Will You Please Reconsider?

Your mom said in anger, you're a burden on earth,

You took it to heart, lamenting why you took birth.

Your presence is pure joy, to your dear and loved ones,

Talk of being a burden irrelevant, between mothers and sons.

 

The labyrinth is soul-sucking, you're trapped beyond repair,

You're exhausted by all the running, ready to succumb to despair.

The tunnels are dark and cold, but there's always a way out,

If you wait enough you'll glimpse the sun, as it emerges from the cloud.

 

What use to survive this night, you don't belong to this tribe,

Even in death you stand alone, the voice in the head makes a jibe.

The lack of bonds is imaginary, there's always someone you can call,

And discuss at 4 am in the night, all matters big and small.

 

The future may look dim right now, the battle all but lost,

But to not witness that fickle future, is too steep a cost.

 

PS: Written on the occasion of The World Suicide Prevention Day 2026.  

For You Or For Me?

Bored between meetings, you scroll through the feed,

Among 100 competing stimuli, my poem you read.

Bored throughout the day, I let thoughts fester into verse,

Hunched on my desk, I touch you, for better or worse.

 

My poem catches your eyes, it's a microcosm of your life,

Capturing with high fidelity, your daily dilemmas and strife.

I make it a point to dump daily, it's a habit like the bath or the brush,

And for the very same reasons, that the dust doesn't my soul crush.

 

My poems make you squirm, stops you dead in your tracks,

You can recognize aspects of you, as you peep through the cracks.

I know because I can write with skill, each incident big and small,

As long as I process my feelings daily, I'll never hit the wall.

 

My poems make you ponder, what it's like to be human again,

For me it documents my wonder, that I continue to remain sane.

Retirement Blues

Learn, earn, retire, you are now at life's third stage,

Managing finances, should ideally, occupy you at this age.

But the one thing that you miss, is no structure to your time,

No one dependent on you anymore, and not mattering a dime.

 

Your respect is still solid, cashflow curtailed, but there,

What bothers you is the purposelessness, and no one to care.

The demands of the sedentary job, still kept you moved around,

Left to your own device, you now binge watch, don't hit the ground.

 

Be it retirement, or a sudden job loss, the lack of routine hits hard,

You need to cultivate groups beforehand, can't play the victim card.

Go on a daily walk with friends, on each Saturday attend breakfast,

Volunteer at the local charity, and you'll be back on your feet pretty fast.

 

Retirement may pose a risk of depression, for people other than me,

My daily poem practice ensures, I spend meaningful time with thee.

The Gift

To some you dedicate your poems, to others you can offer only your life,

My poems may not mention her, but she's there in the background- my wife.

For how can poems of love and pain flow, or even those of hope and despair,

Unless you are moored to solid earth, and left to explore themes fair and square.

 

To write an ode to her seems odd, as if praising one's own self,

I've become much like her, and she like me, the fusion we can't help.

As we age with grace, we'll merge even more, or so the research says,

With her as my mirror, I'm always ready, to embrace the golden days.

 

There's magic in the bond we share, but it requires a sleight of hands,

Because we put efforts, over the years, the trick with elegance lands.

I err at times, don't pull my weight, yet you ignore my quirks and flaws,

Like the Savitri you are ever ready to snatch, me from the death's jaws.

 

The poet in me, can hardly die, if your birthday is near the midnight stroke,

I offer just my wishes and presence, for aren't poets supposed to be broke?

The Absurd Practice

Only a few get discovered eventually, most remain invisible and obscure,

That you'll get recognition posthumously, are you confident, are you sure?

The world is not malicious, it simply doesn't for anyone care,

You cannot bridge the chasm, no matter how long you stare. 

 

A deep abyss stretches between, your desire to make sense,

To capture in your poetry,  all matters light and dense,

And the indifference of the universe, that you cannot capture in verse,

You may not matter to the world, but the world perturbs you- for better or worse.  

 

You constructed an elaborate ruse, with poetry at its core,

Which may be systematically dismantled, with random events in store.

You get a lucky breakthrough, land a high paying job,

Poetry practice goes for a toss, your serenity the work robs.

 

When I say the world is indifferent, it's not cruel, it may land a jackpot,

So just let me write poems daily, never mind if they are neither read nor sought.

Poised Precariously

You are what you pretend, so choose your mask wise,

It will fuse with your face, so better embroider it nice.

The veneer of self confidence, makes your face shine and glow,

Doubts may gnaw at your belly, but you can't let the upper parts know.

In the midst of a winter, pretend you have discovered an invincible summer, 

Keep smiling through grief and loss, authenticity- what a bummer.

Your body doesn't really keep track, whether the smile is genuine or fake,

Your mind is already saturated to brim, there's only this much that it can take.

 

In projecting to be emotionally centered, I have imbibed that role,

Seeking help is surely for losers, being anti-fragile my goal.

I purposely practiced for this adversity, in my mind I've figured it all,

If I neither win nor lose this round, I'll just proclaim it as a close call.

 

Pretending to live, life on the edge,

Like Humpty Dumpty, I my sanity pledge.

A Tribute To Shukla ji

I want to write an elegy, but I'll keep it brief,

I'm still absorbing the shock, of the unprocessed grief.  

In the space between paperwork, and the funeral rites,

I'm emptying my feelings, to get some respite.

 

Adored on all occasions, whether big or small,

Would it sound cliche, if I say he was loved by all?

He was the life of society, of our walk group,

He drained the life from all of us, in one fell swoop.

 

My loss is perhaps little, compared to the family's plight,

To spare us all the agony, he quietly departed in the night.

The guiding light that he was, he's now watching from afar,

Giving my poem the usual thumbs up, this time from the stars.   

 

No poem can do justice, to the person we'll miss,

We pray to God he finds peace, and everlasting bliss.