By your words you wounded my soul
Creating a hole that was long ago whole
There is no solution, no redemption
Ignoring temptation, I’ll choose separation
I want to take my distance
Despite my heart’s hard resistance
To be freed of this deed, it’s a need
You’re a weed I have to get rid of to succeed
But if you come back and talk to me
I fear I won’t have the strength to flee
I’ll beg you to never insist
‘Cause I’ll never be able to resist
what's it's purpose
to bug people when mowing
popping up quickly
Some pull flowers and nurture the weed.
Some dance in the light, weaving beautiful things.
Others bask in shadow and backwater stink.
Some offer a cup and a bite to his fellow man.
Some toss away a heart like a rusty tin can.
Some quickly jump off when the engine fails.
Then hop right back on as you regain the rail.
Some die holding the cold, black hand of alone
Not a petal to be seen over their thin yellow bones.
you can mow all day
but that little dandelion
springs back every time
In the green fields of Punjab,
A dark creature stands—
A breathing mountain of dusk,
Yet gentle as a dove.
Through the long silence of day,
On weeds and dry, ordinary grass,
She gathers the unnoticed,
And turns it into a quiet miracle.
Between veins of red and brown,
A pale river begins to move—
Drawn from the dust of herbage,
A secret the earth cannot speak.
Where no light enters,
Something stirs without a sound;
Foliage becomes a silver flow,
Clay ripens into white gold.
Like moonlight poured into a bowl,
Like mercy falling unseen,
It arrives—pure, unannounced—
A gift no eye can fully hold.
What hand shapes this hidden alchemy?
What silence writes this tender law?
The buffalo knows, yet does not speak—
She stands, humble in her giving,
While man forgets the miracle,
And grows loud.
Struggling inside human fortress
babe agonizes
as Mom’s womb
is attacked
yon her willingness---
yes, along her defiance
for how can she nurture
another human being while still a teen
and battling over sexual abuse case?
Such calls for a miracle.
Yes, i am that lonely weed
sitting silently at the side
wishing one man would understand
the pain in hearts that have surrendered
i am that little girl
stuck inside youth
knocking in the wind
against a million pasts
i am little me
alone in a world of chaos
silent in the face of gardens
for beauty never fails lonliness
The lonely weed sprouts up against a stone,
It absorbs the sunlight it calls its own,
No fragrant neighbour or friend stands nearby,
Beneath the stretch of the wide open sky.
The woeful wind may blow it to and fro,
Yet deeper and stronger its roots will grow;
It drinks fresh dew at the dawn of morning
And rain drops when it pours in the evening.
It asks no praise for alone standing tall,
Happy to shoot on rock and show its all;
Loneliness is not a sign of weakness
Nor a mournful source of any distress.
It is a stamp of silent solemn strength
That spreads its cute emblem in breath and length,
A quiet potency in dusty ground,
Where the true lessons of life can be found.
The lonely weed, a banner bravely spread,
Where richer fragrant flowers fear to tread,
Blooming unknown, unseen is still a bloom,
Dispelling shaky shadows in the gloom.
Lonely Weed in Spring
At the edge of a tended garden,
where tulips rehearse their rehearsed perfection,
a single weed lifts its uncertain green—
no invitation, no name on the plan.
Spring arrives anyway.
The wind, careless as a wandering thought,
braids sunlight through its thin fingers.
A shy dew clings to its spine at dawn,
like a secret it has no one to tell.
Around it, applause blooms in colors,
roses declare themselves in velvet tongues,
daffodils trumpet their small golden certainties,
and bees write busy scriptures in the air.
But the weed,
it listens.
It leans into the light not meant for it,
drinks from the same sky without permission,
roots itself in the overlooked grammar of soil
where no gardener bothers to read.
A child might pass and call it nothing.
A hand might pass and call it gone.
Yet for this brief, trembling season,
it holds a universe in its quiet stem.
The hum of earth rising,
the ache of becoming,
the stubborn miracle
of being alive
without being chosen.
A meadow awaits its springtime march
where my feet wander along
like one holy pilgrimage: a nettle drifts
without blame or sense of pity,
leaves lingering on trunks reddened
by the kiss of clay glossy
in a mad desire to wake, wake
dawn flowing with herbage.
I trace how flaming in amber this weed
crawls in wild, unbridled streaks
of lightened mud, part ground, part wind :
Twilight sings the break of newborn day
where this nettle crawls alone, not lonely;
its slithering frame posed to rule over blooms
a nymph perhaps trailblazing in abandon--
that being in this ethereal space rouses
both pleasure and piety within my bones…
while the soil's womb bears more weeds.
Under the shadow of the drifting lull
Shapeless shroud, the bright yellow sun
Is an infusion of joy.
It lies in the warm gray sidewalk scene,
Gazing at the sky, still and serene,
Listening to and watching whispering shadows
Move into the heartbeat of the city.
As they ignore its smile, with a flicker of spark
And the dust of the world.
Never calm, but constantly moving,
Sunset closes the day with inviting twilight.
Effortlessly dissolving the view of the dark blue night,
The Floret early spring nectar glides on the wind.
Over weeds that have sprung up.
The world burns,
The hungry yearns,
For a morsel of change,
In this new land strange.
Where the sky bleeds red,
And life lies solemnly in death's bed.
Where men watch but do not see,
And freedom is scarce while agony free.
Kids do not play hide and seek,
Racing for numbers to reach the peak.
This land works in mysterious ways,
The dead is immortal while the living strays.
Color has been stripped off almost entirely,
Save for a lone weed from an era lived priorly.
Against all odds it emerges from the earth,
Reaching towards the sky amongst the dearth.
It dances to the winds unaware,
Luring in an entrancing snare.
"Who are you?", someone wails,
"Hope!", it echoes through the vales.
In a bleak and desolate
Barren landscape
She quietly thrives
In isolation, embracing
The benefits of solitude
Resilient in challenging
Moments of adversity,
Her mind freely wanders
Unfettered by pressures
And unwelcome demands
Pleasantly surprised
By lullabies of showers
And twittering birds…
But when twilight fades into
The hushed silence of night
Doubts reveal insecurities
As loneliness creeps in
Stealthily … shrouded
In shadows of vulnerability.
The Lonely Weed waits
patiently
for what will come next.
It doesn't expect
anything in particular.
Expectations often result
in disappointment. It enjoys
being moved by a breeze,
the challenge of trying not to envy
the colorful wildflowers
over there.
This is what keeps it strong
and why it's been here so long.
The event of its being chosen --
being picked
Would result in a quick demise
Loneliness both causes
and protects from pain
There's more to gain by being still
and simply waiting.
They don’t understand me; call me a weed.
But, like their flowers, I grew from a seed.
I’m just as pretty, if they’d let me live
And, in the right place, I’ve so much to give.
But no, as soon as they notice my shoots,
They reach for a trowel and dig up my roots.
Then, although I haven’t committed a sin,
I find I’m consigned to the compost bin.
I try to hide in amongst all the flowers
And they find me in a matter of hours,
But, if the compost bin’s where it all ends,
At least I’m there with a lot of my friends.
Yet, if they’re driving along the highway
And I’m on the verge, they see it my way.
I get the treatment I’ve always deserved.
I’m a wild flower and I must be preserved.
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