A Waste of Time

50 years vanished, a waste of time,

Didn't dent the universe, didn't matter a dime,

Except for the few, who were touched for the better,

How far and long the ripples traveled, does it really matter?  

 

50 years looming, a poetic wasteland,

Writing mediocre poems, in sight no end.

Except for the few, that will pierce your heart,

Make you stop in your tracks, that's the lure of art.  

 

50 years reached, a milestone to celebrate,

Pretend to be happy, and smile at any rate.  

Except for the few, when the mask reveals the self,

You behold the beauty, of sensitivity you can't help.

 

Connection, and living-in-the moment, not to protect them would be a crime,

For the next 50 years I'll happily continue, nurturing them by wasting time.

Give Me Some Sunshine...

The war pinches a little, you couldn't prevent the doom,

A lost friendship stabs deep, hardens you with its gloom.

Some pain you cultivate and curate, others you let go soon,

In the right amount the mud of pain, makes your poetic lotus bloom.

 

There's a dim satisfaction in knowing, you helped prevent a few suicides,

When your friends write a poem on your B'Day, you're bursting with joy on all sides.

For some slivers of joy, you had to work hard, others were thrown in your lap,

If you don't let it get to your head, this wellspring of joy, for your poems you can tap.

 

The loss of a loved one may perturb you a bit, you quickly recover compose,

The equanimity that has over time morphed to apathy, a greater danger to you pose.

Emotions recollected in tranquility, isn't that how poems are supposed to be born,

Each poem has to be discarded post writing, just like clothes old and worn.

 

You wish for me strength and serenity, I wish for me joy and pain,

What's life without a moderate bit, of some sunshine and some rain. 

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.