Tag: my Poetry

Strangers Again

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The words that’re whispered over three AM talks
Ignoring thunder under rainfall walks
Because you noticed a light in my eyes
Then, when self-esteem was but a word
And the world was a cesspool of lies
Which could be felt and not just heard

Then, when you took me and kissed my lips
And my heart danced in catatonic flips
Then it was that your hair gleamed in the sun
As it fell on my chest, I held it tight
I’d no hope even then that you were one
To last through the day unto the lost night

I recall not one word from yesterday
For none matter now, words aren’t meant to stay
The feel of your hair is gone with that hour
And you have found another pair of eyes
To taste, to praise, to dive in and devour
You become a ninja master of disguise.

I smile and move on to the next three AM talk
Maybe this time I’ll learn and won’t do the walk
The thunder would groan and rumble with might
I’ll notice it keen through the still warm rain
And when I pass you via a quiet night
It will be quite like we were strangers again.

Expensive Chocolate

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

If I think of all the earlier times,
Of all the dried tears, of all the mixed rhymes,
When I sit and listen quiet to thought,
To all the blissful dreams innocence brought,
The hopes that felt lost somewhere in prayer,
Futures predicted by some soothsayer,
Fathers who seemed to loom so dark and large,
Or those who sold loving words for a charge,
Sailboats guided by dragons in the rain,
Cold nights of love and colder nights of pain,
Ailing mothers who took away sorrow,
Sisters who bravely gave their tomorrow,
Lovers who came, came and crushed all desire,
Feeding worn faith to a funeral pyre,
Grandparents who spoke of idyllic days –
In short, life’s each ephemeral phase.
I remain wide-eyed and alone.
Derelict and silent. A tombstone.
Quietly sipping expensive chocolate,
Thinking about will, wondering about fate.

I May

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

No face, darkly etched, from charcoal,
No word, that can form any prose,
No light, at the end of the tunnel,
No calm, to lend the mind repose.

Words there were, many years ago,
A promise to see the heart through,
The sun shone bright on butterflies,
On anticipation of the new.

Sadness and grief are siblings now,
They have their own stories to share,
It’s charming in their company, too,
They make for a creative pair.

I fear listless indifference,
That’s maneuvering towards me,
Like some fog on a dead cold sea,
Sending a sail down to captivity.

Inspiration waits for those who seek her,
Like some whore on a barren door;
But what of those who chose to love,
And are loved by Neglect forever more?

The past too, spreads her milk-white thighs,
In that softness lies no morrow;
And what can future present
Wrapped tight in her bliss or sorrow?

As day turns to long, lonely night,
The eyes feel heavier than the night before,
I may slip into the dark of the past
Or let Neglect make life a bore;
I may move towards that fog-ridden sea,
Away from this pox-ridden whore.