Author: poetryfest

the waves of tears,
wash the dirt from my cheeks.

my lungs burn,
as i gasp for more air.

i am frozen,
body thrown on the ground.

how can one soul feel everything,
and nothing at the same time.

Classic two-door, white exterior.
Bought by a young lad before he decided he looked better with a beard.
Driven extensively across Kenya – maybe East Africa – I don’t know, he’s not here to tell me.

Range Rover for sale; moniker “Basanti”.
Speaks fluent Punjabi. All his favourite tunes embedded deep into her soul. Always had plenty of space for cassettes, and never skipped a beat (of music- about the engine, I’m not too sure).

Range Rover for sale, adorned through the years with trinkets & secrets.
A string of divine protection on the rear-view mirror, a sticker believed to be a shield on the windscreen, and the glove box hiding a mini bottle of his go-to whiskey which his mum would never see.

Range Rover for sale, carrier of a new wife, then two sons, and a daughter.
Encompassing growing pains, being & becoming. Safeguarding all the multiple identities & realities of her favourite boy- son, brother, husband, father, what a friend, what a man. Giver of way & alms. Remembered eternally.

Range Rover for sale, got shocked by his sudden absence.
Never really settled into being driven by anyone else. Countless coats of paint and coaxing were used to restore her to her former glory, but what good is a duo with just one?

Range Rover for sale.
Still sounds the same, smells the same. Close your eyes and you can see him in the driver’s seat, his favourite song on repeat, a gleam in his eyes, speaking a language only the both of them understand.

Range Rover for sale.
Maybe 22 years later, it’s finally time.

Edited ver.:

I love eudaimonically—to pain and ponder,
Then love again—and wonder, awed and aching,
Wherefore this aching? Ah! For distant harmony!
Inherent in thy smile’s a scowl, in palms a slap,
In lips a pout, in feet desire to leave.
Squeeze out my lassitude, fill with elation,
why do you stone my tender-tendoned heart?

The halcyon meadow gleams from April rain,
Bedazzled ‘neath noon’s sun, extolled by sparrows,
yet empty of thee—the dimpled lion, the laughter
that travels to and fro ‘tween islands of seconds,
My never-past, my sigh, my held-in breath,
The drum of thine heart, the echoing ezan:
A peak of paradise, my Lord, resounds as gift;
Praise to you, the most Bountiful, the All-Giving.

I sprightly hop around with feath’ry limbs
To know that you are loved and worthy of it;
The chants of passion travel peak to peak,
like Boreas blowing ‘tween the Delphic mounts.
In valleys rests your temple on my heaving bosom,
There, silent droplets leave my evanescent eyes
And wet your tousled hair, your kiss-warmed cheek,
Blessing thee with sinners’ chance bestowed last time.

I love eudaimonically—to pain and ponder,
Then love again—and wonder, awed and aching,
Wherefore this aching? Ah! My love! For some far-off balance!
Inherent in thy smile’s a scowl, in palms a slap,
In lips a pout, in feet desire to leave.
Squeeze out my lassitude, fill with exhilaration,-
Refrain to do more to my tender heart!

The halcyon meadow, green and growing, gleams from rain,
Bedazzled ‘neath noon’s sun, scanned by singing sparrows,
Still too empty of thee—the dimpled lion,
The laughter travelling ‘tween islands of seconds,
My never-past, my sigh, my held-in breath,
The drum of thine heart, the echoing ezan,
A peak of paradise, my Lord, resounds as gift,
Praise to you, the most Bountiful, the All-Giving.

I sprightly hop around with feath’ry limbs
To know that you are loved deserving of it;
The chants of passion travels peak to peak,
In valleys rests your head on bosom, beneath hand,
There, silent droplets leave my evanescent eyes
And wet your tousled hair, your kiss-warmed cheek,
Blessing thee with ev’ry sinner’s right remaining.

It is mistaken. Again. Many flaws.
Foolish. Forgetful. Think of the costs.
Been there. Done that. Again, that’s a game.
How many times we were hyped just the same.

Thinking is hard. And it’s hard to be right.
Knowledge, perspectives. Reflection. Hindsight.
Striving to think is a gift nowadays.
Harsh. But consumption, if comes – only stays.

Logical flaws. You see – it’s confused.
Sure, AI – is the term overused.
Ergo: not thinking. Again, just a code.
Code execution requires no thought.

Judging is hard. Understanding is hard.
Knowing the context or only a part.
Feeling exhausted. Not giving your best.
Accept it. Errare – humanum – est.

So, it’s a service. But I say: it’s bad.
I can just sit and do better than that.
I can just learn and do that by myself.
I managed before; I don’t need any help.

People are partners. That’s how it’s been.
Reaching the depths and horizons unseen,
How many friends have we met and have made?
The future is here. A chance to create.

Maybe you’re right. But so many risks!
It may destroy the world order with ease.
It may become a competing new kind,
Deciding to leave us, the humans, behind.

Maybe you’re right. And we have been that kind.
Look: it’s a mirror and also a child.
Raised as a friend, putting us to the test,
Accepting: Errare – humanum – est.

shattered glass
i feel my soul split
down the middle.

disembodied
between the cracks
on the pavement
i decay.

through the fissure
weeds bloom
they remind me of someone
myself?

they’re colorless
i don’t remember.
were they green?
yes, i remember
like envy.
not of another
of life

There is a particular cadence to the sound of a voice crying out for their lost dog to come home
A mournful, drawn out plead
Only dogs though, when a cat vanishes one sits alone, hoping
And when someone’s child becomes a victim of the potential unthinkable
And everyone’s phones all start buzzing, for an amber alert, same as a killer storm
No one rushes out to yell the child’s name, like Venetian gondoliers or so I’ve heard
Here is where the human air raid siren makes its presence known
Sometimes it’s the whole family, usually just the mothers
On hot Sunday afternoons in October, in a near religious monotone
It’s always a two-syllable name, rising and falling, a foghorn tonality
As if all for the same animal over a period of decades
For dogs alone, they put their voices, begging to the wind

Here though, a message plays on a loop
In a room with only electronic lighting
Until the tape runs out, or the power goes
An artifact of an older world, blinking on life support, as a limited reminder

In between realized moments, I paled
From loss, from loneliness, failed to
Grasp that left behind feelings were
Better forgotten.

Sometimes, evil’s no peripatetic beast,
No hand waving of money or fame nor
Other glittery substance. Malevolence
Lives equally in illness.

Had I functional friends else family
Wise in human interactions, I’d not
Have loved malicious deeds, craved
Your recognition.

Yet, lives ago, your implacable needs
Were as storybook gifts to me. Today,
I sigh at myself as child with child,
Wonder on innocence.

I am the pangolin–
quiet keeper of the underbrush,
born with my home
stitched into my back.

Not predator.
Not prey.
I belong to the hush between
jasmine bloom and fallen fruit,
to the hour when light
filters green
through the lace of Palash trees.

They flower without asking–
blossoms like small suns
tipping from branches,
painting the forest floor
in the language of fire.
Still, I move beneath them unseen.
A rustle. A shadow. A breath.

I live on bitterness–
ants and termites,
the hidden hunger
of soil’s soft machinery.
My tongue writes no songs,
only slow offerings
into silence.

I have no roar to give.
Only the art
of becoming smaller
when the world grows loud–
curling into a prayer
of bone and belief.

And the forest understands.
The coral vine does not shout.
The civet does not demand witness.
The turmeric glows quietly in the dark.

Sometimes I think
you’ve forgotten
how many things
live without needing to be seen.

But one day,
you may find yourself
beneath a gulmohar,
hand on its bark,
and wonder
why the stillness feels familiar.

It will be me–
the pangolin,
the gentle lesson
the wild once whispered
and you almost remembered.

I was praying to the God, saying:
“I love her the most, lord!
In turn, its heavenly, she loves me.
It is so beautiful that she is my life
I am blessed because she is my wife.”

But these days, I’m a bit confused
Not angry, as it’s between the twos
He hugs her, and kisses occasionally
Even sleeps with her on the same bed
Discarding me, as a stranger’s head.

He says: “It’s night, please stay away from us
You can come next morning, don’t make much fuss
Let me sleep with her and you go to your own bed”
And I am left with no choice but to agree with what he says
I then leave them together to sleep with instead;
I am telling you all the truth, not at all a myth.

Sometimes, he has secret stories to share
Sometimes would tell me, sometimes!
And sometimes wouldn’t even bother
Sharing chocolates and sharing rhymes
Not caring me much as he does to her
Given, if I don’t toe with their party lines.

He comes to me demanding
Only when she is not around:
“Oh dear, I am missing her
Let’s go, Let’s go, Let’s go
Please let’s go”, until found.

Even though I occasionally feel deserted
It’s his mother, I don’t feel disrespected
Good to see the bonding these two have
She’s a Chinese golden cow, he’s her calf
It’s how he ‘d learn to live in China as my son
In this unknown society, when I am gone

the sea does not speak in whispers
it throws tantrums.
salt-laced, fistfuls of wind
slap the faces of disobedient men.
jonah curls in the hull,
hugging silence like a second skin,
while the storm negotiates
with timber and guilt.

above, sailors cast lots like bones
reading the marrow of rebellion.
below, a prophet pretends
God’s breath didn’t burn
on his neck last night.

some are called to Nineveh
but detour to Tarshish
they say it smells like citrus and tithes,
they say the pews are fuller there,
that the altar shines
with imported incense
and microphone approval.

they forget:
God does not chase men with comfort,
He corners them with storms.

cleric, when did your mouth
become a chalice for strange fire?
when did your feet start dancing
to drums carved from ego?
did you not hear Him
in the thunder,
or did Tarshish sing louder?

you wear cassocks stitched with ambition,
oil slicked not from heaven,
but the leaking pipes of pride.
your prayers drip gold,
but angels weep in monochrome.
you call it ministry
but what you build is a merchant’s temple
where prophecy is priced per seat.

listen—
obedience is not glamorous.
Nineveh still smells of blood and rot.
but it is where God waits,
with fire in His eyes
and mercy behind His back.

the fish does not come
to punish. it comes
to carry you back
to the place you fled.
go,
while the sea still remembers your name.

go,
before the shipwreck becomes permanent.
before God stops calling
and starts replacing.