Tag: mypoem

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.

Unhappy

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

There is this part of me,

A responsibility,

I feel it every day,

Scraping my insides,

I have reasoned with it,

Telling it to grow up,

Be strong and face life

And its reality.

I have bargained with it,

Giving it compassion,

Clothes and food,

Even a daily hug;

But it wants more.

I cannot give this thing

A loving glance,

It has remained the same,

I’ve outgrown this dance.

It asks me at daybreak,

If I still feel passion;

But time has changed me,

In every physical fashion.

It seeks to feel what I gave,

A long time ago,

I choose to bestow a hug

And nothing more.

It asks me at noon,

If I remember it at work,

And I want to yell

“How can I forget your fucking nails?”

It asks me at twilight,

If the sun is as gold

As the time we danced,

I look at the gold and think

How many more years

Before it burns out.

Perhaps if I ignore the thing,

Its own need will eat it alive.

I’ll prevent a rescue,

Even if it is from me –

Perhaps sadness will do the deed

For it can never be happy.

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.