Tag: poem

It Knows.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I heard something – probably my heart again.
For a thing that is busy all the time
Fostering emotions and fighting pain
It sure has the time to think about mine.

I hear it all the time – like its beating,
I feel that all the time. So I wait,
Place my hand over it and think of cheating
By saying, “Not faith, I tell you, it’s fate!”

No, it can’t be hoodwinked. It doesn’t slow.
And I sigh. It is faith. I know it . . . do I?
My mind smiles – just to show
That nothing is mine – not even that sigh.

My heart beats faster. I remove my hand.
I look at the carnations – red.
They are all around me. One fact I understand.
After a matter of hours they will be dead.

Their fate?
My heart slows.
“And yours,” says my mind,
“It knows.”

An Idea of Love.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

I thought Love would be all the things the Poets said:
Sunlight on the Face, red roses on the Bed.
It came in with Grandeur accompanied by Hope
Who my last love left behind, after he eloped.
After him, it seemed sane to give up and turn away,
But Love always seems to come with the intention to stay . . .

[Or so I thought in the vaguest of fantasies –
Dreaming of a Love carved with brilliant fancies]:

He would do this and He would be that;
He would say this and He would feel that;
He would cherish and care a hell of a lot;
He would protect and – you know, all that rot.

He came and He loved in a manner not Mine
And I have grown enough to give up on Time.
I love him, too,
But one thing is true:
The Love is never your Love,
When it happens for you.

30th July.

“If I seem sad do not bother to stop by”

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia5 Comments

If I seem sad do not bother to stop by
And ask if things are awry,
Just walk on and I shall be fine
It’s just another phase of mine.

(I think too much that’s the thing,
Or maybe it’s an excess of feeling.
Perhaps love has caused me grief
Or a friend has shred my belief.
I set a lot of score in both
And both have me at the throat.)

But you stop and question these tears of mine,
And ask who has cut me this time.
You are not my lover and I refuse to say
What makes me act this way.
Instead, clutching my bloody throat, I walk away
And you realize what happened today,
Since on your shoulder I do not depend,
The wound was caused by some old friend.