Sreenath Sreenivasan

Thriving Mindfully

Tag: Poetry (page 1 of 4)

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.

Night and Day

The earth swirls
Under a cosmic lamp
Night and Day.

Stories on a Bookshelf

Leaning on each other

Are books on a bookshelf

And they whisper together

Of the stories they contain…

 

 

 

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?

 


 

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