Birthday Greetings

Greetings pour in the morning, by the evening, it's a mere trickle,

As I smile throughout the day in joy, by the end, it's morphed into a wrinkle.

A wrinkle, gently woven in time, for the day you own, the tessarect,

You can travel as you wish to the golden days, relive, and resurrect. 

The next 364 days are a fresh account, use today's credits to make a deposit.

Its Best Use By date is exactly next year, on your greetings, you can't just sit.

Bleed greetings daily, slow and nice, color red their special day,

Take time to connect and wish them, so on your special day, they may.

 

What goes around, does come back, for Karma is a saint,

The more you sprinkle on their timeline, the more your wall they'll paint.

50 people wished me today, each thoughtful, and in their own way kind,

Pressed by time or due to habit, I wrote 'thanks' without paying mind.

 

I wish to thank all those who wished, I want to make amends,

So 'Thank You' and wish you in advance, as my birthday comes to an end. 

Another Year in Wonderland

Another year has bitten the dust, a new one looms ahead,

The queen of hearts within me shouts, off with its head!

Another year of chains and cuffs, I'd rather be caught dead,

Sentence first- verdict afterwards, for another year earn your bread.

If you don't know where you are going, any year will take you there,

The cheshire cat within me grins, we're all mad in here.

Lap up the year as fast as you can, it's all you have got,

No, I'll look first to ascertain, it's marked 'poison' or not.

The coming year is older, and must hence better know,

If it doesn't begin now, I don't see how it can ever go.

Which way it ought to go from here, I don't much care,

It'll get somewhere as long as I, live long enough and dare.

The year would go round a deal faster, if everybody their business minded,

Everything, including this poem's got a moral, if only you can find it!

The Knowledge Gap

'What is reality?' The question pales, in front of the primal 'Who am I?',

 If you know yourself in and out, the cloak of Maya you can surely say bye.

To explore every nook and corner, don't swim on the surface, but dive deep,

Once you are ready to confront the shadow, the light will be yours to finally keep.

Don't I know myself? You counter, I've been living with me for years,

You have to let go of these impressions, see with fresh eyes, be all ears.

Once your cup is drained empty, you can fill it with what's true,

By questioning familiar and obvious things, you'll become wise, who knew!

I know myself, I can question anything, now it's time to go with the flow,

Wu-Wei and Tao nudge to become water, neither gushing nor sinking low.

Nature does not rush and hurry, the tree takes its time to grow,

Just gracefully dance on the barren fields, as seeds of life you sow. 

I've read Jung, Socrates, and Lao Tzu, I've read Bhagwad Geeta too, 

But if knowledge doesn't spur me to act, what remedy, what to do?

The Matrix Realisations

Not plugged into the matrix, I'm plugged into my phone,

I'm on every social network, yet while scrolling feel alone.

What am I if not the sum, of my mobile number and email address?

That I am more digital than real, how do this reality I redress?

I can choose to swallow the red pill, and look you straight in the eyes,

You'd be hunched on your phone, that there are sentients, is a pack of lies.

The blue pill prevents awkwardness, of feeling human again,

When I don't look and can't be rejected, it saves me all the pain.  

If even for a singular moment, someone tries to yank me off,

The algorithm serves me more posts, is a hydra, all you may scoff.

It's a lost and futile battle, I end up drowning in the rabbit hole,

My body and mind have been harnessed, the only salvation is my soul.

I might be a slave to the machines, I still can dream to fly,

By writing a poem daily, I can to liberate you daily try.

Weekend Recuperation

Weekdays sap my energy, weekends I sleep like a log,

To recharge my body fully, all noise and light I block.

I resist the laptop's start button, it's a screen-free time and zone,

I shy from blue rays, or smart tabs, as if transported to an age of stone.

Mind may race with thoughts still, I steady some words on a page,

Journaling, mindfulness, meditation, all tools to hammer the mind's rage.

Volunteering my time to causes dear, fills the spiritual void,

Sunrise and sunset fill my cup, the emptiness is destroyed.

The emotions bottled during the week, resurface and bubble up,

As I pour my heart on paper, it's filled again- my heart's cup.

Toxic people pushed aside, I choose with whom to socialise, 

I guard my solitude with my life, I know where my priority lies. 

I may heal my body and mind, but there will always be something amiss,

My weekend will remain bedridden, till I write a sonnet for you, miss!

Really Simple Lifting

What do most writers pine for, to be read, and read widely,

That books cost money to print, prevent the idea fire spreading wildly. 

That's the reason the middlemen- the publishers were born,

In the age of screens and tablets, their relevance is all but gone. 

I can now download from libgen, or read online at SciHub,

Drink from the philosophical fountain, while seated in a cafe or pub.

The knowledge has flown from cages, I no longer need the author's consent,

They would be happy with the arrangement, only the publishers resent.

When I pen a poem daily, leaning on the shoulders of giants,

Do I need to credit everyone? I'm undecided and defiant.

I may sincerely try to recollect, but there are many more unconscious sway,

So should I compensate the publishers, who, anyway, peanuts authors pay. 

Consent, credit, or compensation, the genuine authors don't care a bit,

You can train AI on their texts all you want; humans already pilfer without regret. 

Choosing Well

Wading through a hundred unread emails, rather than savoring James Joyce,

Filling your calendar with meetings and to-dos, keeping busy is a choice. 

You may lament hunching all day through, that for yourself, you have no time,

It's you who said yes to all those requests, nine times out of nine.

Compulsively reading and replying to emails, afraid to lose the signal in the noise,

Buried under the weight of others' expectations, taking stress is a choice.

You can whine and claim victimhood, trade freedom for responsibilities,

Ruminate and bear it all stoically, but it's all self-inflicted, please. 

Hesitant to send that email out, I still haven't found my voice,

Not writing that sonnet for a loved one, having regret, is a choice.

All the potential dates that I let slip by, the career breaks I didn't take,

I lived a passive, almost sheltered life, adventureless for Christ's sake. 

Joy, too, is a choice I can exercise, pen a poem every day,

I don't have to earn the right to be happy; it should precede, what do you say?