Tag: my Poetry

My Religion

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

My religion is all religion.
My religion is hope.
My religion is all that preaches
Any pain to cope.

My religion is not prescriptive;
It does not think of one path;
My religion is written in the stars;
It’s what exists in a child’s heart.

My religion isn’t bound to scripture,
Or rule or obeisance that’s blind;
It caters to a conscience, that’s built
From wounds to the heart and the mind.

It speaks of no lingering hate;
It but asks of me to live and let live;
It implores me to gauge what I get
From anger or the chance to forgive.

I take the best from your religion and theirs,
I take the path of do no harm;
So I can take the path of the scalpel,
Or I can submit to a happy charm.

The winds and the directions and planets
Existed before any religion’s first breath;
As such, empathy is all I know of life
And peace is all I can think of death.

Broken

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

You and she both cancer-ridden;
But you had to go first.
I have no words to express
What you must have gone through,
You just looked at me with glassy eyes
Caused by hanging onto life.

I lifted you for every walk
And you told me,
When you were done.
I listened.

I’m sorry, I lost my temper…
My love was frayed and my heart broken…
And I tried my best to love you better…
But breaking human hearts
Have – limitations.

I let you go, my first-born son.
I didn’t know I still had it in me.
I don’t know what will happen
As your sister continues to bleed.

But I will stand by her
As I did by you –
Even though our bodies don’t.
Even though my heart has
broken,
It is yours.

They Can Only Hope

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

They can’t explain their hunger to you.

They can’t tell you they want your care.

They can only hope you won’t tie them up,

and drag them behind your motorbike,

until they rip apart, long after they strangulate.

They can only hope you give them a kind thought,

and allow them to crawl into the shutter gap,

away from the torrential rains,

your own greed has brought into the world.

They can only hope you won’t use plastic

to wrap their helpless newborn children,

and toss them in flowing or stagnant water,

or take time to bury them alive.

They can only hope.

Because they don’t know human beings.

They don’t know the stupid wars you fight,

and the way you shoot down anyone

who doesn’t belong to the majority vote.

They don’t know your history and greed.

They don’t know you have invaded their lands

and driven them out.

Your acts of genocide are unknown to them.  

They can only hope that you may give them a scrap of unwanted food,

under a godless sky, over a parched cement block,

and maybe just maybe 

let them be.