Question

For what?

After all we go through, after all we endure, after all the planning we do and after all the sacrifices me make, at the end of the day we are confronted by one question and one question alone.

For what? For what did I do all this? For what reason? For what purpose?

Trying to find an answer to this myself, here I am, looking to share my thoughts.

For what?

Synonymous with life, uncertainty hovers.
Unknown, unanswered and unpredictable at its core.
Yet we never stop with our endeavours,
For what? Dear dweller, I am unsure.
Despite a destination, common to all,
We choose different paths and songs of life.
Dwelling, which is innate in our nature,
Makes us wander and wonder how to thrive.
Why do we do all that which is being done?
Answering it would solve my mystery.
No matter who we are, we are supposed to run,
Summary of our entire history.

Reason

It has been quite a while since I wrote anything. Maybe it is because I have been busy lately or maybe there is a reason.

Yes, it sometimes doesn’t make much sense to do what we do in our day-to-day life but yet somehow it all comes together in the final picture. Maybe this is why there is always a reason behind anything anyone ever does.

Read to know…know to read

Reason

Not everything will make a perfect sense,

Perhaps something we should be thankful for.

This long journey encompassing all tense,

Never ceases to startle us like before.

And while we learn and adapt to our lives,

Declaring solidarity with a lady named luck.

A quaint fellow manages to thrive,

Appearing in the end to leave us awestruck.

Again, not everything will make perfect sense,

Perhaps that is what helped us all along.

Behind every uncertainty, possibility and suspense,

Lies a reason, incomprehensible and strong.

A Painter

Women are mysterious they say. They are never fully understood by anyone which makes them special.

Yes, words are not to demean anyone but to highlight the beauty of the mystery women carry with themselves. A similar beautiful encounter is penned below.

She was a painter who saw it all.

A Painter

Summer of Spain, two thousand and ten.

I see a painter sitting by the street,

Face so innocent, eyes so calm.

She makes painting of those who desire.

Each stroke has its own charm.

I see her eyes as hypnotic as they are,

Looking at children playing in the alley,

My table and her chair aren’t much far,

Her paintings aren’t anything less of a story.

Oh and there is a secret, she keeps to herself,

Known only to a few like myself,

What you see is unknown to her,

While her vision is the painting itself.

A phone call

It happened while I was in the park,

Resting in the soothing shade of a tree,

And as I rested my head on its bark,

A call came from a number I couldn’t see.

Voice was familiar from a time in past,

Hello itself sent shivers down my spine.

“You came here, my friend, at last,

But where is our customery wine?”

I demanded him to introduce self,

To which he said a member of my troop.

“Captain! I no longer need any help,

But I do miss our fierce little group.”

“It’s time for me to report to station,

Day eleventh, March of Fourty-four,

You laid your life for us, for our nation,

Enjoy the soothing shade a little more”

eternal silence…

A video journey of The Poet and the Pen

Almost all my poems had a featured image (which do not belong to me in any way whatsoever)

Each image was used with the purpose of letting my readers understand and connect with my words at a much better level.

This video shows my journey and the rich content this blog has to offer…

Read the poems once you are done with the video (especially those whose images you like)

See to know…know to read

Happy Monday!

Creativity

 

women-creativity
Let me take you to the creative lane,
A place which is made of thoughts.
Hours of work along with happiness and pain,
Glorifying the artists who dwells on those spots.

A sketch wall built from scratch,
By the artist who visions and draws.
Everything you see is a perfect match,
Of a time which is forever at pause.

A dance alley where music surrounds,
Allowing the artists to express.
Every step is synced with the sounds,
To escape from the chaos, the stress.

A quiet garden, full of trees,
With leaves inked in thoughts.
Allows the writers to pass the keys,
To worlds that exists amidst plots.

A lake so calm and musically pure,
With singers singing their hearts.
The water there can help if not cure,
A place where every journey starts.

And finally a theatre near the lake,
Where an actor hides in plain sight.
So many hours of practice and re-takes,
It takes before the enchantment falls right.

They do what they do not for anyone,
But for the one that matter the most.
An artist sails in search of fun,
That hides in finding the lost.


~ A fellow Artist

Portkey

1919.jpg

On the cold night of December 23,
As I was walking by the lake,
Laid on the grass, a beautiful key,
Remarkable, hard to make.

Tempted to find the door it belonged,
I walked here and there.Yet,
Found nothing after searching for long,
So I sat on this side chair.

Didn't realise what happened next, 
But I woke up at the same spot. 
Everything seemed simple yet complex,
As I sat on the chair I had sought.

It was evening when I woke up, 
And people were walking around.
Medieval seemed the whole setup, 
Even the currency spoke of a crown.

On the far side I saw a man, 
Who looked just as did I. 
Smiled, left a note and a pen,
Written, "I am glad you came by".

Further read…

"I wonder how it will be,
A reflection from the future far,
Let I alone find this key,
And smile while feeling bizarre"

~The Poet,1765