Category: Poems

What I Know

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I have been here before;
I have slept on this floor;
I have counted each vein,
Left on windows by rain;
Spoken words echo through;
Each remind me of you
And you and you and you;
I don’t doubt all were true,
When you said them to me;
They filled this room, silently;
They seeped into these walls;
Each one of them recalls
How they filled a lost heart;
And stayed to never part;
But you did;
And I hid.

I left this place of hope;
I left this place to cope,
With what was left to me,
Quite silently.
I walk back now,
With a wiser brow,
And a sharper eye,
With no need to try
To weigh my mistakes.
(I thought there were none.)

I do not blame you;
Neither this soft view,
Through the window pane,
Against fresh soft rain
That is so known; yet
Such that I forget
Why I hid long ago
From this slept-on floor.

The One Who Hasn’t Been Named

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I thought rescuing you would be better
Than your being hounded by men,
With sticks who chased you out
To be hounded by territorial strays again:
A vicious cycle that I broke
By bringing you home; and not thinking
Of what would become of you with me:
A tender connection, an inevitable linking,
That I would end up feeling over.
Emotions are so easily made;
They form almost as easily as you,
Running into my arms the moment
I held them out to you,
Like some fool-hardy egotistical saviour.
It takes seconds for a bond to take hold,
It takes forever for it to be broken,
It’s a yoke that’s man’s best and worst,
Where nothing ever need be spoken.

Valentine’s

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia2 Comments

When hearts grow into winter’s bitter cold,
They have no hope for the nurturing care,
Which they remember well from times gone old,
Though all of memory lays frozen bare.
The branches of blood lie flowerless weak,
The body of sky breathes chalky white,
The birds of summer can not chase and seek
The flight of age into the milky light.

Silence in everything. No bell tolls.
For none now live in love’s antechamber.
Seasons have passed through, each with its own goals,
All the hard heart does is try and remember.
Remembering spring, summer, and the fall –
Even if love did not run through them all.