Sreenath Sreenivasan

Thriving Mindfully

Category: Poetey

How a forest grows

A Sapling always looks up to a tree,

A Tree never looks down upon a sapling

That is the only way how,

Forests are created.




Photo : Bryan Minear via Unsplash

Juggling Joy and Sorrow

A candle needs, air to burn,
But along comes the breeze
For the sake of light, it puts up a fight,
Never looking for ease.

In wishing for Joy and running from sorrow,
Man makes up a mess.
For there to be light, shouldn’t there exist,
A blinding darkness?

As you run, into life’s arena,
Let Joy and Sorrow be either stride,
With a balance such, it isn’t a challenge much,
To perfect laughter shall your instincts guide.

Not in running away, but in running into
The battlefield shall you thrive,
For only in moments of battle, does a soldier feel,
Truly Alive.

Trust the stars, and  frown not,
When life calls for a fight.
For would the sun ever set,
If there wasn’t beauty in the night?

Cultivate a farmer’s trust, and sow your deeds in the soil,
And fate shall blossom, from the beads of sweat,
Of all your toil.

Find equanimity in Joy, and courage in sorrow,
Let crystal clear be your sight.

Find the fuel, deep in you heart,
And with resolution, set it alight.

Set out in this journey, enthused,
With all you might,

And then, life shall enter your heart,
With all of its light.


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A Farmer’s Demise

Life gives the farmer grains and lemons few,
He take them to sell, with a hope new,
And again he falls for the market’s spell,
He makes a big loss, for all that he could sell.


Life gives Sahib, means to money and more,
He trades all day, hoping the market shall soar,
A seasoned player, he knows the game too well,
He makes a fortune yet, to no one shall he tell


The farmer in agony, comes home to rest,
He pours himself a drink meant for a pest,
Dejected, in tears, down he chugs,
And wreaths and submits to a death meant for bugs.


The Sahib comes home, ecstatic from the gain,
He pours himself a drink, brewed from the farmer’s grain,
Elated, he finds himself in seventh heaven,
And follows the drink with a lick of salt and lemon.


It is high time, Sahib needs an awakening rude,
He needs the farmer, even before there is any food,
Sahib, make a change, make sure that you see,
That no farmer ever dies, wishing money grew on his tree.



Lola and the River

In summertime, the river is a channel narrow,
A trickle, it flows, as if in deep sorrow

And even though the river bank turns into a desert,
The river remains a friend she would never ever desert.

In monsoon, it floods, as clouds cry a river,
It flows with a fury, she hadn’t seen ever

And even though for safety, she has to run away,
For the river, she would kneel down and silently pray.

In winter, the river freezes to ice,
It’s a miracle of nature, a superb surprise,

From her warm company and the songs she would sing,
The ice melted slowly, to the arrival of spring.

In springtime the river has a gentle flow,
She’s ecstatic and so is her water buffalo

And nature responds to her love and deep wish
The river is full of flowers and fish.

Seasons change but to the river she is always nice,
Her life is a sign, a subtle advice,

For Little Lola she knew,
A truth simple,
That people are rivers,
And rivers are people.

Image : Delphi De La Rua via Unsplash


A Rhyme for Lola

Little little Lola,
She was sure she knew
That each morning the birds,
Sang a song new,

Everyday they chirrup,
The world they apprise
Of the daily wonder, the gift,
Of a new Sunrise.

To an ear untrained,
The song is clamour
Unintelligible, without any glamour.

And If eyes could truly see,
They would know why
Each sunrise is new,
A painting in the sky.

But Little Lola, wise,
With senses in sync,
With nature she has, a seamless link

So each morning she sings,
She dances along
To the gift of each sunrise,
Of every birdsong.

Picture : Khanh Steven via Unsplash



Life of a butterfly

A butterfly’s wings
Feebly though
Applaud each moment
Of its brief, colorful life.

Cables of convenience

When water comes to me from a silver tap,
I want it either hot or cold
But if I needed to go fetch water in a pail
Just water would do.

What makes the difference?
Is it the metal pipes?
I wonder.

If food comes to me riding on a scooter,
I want it to taste just right,
But if I had to cook myself,
A simple stir fry would do.

What makes the difference?
Is it convenience on discount?
I wonder.

If entertainment comes to me riding on waves,
I want it tailored just right,
But if I’m in the countryside
I just need a street play or the clear sky of the night.

What makes the difference?
Is it the fiber optic cables?
I wonder.

When electricity comes to me breezing from a tube,
Days aren’t long enough, even if lights makes a day of the night,
While in the wilderness, with two bulbs in the sky, the length of each day is always just right.

What makes the difference?
Is it the black cables dangling overhead?
I wonder.

What makes the difference,
What doesn’t enable but un-ables?
Is it the waves in the air, the pipes and
All those cables?

Now I understand,
It took me a while,
All cables make me hungry and immobile.

I observe, learn and understand bit by bit,
Each cable of transmission attenuates the value of what flows in it.

A resource no matter how replete,
My wants can easily deplete,
Partake in need, it makes sense complete,
And easily shall my ends meet.

In moderation, and minimalism
Does lay all the sense
I realise the path that I should tread hence,
Do away with all wants,
And all pretence,
And not be a puppet tied to,
Cables of convenience.

The song of an old Denim

At last, the surprise I’d been longing for years
Elated, I find, myself in tears

The surprise of light and warmth such
Of daylight and a Human’s touch.

I’m a denim, a pair of jeans old
Left years ago in a closet cold

Had I known back then, I would shout
That maybe I would never make it out

But today we meet, and I rest in your palm
And I lead you drifting into an ocean calm

Of reveries and memories from an innocent space
That was left behind with your life’s pace.

I’m blue, patched up, tattered with a bloodstain
I remind you of times of frolic and pain

Nestled safely in each warp and weft
Are stories of how you laughed and wept

Remember how casually you’d check a pocket slot
And in an old crumpled note find a Jackpot?

I’m not a mirror, I show much beyond what can be seen,
Perhaps in disguise, I am the fabled time machine.

And now we’re old, but that’s no reason to be sad,
I’m a friend, a reminder of all friends you’ve ever had.

I am dated fashion, but timeless memories I hold
Could I, for any price, ever be sold?

We do share a longing, as much as it’s pure,
You can’t wear me, and I don’t fit you anymore.

But it’s time to part ways, lay me in the closet again
Come back to me as you feel, the memories I shall forever contain…

And from an ocean of Nostalgia, I summon a tear ripe,
You hold me close and your eyes you wipe

And in that moistness,
In my dark enclosure,
I fall asleep again,
To this emotional closure.

The meaning of life as revealed by a tree

In the woods I stood, facing a friend
A tree
Whose life was breathing poetry

I had a question
And it knew,
‘Ask’, it said
To the wind as it blew

Cur Hic Statis‘, my friend my dear,
Why is it, that you stand here?

Gently it smiled, content in its being,
Revealing an answer in what I was seeing.

‘Even when I was a seed’ said the tree
‘I believed in all that I could ever be
Buried in soil, I couldn’t hear, not see
But Give and Grow was mother nature’s decree.’

And when I was a sapling, I aimed for the sky
Not doubtful about how and why
The sun was the compass, the aim was high
I had to blossom, I had to grow,
Else life would be a lie.

I realised from the day I was sown,
The need for water was much bigger than my own
So, each leaf and petal, through pleasure and pain
Sang hymns to the wind and summoned rain.

Restful yet restless, with no time to bide
My nature, as nature’s is to provide
Through ups and downs, in the season’s tow
Sometimes fast, at times slow,
But never do I stop to grow.

Droughts and passing storms give an advice sound,
Be humble and have feet firmly on the ground
And even if I cannot move helter-skelter
For those who can, I give shade and shelter.

WORK, I know not, I only know BEING
How could living be of any other kind?
After all, it’s a matter of choosing and believing,
The world is a projection of your mind.

Cur hic statis
‘Why do you stand here’ you ask
As the end comes close by the hour

I’m a hundred trees,
A million fruit,
A billion flower.

A fruit lands in my lap, breaking my reverie,
What I could be.

I eat the fruit and plant the seed
As I journey on,
To become a tree.

A Calling

That fabled calling
I am afraid I haven’t heard it yet…

But nature,
Clever in its design
Didn’t give us the choice
To Un-hear

Despite the din,
I wait
With patient ears,
Trusting the design
Of the Universe