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Best Poems Written by Guru Krupa Ks

Below are the all-time best Guru Krupa Ks poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Guru Krupa Ks Poem

All A Dreamer Dreams

Before my paint dries,
I want to see the art;
The art of my life, 
The art of my heart,
The art of me
And the unfinished art being done.

Before my ink spills over,
I want to read the words;
The words that my hand writes,
The words that life gave me,
The words that I gave myself
And the unkept words being fulfilled.

Before my flowers wither,
I want to smell the roses;
The roses that bloom in my garden,
The roses that blossom in my heart,
The roses that blossomed through my life
And the thorny roses being worn by soft hearts.

Before the sound stops,
I want to hear the music;
The music that gives me hope,
The music that I love,
The music that loves me
And my music being heard by Mozart in heaven.

Before the universe dies,
I want to ponder about existence;
The existence of black holes,
The existence of the moon,
The existence of earth
And my imaginary friends being existent.

Before the sky shatters,
Before the ocean desiccates,
Before the earth quakes,
Before the fire dies,
Before the sunshine fades,
Before the moonlight shades;

Before my heart stops,
Before it's all gone,
I want to see it all,
I want to read it all,
I want to smell it all,
I want to feel it all,
I want to hear it all,
I want to ponder about it all,
And, I want to live through it all.

Details | Guru Krupa Ks Poem

The Moon's Secret Diary

THE MOON’S SECRET DIARY

I am intrigued by them,
the ones who call me the moon.
Who are they? 
the inhabitants of my imaginative world?
or am I a part of theirs?
some eccentric children of the cosmos?

I watch the earth all the time,
she, the calm creature that sustains 
the whimsical objects,
they, who are searching for the unsearchable.
they, who have never existed in harmony.

I find them amusing,
the ones who are unaware of their insignificance.
they, who do nothing but run behind the truth,
little do they know that they are an unwoven lie.

I remember what I said, are they
some eccentric children of the cosmos?
I asked the universe to be my valentine,
and we met in a blackhole for a tryst.
Are they your children? I asked
“No, they are my siblings.” she confessed.

Details | Guru Krupa Ks Poem

To the Best Teacher Ever

To the eyes which guided us
through the dark and the light;
Which watched our smiles 
and twinkled at the alluring sight.

To the voice which pacified us
through the stormiest of days;
which taught us everyday
and lesson after lesson.

To the heart which freed us
from the ties of pressure;
Which saw not just a student
but a child with a million dreams, in us.

To the best teacher ever, who could
see the sleepless nights behind our marks;
Who could teach the most boring lesson
and still touch our hearts.

To the best person ever
the most compassionate of all;
Who inspired us to be humble
and be who we are.

Dedicated to my 10th Grade English Teacher 
We love you ma'am...

Details | Guru Krupa Ks Poem

Change Not Change

There in the land of chocolates,
A little candy slips into a cup of cocoa,
Once unwelcomed, now the most loved,
Is this real ganache or just plated gold?

There in the land of books,
A little ink drop spills over the words,
The words may vanish, but will the ink do?
Where do the books without words go to?

There in the land of melodies,
A little drumbeat fades into the ringing canopies,
Birds sing too, do they loathe the hissing snakes?
How can they hate the beats heart makes?

There in the land of morning-glories,
A little moonflower withers away,
May it bloom at night or blossom in the day,
Does it really matter if it’s beautiful anyway?

There in the land of fairies,
A little angel draws a silver sword,
Angel-turned-devil, that’s worth a fairy tale,
Who has the final word on whom we hail?

The wounds vanish, but will the scars be gone?
If there was just one thing I could change about the world,
Cleanse your lens, change don’t change;
For everyone is beautiful until they aren't they,
For everything is sublime and changes with time.

Details | Guru Krupa Ks Poem

Between The Heartbeats

I twinkle with the stars of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is why I live, 
then why don’t I die between the heartbeats?
If heartbeat is my mom’s love,
then why doesn’t she hate me between the heartbeats?

I dance under the moonlight of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is my favourite song,
then why doesn’t the music stop between the heartbeats?
If heartbeat is laughing with friends,
then why don’t we stop between the heartbeats?

I shine during the golden hour of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is how flowers blossom,
then why don’t they wither between the heartbeats?
If heartbeat is the origin of waterfall,
then why doesn’t it stand still between the heartbeats?

I whisper to the winds of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is the temple of joy,
then why doesn’t god leave his heaven between the heartbeats?
If heartbeat is my poetry,
then why doesn’t the paper bleed between the heartbeats?

I bloom with the roses of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is heartbreak’s enemy,
then why don’t they become friends between the heartbeats?
If heartbeat is love’s long lost friend,
then why don’t they reunite between the heartbeats?

I search for the heaven in the hell of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is what keeps me sane,
then is that why my mind’s a maniac between the heartbeats?
If heartbeat is what makes us human,
then is that why they turned into monsters between the heartbeats?

I burn in the flames of what,
What is the lapse between the beats of the heart?
If heartbeat is her beautiful angel,
then did the sweet girl turn into the queen of devils
between the heartbeats?

Details | Guru Krupa Ks Poem

The Surreal Sight

Looking into the yawning chasm
trying to find the gem long lost
The shattered shambles of the sky
in the backscatters of the running river

The surreal sight:
throttles the medieval poet;
brings back unwelcomed nostalgia, 
a forsaken evocation.

In an attempt to fathom the waters
has she fathomed out a truth unwritten?
In her hand is the pen, 
but do the words listen to her?

Did she ask to be born,
nor the river did ask to flow
How would she end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
The surreal sight:
its voice echoes in her headspace;
How would you end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?