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.

Unsinkable

All the water in the world, can't sink my ship,

Unless I let it in, then it'll be gone in a blip. 

So I toil day and night, to keep intact the hull,

With waves breaching daily, there's not a  moment dull.  

 

Even a hairline fracture, can eventually flood the room, 

Lowering my guard for a moment, will lead to inevitable doom. 

Imagine therefore my horror, to find a severely cracked plank,

I fill it with golden lacquer, and with beauty reach the bank.

 

You can't stop the waves, but like a captain you can ride,

Allow what to seep through, and how to fight the merciless tide.

If you pay heed to the voices, you'll surely drown,

When you build strong walls, you'll smile not frown.

 

You say to survive this world, I need to grow a thick skin,

What use are swords and knives, when I can be burst with a pin. 

If Money Were No Object

If money were no object, I'd be hunched at desk,

Writing poems of love, from dawn till dusk.

But the lure of money, is real and strong,

Selling poetry is OK, writing poems wrong.

 

If status were no object, I'd forever be in school,

Wade and wallow in what I love, with the naivety of a fool.  

But your reputation precedes, the work you do,

So I'm tempted to amass degrees, to shut the likes of you. 

 

If duty were no object, I'd just laze all day,

Run agents to do my work, and with ChatGPT play.

But responsibility is a tech debt, keeps you awake at night,

The program keeps running, till it gets the user intent right.

 

If impact were no object, I'd be stuck at a dead end job,

But I'm letting the entrepreneurial grind, my mind peace rob. 

Why So Prolific?

I craft poems, to keep getting likes, 

Modifying the themes, if I perchance get yikes.

I daily endure, to ensure you come back,

The dip in views, guarantees my comeback.

 

I craft poems, to ward off guilt, 

Around invoking muse at will, my whole life built.

If the muse deserts me, I'll die of shame, 

I pride on writing daily, it's not a hobby or game.

 

I craft poems, because I value the art,

My daily practice ensures, I can play the poet part.

The daily discipline, is now a part of me,

If I'm not a poet, who am I, you see?

 

I craft poems, because I find it fun,

I get deeply engrossed, and time doesn't run.