jasmine hermit moon
crescent shadows blaze in play
come now ripe heavy full
autumn bares no seed of man
flawed fruit withers on the vine

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Spectacle……Of Man.

…

Does anything in this earth, ever perish?
And disappear into nothingness and void?
A leaf, a life, a flower, a song, a rainbow!

A tree, a leaf, or a flower, when it withers
The good earth receives it with pleasure.
It dissolves with the mud, in its source.
The roots take away the substances,
And bring them back to life.
The remnants of a human being disintegrate and
Unite with the five elements which composed it.

The whole earth is a grand grave yard,
For withered, battered, and dead lives;
Buried and hidden in its cavernous womb;
Over millenniums, ever procreating
From the debris of accumulated fragments,
In another shape; tubers, cereals, fruits, crops,
And food for whatever we eat as flesh,
To complete the cycle of life, in the universe.
Even the scattered ash over water
Comes back as salt from the sea in our food.

Nothing can be severed from anything eternally.
That proclivity exists in everything, animate or
Inanimate, similar to proton-neutron relation.
That is human bondage, nature’s bondage

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Conservation…..

Playing a game in the squash court,

With rebounding emotions of the heart

As the soft ball, till it bleeds and withers

And the opponent decorating his lips with

A deceptive smile and the gait of a winner,

Walks away and you’™re left alone!

The rules were fair, the play a barbarity

Savage words and bitter strokes

Yet I yielded to the whims and fancies of

Outrages vociferations which led to crucification,

And vituperations of schizophrenia,

Which I meekly admitted, as if I played a foul game;

As he was my best and unique pal and

I never wanted to lose him forever

The mind always search in unknown shores, and

Far away regions to discern a lost companion,

Missed en-route through your past rebirths..

Every moment the wind writes memoirs on the sand

And wander away, the waves blot it out

The next instant, ruthlessly with a cruel mind.

Calm sometimes, rebellious another time,

Turbulent at times, agitated, and weeping in grief

With suppressed mysteries of desires.

Yet, the fisherman adores its nature

And cling to her bosom, as of his mother

Every man is an ocean, ever on the lookout in debris

For lost treasures and possessions withered from his heart

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Game of the heart.