Only One Definition

Words and asterisks,
They go together.
Bleeding, draining
The page of colour.
Judge, judge, judge
They do
Till their belly bloats
And their mind gloats.
Behind a screen,
Safe and cowardly,
They fill up their tanks
With other’s misery.

We’re asked to
Hush, hush, hush.
Haters gonna hate.
To do anything,
It’s too late.
Spreading, changing
These stories of mine.
Gives you a good laugh,
Then is it fine?
I’m not the me
You’ve painted.
I’m not the me
You’ve underrated.

I’m all that I believe
And all that I know.
Tsk tsk tsk, there’s
Only one definition
With which I glow.
Mine.

 

Oh, the quandary!

All this thinking.
This relentless reasoning
And persistent pondering
Leads nowhere.
Not now.

The wonted adjustments
And clinging to the familiar.
The dreams of new
And varied days.
They don’t meet.

A thousand words
Walk down every alley.
As i holler songs about
Being young & me.
They don’t rhyme.

The wishing well,
The magic mirror,
The cryptic crystals,
Doze negligently.

Perhaps the planning
Is destructive.
Perhaps days are meant
To be lived as unorganized
As our pasts in the attic.

Beginnings are like that.
Lost & found.
Gainful & compromising.
Dull & thrilling.

Someday, these cobwebs
Will elicit laughter.
But tonight,
Everything’s a pickle.

– Meera

A Walk with Time

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The
Sun knew
No Monday
Blues. It bore down
On me as I took
A walk in the city.
Minarets of yore brought down,
So modernity could climb the
Rank. Aesthetics of the past long since
Forgotten to usher a conscience blank.
To what end do we partake in this race?
What does the present hope to see in
The future? Surely, there’s more that
Demarcates the two. Not just
Blinks and beats or chance greets.
Do I stand in the
Present or echo
The past? As
Doth the
Sun.

I enjoy writing Etheree poems. This is another one occasioned by a recent realization – time is permanent participant of a race. If you’re watchful and efficient, sometimes you can walk along side it. But most often than not, you realize that it is a good lap ahead of you. And there you are, caught up between your smug memories of the time behind you versus the time that’s left you behind. I guess, that’s the beauty of it.

– Meera