Thanks For The Tea

The monk sips the morning tea, thanking each leaf,

Drowning in the taste and aroma, of that moment brief.

The mind remains focused, the world stands still,

To experience that rapture, I'll gladly die or kill.

 

Dengue bit me hard, I almost rented the death bed,

Crawling my way out, I am now out of zone red.

A warm cup of tea, now tastes pure bliss,

Once I get on with my life, this feeling I'll miss.

 

You may serve me exotic Matcha, but if my mind is elsewhere,

I will miss the elegant Sado, a ceremony both ordinary and rare.

Anything can become transcendent, if a moment you can spare,

But as the poet laments, where's the time to look and stare.

 

I write for you daily, mine is an ordinary craft,

Would you recognize, in your busyness, if it was indeed high art?

Finding Meaning

Holding a job is not enough, is it another rung up the ladder?

If it makes you sleep well at night, so much so the better.

Preventing suicides is a calling, working in mental health tech a mere job,

Work is where your life gets spent, so don't let it of you meaning rob.

 

Holding a marriage is not enough, you need to master deep love,

Be a best friend, in-house therapist, a romantic partner, all above.

Co-parenting keeps you glued, you're bonded for seven lives,

Marriage is the meaningful thread, that tethers husbands and wives.

 

Love and work, work and love, that's all there is,

To find meaning in these, is to discover eternal bliss.

Spread your eggs across baskets, spend time on hobbies too,

The more friends you have beyond marriage, the better it will do.

 

You ask in your work and love, can you discover the meaning of life?

A better question—what meaning you allow, to your work and wife?

80 Tokens Only?

80 tokens is all I get, that's my weekly quota, 

If I exhaust by creating stupid memes, can't move further an iota.

The coding project gets held up, till I pay the price and resume,

That a higher tier gives infinite tokens, is it too much to presume? 

 

80 k hours is my whole work life, so say men of note,

10 k hrs takes to build expertise, another 10 k for my moat.

The tap of time will run dry soon, there's not an hour I can waste,  

There's more to life than querying LLMs, and indulging in copy paste.

 

80 k tokens they can regurgitate fast, as a novelist I simmer slow,

800 words is max I can craft, in a day if I'm in a state of flow.

But what about when I'm writing poems, cause 80 tokens is all I get,

Need to compress my vulnerability within it, and feelings of readers whet. 

 

80 tokens is all you get, that's the average lifespan,

Spend each as if it's your last one, you'll not be able to renew, O man!

Five More Tickets

I have never played blackjack or roulette, I'm a man of limited charms,

It has been drilled into me since time of birth—the gambling's many harms.

The deck is stacked against you, the house in the long run wins,

Like drugs it's strongly addictive, it's one of the cardinal sins.

 

But there is magic in buying a lottery ticket, the jackpot fantasy serves,

I know my needs inside out—no one better than me the prize deserves.

From the moment I hold the ticket, to the time the numbers are called,

There's never a dull moment, boredom and ennui from my life are recalled.   

 

When I lose this round, there's a momentary dip, but the next ticket boosts the soul,

To win the jackpot at least once in life, is my humble, determined goal.

Just yesterday I bought 5 more tickets, to increase my winning odds,

The weekly offerings made, now off to pray and appease the Gods.  

 

Writory or another competition, one poem or five others,

Enough of sending messages in a bottle, it's high time I win brothers.

The Poem I Never Wrote

The city you never re-visited, the phone call you never made,

You might've disappeared and bought peace, but a heavy price you paid.

You surrendered your edge and sharpness, to merge with the crowd,

'We have managed to domesticate you', with triumph they cry aloud.  

 

The message you typed and deleted, the poem you didn't share,

You'll regret these on your deathbed, but the world doesn't care.

As long as you fit in neat boxes, all is right with this universe,

Only death can bring you closure, then you can pay homage in verse.

 

The magazine you never applied to, the poet you couldn't become,

The ghost of un-lived life haunts you, till life ends, and then some.

The burden in the form of the Pitru Rin, your child now carries forth,

To exorcise this ghost, let your song flow out, don't die before death henceforth.  

 

The ending that built on my love for you, I've endlessly edited and modified,

That you could come across my unpolished mess, leaves me perennially mortified.

Driven To Be Better

I'm going on my morning walk, listening to a podcast,

My step counts prod me gently, and I start moving fast.

The podcast is on deep work, how attention shouldn't be spread, 

I always listen while walking, in an effort to be well-read.

 

For reading stuff is important, either on screen or on paperback,

It's the only way you can self-improve, and discover what you lack. 

I've read about compounding habits, about how to become whole,

This obsession with becoming better, has left in my pocket a hole.

 

Just yesterday I was reading, on relationships and love,

While my wife was making chapatis, in the kitchen on a stove.

I played all evening with ideas, strategies to deepen the bond,

She tossed and kneaded the dough, waiting for how I'll respond.

 

To implement my new-found learning, I went out with her on an evening walk,

I wanted her to co-listen to a deep love podcast, while all she wanted was just to talk.

Buying Some Meaning

I have the means to live, of meaning I'm not so sure,

Profit has sucked my purpose, there's a vacuum evermore.

Pristine and sanitized, I've become sterile and dead,

Passion has been drained from me, all to win some bread?

 

I need a distraction, to ward off the despair,

Sitting atop a pile of cash, in the abyss I stare.

I suffer in my bones daily, I have a tortured mind,

Can money buy me meaning, in cash or kind?

 

Of course I have become so rich, that all I have is money,

I donate to so many causes, if it weren't pathetic, it would be funny.

I toil in the day like a machine, in the night let donation receipts placate,

Money doesn't make room for meaning, it's a tenant that now won't vacate.

 

I can throw the money out of the window, spend my life creating art,

If you buy me a coffee now and then, finding meaning won't be so hard.