and wind
Waves sprawl restlessly and untamed
Twilight softly flickers off shells
Waves now gently humming a lullaby
Being and reflection in endless loops
Echoing in the heartbeat of foam
The horizon consciously wavers
Revealing a thin veil of recurrence
Days dissolve into the sweet salty air
Moments slip through fingers like water
Need there’s to smile nor cry in life,
What will, will by and by in life.
Bank to bank lifeboats ply in life,
Still, the same boats must die in life.
One must swim, cannot fly in life
Whilst sorrows do defy in life.
Think, what to sow, not sigh in life
If rainy gets the sky in life.
To unknot tangled tie in life,
Nigh silent should one try in life.
______________________
Ghazal |08.07.2025| life, philosophy
Note: Both the lines of all the couplets of this ghazal have a rhyme (qaafiya) and refrain or recurrence (radeef).
steeped in an ocean of time
slow motion’s recurrence reverberated
concentric circles rippled the tide
moored its anchor
in illusions of safety
yet the harbour was far away
a mere tug at a distant shore
once more it sent out its signal
as he finally snapped ready to drown
never again said the mermaid
leave the sinister hobgoblins
and straddle Atlantis with me
secured at last he acknowledged
that letting go of the past
meant freedom and safety
The farmer looked on sown fields with dismay,
Be-spotted with tiny holes in despoiled array.
Each spot where mice had dug up and eaten.
Wheat seeds sown with mice-controls well beaten.
The farmer had tried to poison the mice.
Tried birds of prey once or twice.
Tried cats and smelly scent deterrents,
All to no avail to beat the endless recurrence.
One night the farmer awoke from fitful sleep.
Ah Hah! I have an idea cheap, neat and deep.
What if I make the entire field smell of wheat,
By spraying the field all over with wheat-oil neat?
Sure enough, the over spray with oil worked a treat.
The mice dug a myriad of holes with tiny feet,
Where their smell, said wheat should be,
Only to find all their holes empty, no seed to see.
Frustrated, exhausted they paused their paws.
Cursed their noses, tricked by the scent-only cause.
A wheat field, over-sown with superfluousness,
Made their search, dig to eat meaningless.
Sounds like bile with relocation, wish to be elsewhere;
Double vision, apparition, somewhere, nowhere, there;
Concurrence, recurrence, boomerang or doppelganger;
concentration, adaptation, cliff-hanger levitation.
Mirror combinations put Alice through the looking glass
sleeping in illusions or dreams of revolution.
Visitors in time machines leave traces in the places
they invaded - rearranging the derangement of your faces.
How could anything be true, if there were two of you?
Double crossing, double speak, double nothing, no clue.
The steaming ghee rice,
yellow dhal,
cucumber salad,
spicy temptation wafting up from the beef curry…
My family,
from ma to niece,
sit at the dining table.
When I take the vacant chair,
I feel it’s an exact recurrence of a past feast.
An unreal reality.
Transient.
Living is an illusion –
the Indian philosophy glows like a firefly within my skull.
Man lugs life to death with a little knowledge.
Like telepathy,
déjà vu is another mysterious truth promising things beyond the corporeal end.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue#28).
Time is a cycle of events,
like history in constant repetition.
What happened then will happen again,
like how the world revolves in its axis.
The blast from centuries past
will surely have its future recurrence,
and after series of rebirths
they come in mind like a hazy occurrence.
February 24, 2023
Deja Vu Poetry Contest
Sponsored By: Unseeking Seeker
The usual guide posts have become unreadable,
Their stony font occluded as in an ancient riddle;
Glyphs without the Greek.
The road is marked one way, no returning traffic,
Its service islands marked - MRI, CT, CAT - all graphic;
Ultrasound without the music.
People speak in the language of probabilities,
Yes, no ,do not appear in a lexicon of uncertainties;
Welcome to Cancerland.
Cancerland is an archipelago of tests, and immutable
Results, its residents adrift in the intervals and vulnerable;
Runners between bases.
A chemical war zone, Cancerland employs its foremost
Weapons to kill the Invaders, and the Invaded - almost.
"A village destroyed to save it."
There is no exit visa for Cancerland, always the next test,
For surveillance of recurrence in the never ending contest;
Life lived in the intervals.
Joy Unspeakable
Culminate since birth, sprung opened trials,
hither, somewhat tither, consequence waits,
opportune knock as an opened door smiles,
means of one's worth misery, rapture rates.
Character, their drawn portion brings about,
steadfastness accrued, witnessed by others,
contentment approves summation per clout,
worries cringe test, gladness is my druthers.
Cheerfulness wholehearted, sure of oneself,
planned groundwork correspond accurately,
prevailing arrangement fills some bookshelf,
groundbreaking moments burst rapturously.
Enchanting anecdotes, proving their ground,
recurrence linked praising is the best sound.
2021 February 25
*3rd Place*
CONTEST: Joy continuum
JUDGED: 2021 February 26
'NA Poem From a February 2021 Judged Contest -'
~~Constance La France
Alliteration adorns muses
Artistic aesthetics appealing,
Repetitions reasonable form rhythm
Voices of the verses accentuate.
Children literature adores
Its cadence and charm.
Paper holding his passion
In patience and poise,
To portray Pen's ponderings
Yearning to sense
Her soulful sprinkles,
As she travels through
Recurrence of patterns
Carved by consonants.
Beauty of poem enriches when
Bedecked with alliteration.
Sweet sounds evoke
Flow of music
In reader's mind when
Repeated in harmony.
Children love the fun
To read it aloud,
And it makes easy
To reckon and remember.
Date: 01/30/2021
Your Fall recurrence,
sprinkling lawns multicolor.
But your pedals drop.
One by one, down they fall
Softly, on my dampened cheeks
My hurts erupt the surface
And with sorrow, they release
Freely, along a well-known path
Like river currents do flow
I fear that they will never stop
Down stream, my tears they go
Familiar pain encloses me
The freedom to reach out, again you stole
Constraints are placed upon once more
Separating our two souls
The days pass by so slowly
And have led me to this place
The place I'd thought I'd left behind
Where sadness shrouds my face
Recurrence hurts a whole lot more
Than I suspect you are aware
I wonder if you feel the void
Or if you even care
I told you once, I didn't want
Our love to be for nothing
So help me, God, this hurting heart
Has got to count for something
So if these tears keep falling
And my heart can bear the ache
I pray the brokenness will mend
And peace will settle in its place
I'd hoped it wouldn't end like this
I guess I'm not worthy of 'Goodbye'
So I'll embrace the healing tears
Still flowing from my eyes.
Rain drops rejoiced ....
It relished its fall from the womb
Cause of its inception
Also rejoiced...
Because he only pulled it up .....
Just to see its recurrence.
Thus he taught us “Life"
There’s a miniature volcano
on his back
with mortifying eruption.
‘Beauty is
in mind’, his mom intones.
But nobody
recognizes. His classmates
‘honor’ him
with some funny sobriquets.
It resembles a cactus. He can’t
eschew its
thorns. He withdraws. Solitude
is a shelter.
It’s like a gas-producing
cassava; his
mind bloats with thoughts
of inferiority.
Whistles and whoops from
the playground
pain him no more. Recurrence
blunts sorrow’s talon.
He falls down through
a siesta.
Posthumous pity is a wreath.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
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