Love is in the sigh of an aching lover
It is at the feet of an aging mother
Love is in the petals of a beautiful rose,
It is in the farewell of a soldier who goes
Love is in the act of a divine consummation
It is in a pleasure of an orgasmic elation
Love is in first showers of awaited rains
It is never done for any mundane gains
Love is in everything that God reserve
It is what you and me rightfully deserve
I took refuge in myself as a
hermit in an ancient cage,
enduring the thunders and
the howls of angry wolves
in my brain, as the centers
would not hold, no one ever
cared for my broken words
so I started to scribble long
verses on my aching heart
while taking refuge in my
my withered soul caged by
the barrage of human folly.
I may not be the exquisite rose of your French orchids,
or the fragrant Jasmine of your manicured lawns.
A wildflower of some unknown species, yes I am of a wild tribe!
The type that grows on the sides of your very dirty roads and
muddy paths, the kind whose seeds are never sowed
and fruits shall never be reaped.
Do you know that in my womb, I too carry a fragrance?
A pungent smell which never made it to the bottle of any perfume.
No lover ever came knocking on my humble door. No never!
Such abhorrent is my appearance that my beauty is never a joy to any.
My petals are never given a chance to kneel at the altar of any shrine,
for the pundits prophesied, it would have been blasphemy of some kind!
But I continued to sway when the cold winds would blow and
bloom whenever the benevolent Sun would shine.
I flourished, even when the florists at my site continued to whine
I thrived when the rains were scarce at an hour when suddenly the eclipse
took over all the Suns, and the Moon simply refused to show up.
So you ask me why? For I possess a zeal, a yearning to live, so strong that even
when I am trampled on your dirty roads, I never cease to grow….
and continue to grow and like a phoenix rise from the ashes.
I am a wildflower, the kind that grows on the sides of muddy paths.
Met a wise man once,
Not a chiseled, silver beard monk,
But a weathered limping man.
A prophet he started to narrate a tale,
Not a saga of god and ablutions
Nor sordid scripture of poverty around
Standing majestic on the banks of holy river
He whispered softly in my ears
listen to the melody of the flowing water
Touch the humility of the trees
Feel the burden of the Mother Earth
Enjoy the seven colors of rainbow above
Tell me about God, if you a saint?
Mischievous he started to laugh,
So he spoke the words of wisdom,
A hypnotizing look and calm demeanor,
God painted on the canvas of nature
A beautiful portrait of you my child
The first word of God is Adam,
The last word of Adam is God
God can not exist without man,
For creation is the master of creator my lord.
Stupefied I stood on the holy bank,
As prophet knelt and kissed my hands.
In all my innocence, I thought you will listen gently to
the beats of my heart, I cried and howled as I was
alone and scared I knew we both spoke different
languages but still put my trust because I yearned to
speak and liberate myself from the fear and the million
different voices in my head but you mocked and tried
putting few words of your choice in my mouth and shut
it forever while I suffocated and cried but silently because
you didn’t like the sounds of sobbing I made and now
you claim I am mad because,I only talk to winds and trees
and never seek your company, For the allegations of
lunacy, I’ve been accused so many times and stripped
of any shame and dignity, but I am happy , yes you
heard it right as happy as one can be and that’s my
only vengeance.
Love is not possessing
Love is setting the caged
bird free to soar
high in the vast azure
skies and when it returns
at the somber dusk, fondle
it not like a pet but a lover,
only to fly back at the dawn
for love is not possessing
and beauty of birds is in
the blue skies.
Tanya Shukla
“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”
Rumi
On my way to home, there are moments when I casually sip
a dark sooty coffee, ashen black to remove the stubborn
charcoal stains from my green heart, legacy of a sheltered
sub-urban life, I meander through the curvy narrow lanes,
stretching wide from top like sagging bosoms but contained
through metallic wired frilled brassieres and net fences.
Streets can run crazy wild too, trees must be primed, petals
must be counted appearances have always mattered.
Holding the erect blank cup, for it has no colors of flags
no slender waited figures of pouted mythical women
I measure my hours with careless sips of coffee
scratching my head as to which way to turn, as I am
bad in directions, I knock on several dilapidated
neatly kept homes, gosh they all look same, even the
garbage outside bear uncanny resemblances, I try to
wait outside several cobbled streets with long
Victorian names King George Edward Philemon
second or third or may be fourth, scratching my head,
I wonder whether to turn left or right, go straight
or turn back, I see random common faces trudging along
taking heavy steps who have similar frugal existences,
mundane chores, ordinary lives not literary enough
to pen in Queen’s English, as I wait for my turn on
King Henry Pokemon fourth or fifth bus stand
I deliberately miss my Peter-Pan as from the corner
of my eye through hazy blurred glasses, a spectacle
extraordinaire out of a rising chemical smoke of
a burning cheap plastic, I catch a site so rare, a dainty
disheveled vision of a homeless man ogling at me through
his piercing eyes, winking at me, In a single moment we
have an understanding of seven births and deaths we
both don’t make any effort to find our homes.
Yesterday saw a dying man
lying breathless on the cobbled
pavement, near the majestic Promenade
A face so fragile, marred by the ailment
called life, a look of a victim
and hardships endured
An appearance of a sullen
disappointment, masked beneath
the scaly, withered skin
Hanging on to one thread of breath,
life gradually dithering,
in his emaciated body.
Cries of pain and suffering
echoing a tale of broken,
promises and misfortunes so heavy.
Crowds gathered around to,
witness the grand finale; the
the spectacle of death so cheap.
A sigh of relief a gentle,
reassurance, glance at the sky
for thank god, it wasn’t me.
Creaking sound of creature’s
cries, torturous unbearable
to the refined human ear.
Terrified at the final performance
crowds dispersed, thinking of
the share they might have to offer.
Life oozing out of the blob
of flesh, a gush of air exhaled
from the parched mouth.
A faint voice, oh god!
lighting struck, ending the tale
of a man who lost the battle too soon
Tanya Shukla
