For I have lived today

Mad poetry alert!
Continuing on my morbid train of thought, my friend and I were having a 
late-night talk after a death in the family.

Our rituals are so brutal
Burning the body is so final,
And then even the ashes are scattered away;
Letting nothing remain on the way.
Except few memories of the closest in line,
And they too fade away with time,

So one day, there will be nothing left of me,
Nothing to hear, nothing to see;
Nothing to say, that I existed;
Please bury me, I requested.
On a lonely place somewhere,
To tell the world that I am there,

But that wouldn’t be you,
She looked askew.
After all we do, all our gains;
It’s just a body that remains
If they don’t burn it, it’ll just decay.
And no, there is no other way,
To make the world remember,
I too seen a summer and a december,

That I too had laughed and lived,
Loved with all my heart and grieved,
Had seen dreams and some crashes
That I was more than that heap of ashes,
But then, so many have lived and gone,
Leaving nothing but memories,
We too will pass on,
Leaving nothing, but our stories.

We are blessed to have this day,
All we can do, is live for today.

The Story I Never Wrote

For years it was in my plan.

I had a vague sort of plot,

and an idea of the ending,

But wasn’t sure how it began.

I knew what it would be about,

Once I sat down to write,

It’s just that I wrote more in my head,

Than on paper or computer.

So, the story which never got told;

blew around in bits and pieces.

Then came the storm and the rain;

the wind howling through cracks and crevices.

I saw how fragile is this life;

And how tough is this strife,

I felt more than ever before,

That I may not get the chance any more.

I need to write right now,

But the story which was waiting to be read,

Lies in tatters, bereft and shred;

and now it feels like even the words are dead.

Talking about Poetry

Not many people read my blog now. So it is more like the early days-a random diary which the Internet saves for you. A space to write just for the fun of playing with words. 

This one started with a conversation about one more thing I don't understand too well-modern poetry! 



In our days, we had to learn our poems. How does one do that without the cadence?

They as usual, shrug it off as another example of my ignorance

Poetry is how Wordsworth describes daffodils,
it makes you feel like the cloud o’er the hills.

Poetry for me is all about the rhyme;
and the music which stays with you over time.

What makes a poem, mom, is the rhythm;
the kids insist but I can’t agree with’em.

So they try their best to explain:
when you feel that punctuation is a pain,
when you have words, but not the patience,
to find more to complete the sentence,

You just write what you think and feel,
forget the grammar, and focus on the zeal,
and that is what makes great poetry.
It’s the thought, mom, not the symmetry.

Oh well, it’s most likely that they are right,
but looking out on a dark, silent night,
the words in my heart playing around,
are ones that had thoughts, and the sound.

The Empty Chair