Tag: mypoetry

Sapphire

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The iridescent blue
Called to me once
The sky so far, the sea so strange,
Their turmoils, their dance.

The heat of Lanka
Baking the core of earth
And from its bloodied loins
Gave a Saturn birth

He was imprisoned
Under a throne
And I wonder
If I hear him moan

Riddled and lost
I write to make sense
The price rises high
When matter is less dense

But why blame matter
Gods there be, or you
The sea holds no promises
She can never be true

The sky makes the sun
Moon, and stars debate
Even feathers fall
Even air has weight

Put your hands in mud
Does it lie?
Is green better than blue,
Does it not die?

I seek forever
In an insignificant life
Look at humanity becoming
All of earth’s strife

But I look to me
And despite vanity
I become these colours
I am this reality

Once upon a week

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

If you make love once a week,

You’re still in love,

They say.

I am confused.

Modernity has made

A breath, over the ear

That reaches down

Into the reddest corpuscle,

Into a statistic.

How many words

Indicate love then?

How intense should be

A look?

How long should be

A kiss?

How many pages are

Too many,

Too little,

For a book?

Should the book be read

Fast or slow?

If you cannot read me,

Then who would know?

It takes time

It all takes time.

The sun is brighter,

The snow caps lighter.

Statistics abound.

The world is ending.

The sun was too hot

For humanity.

The sun will win.

But their stats

Can not predict the when.

I know the breath.

I know the book.

I know the sun.

I know the look.

In relation to me.

Give me the stat

And I will accept it and

Place it to read

Years later.

If the sun hasn’t won until then,

I’ll validate the importance

Of a week.

Half Life

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

In love, I’ve lived a half life.

My family lives exceptionally:
Think of a mom who welcomes
All the lovers of a gay son
And asks them tea.
Think of the lovers
Who live and breathe free
Partaking of my home
And most times all of me.

We are no saints though.
There are none on earth.
But there is just one
Discrepancy.

Peeps say, I am so very lucky
To get to share all of me with those
Who can never share all of theirs with me.
You see?
I am lucky to be able to give my home to those
Who keep me out of theirs.

Convoluted.

If you look closer,
You will see,
I am no saint:
Being selfless isn’t morality.