Dried Ink

Coming back…

 

Ironic!

A live street in an iconic city,

Yet everything seems dull as a desert.

Pages are blank while the Pen is witty,

Ironically the writer is unable to assert.

 

Which brings into question the reason for this,

This void of thoughts in an ever thinking mind.

And as the writer seeks the miss,

He lost his eyes and turned blind.

 

Chair right in the front made a noise,

As if someone just came and sat.

And in a sound similar to mine, said

“It’s time for you to have a chat”

 

I listened as I narrated an old story,

Who, What, Why and When came back.

A poet who was in his prime and glory,

Is in need of a whole new track.

 

And no one else could tell me that,

For no one else knows me for I.

Yes, sometimes you need to put on the wise old hat,

And look for yourself with a blind eye.

 

The story he narrated is different for each of us,

And so is the struggle, so is the fuss.

Suddenly the voice muted and I could see,

A new path and an awaiting bus…

 

Branches

For the very first time, I am allowing my own voice to sound the Poem I wrote for the world. For those who do not have the time to read my words, can now hear it from the composer.

Do let me know if you liked it as much as I did composing it.

Listen to know…know to read

 

While I carved life on the canvas,

A beguiling form started to emerge.

Haywired but pristine to look at,

Many lines did while many didn’t converge.

Upon completion I took a few steps back,

And gazed at a multi-coloured tree.

Each branch with its own demeanour,

That only the carver would see.

Each chapter of ours created a branch of its own,

Some ended, some persisted, and some awaited.

Each with soft sweet fruits or white harsh stones,

For us to taste as life advocated.

Haywired but pristine is what I saw,

Because each branch had a beautiful outline.

Good ones were good and bad ones weren’t flawed,

In the end, every chapter turned out just fine.

 

2 hours tale

On a small flight of about 2 hours,

I realised one simple silly fact.

This seemingly social society of ours,

Behaves such when there is nothing to distract.

A 2 hours tale…

So I sat next to this seemingly ordinary person,

Whose name is not important to this tale.

The flight took off as we acted to our version,

Unknown of the things that were about to unveil.

It took us a while to settle down and adjust,

There were no books, tv shows, or movies to trust,

Eventually the protocol came into effect,

Awkwardly two strangers decided a conversation is a must.

With no fear of coming across as boring,

No expectations or the necessity to impress,

We talked freely and kept on exploring,

And soon realised that both her and I were a mess.

Funnily we kept on talking for the entire duration,

Two travel freaks who wanted to travel cross nation,

And later as we deboarded at our destination,

It hit me. Chatting is nice but nicer is a good conversation.

Post flight

Stop chatting and start conversing.

 

A conversation

I seek a conversation with me,

But I rarely can manage time.

So I asked, when will I be free?,

Some time during the rhyme.

Amidst all the hustle and bustle,

I found time for everything else,

Life presents opportunities only after tussle,

Opportunities encoded in the book we write for ourselves.

So take a walk and talk during the walk,

For at times you need to hear it from yourself.

Each solution that I need,

Is right next to me round the clock.

Who was that?

Surrounded by fields of golden wheat,

With edge of the forest as it’s fence,

Stood a small town with narrow bricked streets,

Harbouring nothing but suspence.

Many who went there lived the same day,

Uncertain of their own eye’s account.

Strangely enough they all lost their way,

When they met her, a mathematician who couldn’t count.

Her charm was perfect like an old magic spell,

Which gained the trusts of travellers she came by.

Her smile was innocent and meant only well,

And eyes were deep, beautiful and shy.

She asked three questions…

“Where lies the destination you are so destined to be?

For the end is similar for all. Just be free.

Do you really chase your dreams or are you trying to flee?

Careful, this answer is the key.

Close your eyes to see who you are supposed to be?

And just like that, they all ended up alone before a lake by a tree.”

No one ever saw her or heard her voice again,

Yet they felt estrange and rejoice,

Who was that girl and where did she vanish?

Or maybe she was conscience seeking a clear choice.

Tree in the woods

I met a tree in the woods I was lost,

Green and lavish with a little bit frost,

Seeking some rest and shelter from wind,

I ate the fruits it bore, free of cost.

Days passed as I remained stuck,

Fearing the worst as I questioned my luck,

When suddenly I heard, “Life”.

Said the face on the tree trunk.

“Neither can I speak nor run,

Standing still under the Sun.

Facing wind and taking on rain,

I provide all with nothing to gain.

I live life like life lives in us all,

Let me show you though I cannot stroll.

Your childhood is spring, while youth is summer,

Elderly is the autumn and absence is the fall.

However, those who fall are replaced by new,

As that is what life is, simple and true.

Moral of tree is not to scare or haunt,

Live life as if you want because,

Today you are, tomorrow you won’t,

Leaves may fall but roots don’t.”

Bicycle story

Some memories from the old shelves,

Came across as I was passing by.

Without any effort there was a smile,

As for a moment past and I were ally.

On one side is me, rushing from goal to goal,

While on the other was I, running freely as a whole.

On one side is me, with clean and ironed shirt,

While on the other was I, a knight who couldn’t be hurt.

On one side is me, cruising in my car,

While on the other was I, peddling my bicycle to the stars.

For a moment I became me,

For in that moment I was free,

Amazing is that kid we all see,

Bicycle stories are for us to flee.

I and me, The Poet and the Pen

Simple Physics

It is said to have started with a big bang,

And so did the wheels of time.

Just like cosmic bodies we grow old,

And forget many who were once prime.

Life takes us to many places,

Ups and downs being the typical way.

While transversing the idiosyncratic story,

We let go of many without a say.

Old friend you are now lost,

Existing only in the initial pages.

Neither of us did anything wrong,

But we drifted with different stages.

Each one remembers the other,

Smiling with tears at memories of past.

Hope you are doing well,

Friend is one you just cannot recast.

Reap and Sow

This is tough. Every human faces friction when he/she change the gears in life (slow or fast doesn’t matter). After all we are the Human Race.

So as I try to figure out my plan for ahead I am reminded of nature’s most simple principle. You reap what you sow. Now this is important, it is important to sow in the good seeds before the rain arrives, it is important to water them with positivity whenever required otherwise all the wait, the work, and the worry will bear withered crops.

Whenever there is a change in pace, Reap and Sow principle is a must.

Reap and Sow

Every harvest brings a chance of change,

An opportunity to plough and plant.

With life it is an honest exchange,

Sow what you really want.

Each term comes in phases,

Cold, warm, wet and/or wind.

Yet what really amazes is,

Some remain intact while others, skinned.

Difference lies in care and nuture.

It all depends on how you row.

Either take the chance to do better,

Regardless, you reap what you sow.

Nishant Gang, The Poet and the Pen

Breakfast

Thinking is important, no doubt there. However, there is another act which we need to perform with if not equal than with more tenacity. I am talking about a start. Speaking of… without further adieu, read to know…know to read.

Breakfast

How important is it, a start?

Perhaps the most important of all.

How do we know our ventures will last?

We don’t. With life it is our eternal brawl.

That goal which we always wanted to achieve,

Is waiting on the opposite shore.

Enriched with everything that we believe,

There exists atleast a path or more.

Break this cycle which only ponders,

Nothing happens unless we start.

It better to get lost or wander,

Breakfast if you are smart.

Nishant Gang, The Poet and the Pen