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At the very end.


I was sitting on the cemented wall, painted white and dirtied brown.
I had a friend by my side, but nothing to talk.
I was staring into the clear blue sky, down to the muddy floor without anything to do,
when I saw her shed the golden shower.

She was a little far away from where I was,
I pointed her to my friend but she wasn't observant,
She stood there strong without any nerves,
she was opaque and a true lover of the sun,

she shed out the shower of gold with astounding grace,
They were falling down one by one and altogether,
they danced happily while having their fall,
to be fossilised into the soil, to be stamped dead by the passersby

Bliss and peace filled into their moves,
which stirred the air with twirls and waves,
they gleamed gold, red and green,
they twirled round and round towards their fairy feme.

They were all over the air, filling the place with their amusing embrace,
some of the yellowed clinged to her arms, unwilling to let go,
and finally each one had to, whether green or gold they appeared to be,
they had to groove with the breeze and land onto their graves.

I slowly closed my eyes, unwilling to take the beauty off my sight,
I related what I saw to my life.
A winner or loser or an exraordinary being,
how much ever I work hard to live up to my dreams,
how much ever I desire to live or how many ever money I make,
It all doesn't matter at the very end,
I must fall as the yellowed leaves,
but not with regret or guilt,
but as happy and blissful they were when they had their fall. 

Comments

  1. beautiful poem Gayathree..

    I must fall as the yellowed leaves,
    but not with regret or guilt,
    but as happy and blissful they were when they had their fall.

    loved the way you concluded it..

    ReplyDelete
  2. Ah, what a lovely metaphor of life via the tree. The bitter truth so beautifully expressed.

    Thanks for this treat, dear G.

    Joy always,
    Susan

    ReplyDelete
  3. Thank you for reading Susan :) Death is never bitter, it is a process of human life just like birth and living. Death is also a pleasure like the other two processes in human life :)

    ReplyDelete
  4. You have a special gift for writing poetry. This is evident from this post. How wonderfully have you narrated the circle of life, birth and death through the life of a tree. This is pure magic. Keep them coming, poetess!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks a lot Sowmya. You are very considerate enough to read. :)

      Delete

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The stars that connect the sky,  the tides that weave the sea, the pebbles that merge the shore, the trees that mesh the forest, the branches that link the trees,  the leaves that entwine the branches, the sun that lights the horizon, the sky that paints the water, the waters that survives the fish, the fish that eats the seaweeds, the seaweeds that carpets the rocks, the rocks that protects the soil, the soil that strengthens the roots, the roots that keeps alive the trees,  the trees that mesh the forest, the forest that survives the big bears, leopards, and birds, the birds that live on the worms, the worms that protect the soil, the soil that gives birth to crops, the crops that survive the we, the we that eat everything in this big, wild world, the world in us is the world outside, the outside that reflects the inside, the inside that is abstract, the abstract is opaque, yet translucent, the translucence of the sun rays in a muddled dew drop at daw…

I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.





PSA: GLAM-WHAMs Read on!

Okay. Let's do this.
Some facts are hard to digest but true. To all those pretty people with sour cream 'fairness' masks sploshed on their dusty dusky faces once in every week, the fad dieting extremists whose diet routine involves surviving a whole year through the energy generated by a single pea (Are you the dragon warrior? Tai Lung is on the look out), to all those having a face lift, botox and brouhaha for looking the GLAM-WHAM aunty-next-door (scratch that!). This is a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:
Lend me your ears! For the media is ambitious yet honourable! The idealism that you believe which you have set for yourself is an outcome of the billion frames that pass by every time you click the remote to fill your mind with the colours of the junk box. (I'm speaking about the TVs that you either get as freebies for voting for bad-guy-politicians or that flat desirable LCD screen that you've bought online on the TrapFart's Big Bullion Day Offer)
It has infil…