Tag: poem

They Sometimes Say

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

When I love they, sometimes, say i love right,
Then, behind doors, they also softly, say,
That within the darkest caverns of night,
I love differently than in the day.

They speak of the numerous things I do:
Of the friends I seem, somehow, to acquire,
The way I dress up and how I walk, too,
Of how I’m a saint and how a liar.

I must have some guile to steal affection,
For clearly, I can’t earn it on my own,
Love I gain from filial connection,
Luckily, all by God and chance was thrown.

The moon has secrets to give me, for sure,
That’s how we witches are known to survive;
I am nothing but a dangerous lure,
Like handsome bears being drawn to a hive.

I have warped morality and no code,
For all see the beauteous life I live,
With wondrous occasions on me bestowed
And ingratitude is what they see me give.

So rumour has it that I am well off.
Nothing could I possibly need more.
Well-spoken, well-mannered and well thought of,
A never-ageing, immaculate whore.

Fading and Forgetting

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Love is love; but love isn’t enough, is it?
A bullet is the unlikeliest end;
But that can happen sudden; even worse,
Love can very subtly fade out or pretend

To be just nestling there when it is not.
The complexities lessen and pass on
To other more trivial things like bills
And other matters mundane and forlorn.

It is a matter for weeping truly;
Where did all of the good get up and go?
Where is the happily ever after?
Oh, How very much I would like to know!

Was it cast out to make way for life’s woe?
Have younger bodies teased a lost passion?
Was that all love had to be, do and say
In a somewhat daintier fashion?

Love is love, I reckon; but I can tell:
It permeates like frost on life’s window,
And what I could see from it, like before,
May be there still; but I cannot be sure.

If bullets strike my heart I could recall,
In the throes of pain, of what used to be;
And, despite the frost forming on the panes,
I may look beyond and think I truly see.

Perhaps the fading and the forgetting
Are needed to create the shielding frost;
There may not be a need to remember,
For what’s here is clear and was never lost.

Not Yet

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I shall perhaps forget
Your eyes, your hands, your touch;
I may not remember
These times so very much;

I shall perhaps forget
How you listen as I talk,
The way the your head bends
As we take our midnight walk;

I shall perhaps forget
The things you said at my lips,
Of how your breath lingered,
Or the press of your hips;

I shall perhaps forget
All the strange, hopeful dreams
I saw under the moon,
Born of its silver beams;

I shall perhaps forget
The way you made me laugh,
Of how your eyes twinkled
And broke sadness in half;

I shall perhaps forget
All that was said and done;
As time ticks its stern heart,
They’ll all fade one by one.

For I can’t bear what comes,
If I fail to forget.
There must be a letting go;
But it’s not time, not yet, not yet.