Sreenath Sreenivasan

Thriving Mindfully

Category: Perspective (page 1 of 17)

Wisdom of the Rooster

Rooster Rex and Helen the hen,
Snuggle up, in their little den,
They warm each other, on a bed of hay,
And cuddle lovingly, in every which way

And when the world mocks the hen,
For sitting idle all day,
The rooster finds his zen
And keeps all the naysayers away

There are chirrups in the barn, a few weeks hence
The rooster wails aloud, from atop the fence

Little chicks, they snuggle up like Golden balls
As they coo gently, to mama hen’s calls

The rooster, the hen, feel vindicated
The gift of children, comes not too belated

The wise rooster marches, stomping his legs,
He calls all naysayers, he pleads and begs
‘If you must sit idle’ says rooster Rex
Make sure you’re warming, a bed of eggs.

The Value of Bad Poetry

When a lost  poet felt, he had exhausted, each idea, every card

In desperation, he knocked, on the door, of a saintly, old, bearded bard

The old bard invited his younger self in, and sat him in a chair
Lovingly, the wise man spoke, to ease the poet’s despair

“When poetry comes into being, through you,
Sometimes the words will be fresh, as morning dew
But do not expect it to be spectacular everytime,
For sometimes, the words might not be, even worth a dime

Poets are people too, and just as prone, to be a fool,
For most of us, do not realize, that not every poem, is a perfect jewel

But some fools are poets, for they only put out work, that is their best
Some poets are fools, for they never put, their worst work, to the test

But there are poets wise, who value, each and every line,
Who realize, that infact, even bad poetry, is a clever evolutionary design

They put out a jewel, just to kindle, a budding poet’s fire,
They put out their worst, hoping a lost poet, shall once again aspire

A wise poet, is a channel pure, beyond I, mine and me,
He knows, that poets shall perish, but forever lives poetry

So, put out every poem, as it comes, bypass the sense of self,
So that a young poet pens,
And fulfils poetry’s longing for itself.”

And so, the young poet learnt, and from the rocking chair he arose,
Beyond good and bad, and ego and self,
he penned down, the above prose.

 

 

The relevance of a drifter

Swelling with, a vanity vain
There burnt, a proud little flame
High from its heat, haughty, unmasked,
To the blowing wind, it jeered and asked

‘Hey, you wayward wind’ it slew
‘You aimless drifter without a clue’
‘On a fruitless search of lands new’
‘I wonder, how relevant are you?’

Solemn, silent, saintly, the breeze
Flew past quietly, with graceful ease
It left behind an answer, much to the flame’s ire
The breeze whispered, and the flame was a raging fire…

Getting in touch with motherhood

Cheeks are pale , Not rosy
A product of a sin

For her fingers touch a display
And not her baby’s skin

As a mother’s halo eclipses
By the glow and sheen of a screen

The child, lonely and forlorn
A complex grows deep within

Do we need a rosy cheek, a dimple?
A motherhood pure and simple?

A childhood filled with bliss?
With no gaze, no touch, ever amiss?

Don’t trade your time and touch
And save yourself loneliness much

Keep screens aside,
Slow down your pace
And accept your motherhood
With joy and grace

For every child
Should beam and smile,
On the journey of life
Every mile

Touch
Hold
Cuddle
Kiss

And leave behind
moments to reminisce

For Mother and child
Shall realise soon after

That life is an echo
of all your childhood laughter.

How deep is your love?

Can one
ever live
A Life,
Deeply

If he
hasn’t learned
To Love,
Deeply enough?

 

 

A Mourning Bloom

In a lonely corner
Untouched by moistness
Weeps a plastic flower

As it longs
Forever
To wilt…

The Poet Erases Himself

The Ink
Flamboyant
Knows no fear
Of Erasers

A poet
Diffident
Fears
Ink

And so
He pens
All his life
With an eraser.

When Faiths Unite

Situated side by side
Sharing a wall
There stand
Two shrines

In the morning
The temple prays
In the shadow of the mosque

In the evening
The mosque prays
In the shadow of the temple

At night
Both shrines, they hum
And watch each other’s back
For they share,
The same spine

The temple’s bell
A muezzin’s call
How elegantly
Do faiths entwine

We wear different caps
But should we ever fight
For what’s yours
And what’s mine?

So shall we stand
In each other’s shadow
When tomorrow,
The sun shines?

Caps aside,
Can sing a few lines?
In a rhythm divine
Of this elegant design?

 


 

The Dance of Dust

A Sunbeam
Pierces through the crack on the roof
A mote of dust
Dances in the spotlight

 

 

 

The Yellow Balloon

It was a windy winter morning. Little Kalpana was standing on the pavement next to the traffic signal, waiting for the lights to turn red. She was a balloon seller, like the many other kids who lived on the streets. The one minute window of red lights on the traffic signal was the arena of her life. She held a wooden stick that had 10 balloons tied on to it. The colorful balloons dangled in the air as she ran from windscreen to window, hoping to make a sale.

That morning, an elderly gentleman named Ajay, was strolling on the pavements. He had taken a detour from his usual morning walk route in the park. From far away, he could see bright balloons hanging in the air, rising up from the stalled traffic. It was a wonderful sight to witness from a distance. He strutted slowly towards the balloons.

But as he got closer to the signal, the traffic lights turned green, and all cars moved onward. What was left was a little girl, with ten balloons, standing barefoot on the dusty road. The colorful sight of the balloons suddenly lost all its charm. Ajay, realized that the little girl was selling balloons for a living.

As he came closer to the traffic signal, Kalpana ran towards him, hoping to sell a balloon to the old man.

There were no words spoken. Ajay stopped on the pavement, and Kalpana stood right in front of him, with hope in her eyes.

Ajay smiled. In that moment, he gave her something that was denied to her all her life. A modicum of attention.

He dug into his pocket and slid out a ten rupee note. Kalpana’s eyes lit up. She quickly untied a yellow balloon from her stick and offered it to the old man.

Ajay gave the ten rupee note to her. He held the soft thread that was tied on to the yellow balloon. He smiled and offered the balloon to Kalpana.

She could not understand the transaction. The old man looked into her eyes one last time and walked away. Little Kalpana stood on the pavement with the ten rupee note and the yellow balloon in one hand and the stick with nine balloons in the other hand.

Before she could take a moment to understand what had happened, the traffic began to swell up. She quickly got to work again, trying to sell balloons on the roadside.

Later in the evening, she was left with two balloons. In her right hand, she had the yellow balloon and dangling from the stick in her left hand, there was a red balloon.

A lady in a car summoned Kalpana by blaring her car horn. She ran quickly to her, hoping to sell the last balloon and go home.

The lady asked for two balloons. Kalpana looked up at both the balloons.
At that moment, as she looked at the yellow balloon, a strong feeling took over her heart. How could she sell the yellow balloon? It was hers!

Somehow, she found the courage to say she only had one balloon to sell.
The lady in the car asked for the yellow one for her kid seated next to her. Little Kalpana was firm about her emotion for the yellow balloon. She told the lady that only the red balloon was up for sale.

The signal was about to turn green soon. Caving to the wheedling of her little kid, the lady in the car bought the red balloon from Kalpana. Soon, the car was gone, in the direction of the next traffic signal.

Kalpana was only left with one balloon. The yellow one.
A smile surfaced on Kalpana’s innocent face. She danced her way to her hut next to the pavement, with the yellow balloon, the sun of her life.

That morning, the elderly gentleman Ajay, had bought something priceless with just ten rupees.
With the compassionate transaction, he had brought Kalpana, a moment of her own childhood.

 


Photo by Sagar Patil via Unsplash

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