Pages of Poetry

She watched. Fingers linked with fingers in an easy hold Elated smiles upon both their faces They seemed to be without a care in the world With eyes only for each other. Yes, they were happy, They could not, in their happiness, See the woman standing alone Sadness in her deep eyes. To him, the past. To her, a stranger. And then, he beheld her. He willed himself to look away He could not afford to draw back Could not afford to stop And give her the gift of a smile. She willed herself to look away She could not afford to succumb now Could not afford herself The luxury of tears. They went their separate ways To meet nevermore Or so she thought Or so he hoped. But they did, years later, When young love’s sparkle had died out Older, wiser, more mature, But inside, still hurting. And the sight of each other Reopened old wounds Brought back memories They’d rather not remember. But now, by his side, An emptiness. By hers, A hus

Blue ink Down the long,thin digit Looks like a molehill But,like faith, Can move mountains. Or,at least, the giants That pretend to rule Miraculous blue ink           Deciding the fate Of a few                              Who decide the fate       Of the teeming multitudes. As serpentine queues snake their way Through cities and towns and villages No one dares to speak, to say Who they elected king (Or queen,as it may be For India throbs with diversity.) And they exit the booth With solemn faces and jubilant hearts At having,yet again, Shaped the fate of the nation.

It was a bright, sunny, morning, and I woke up feeling pleasantly happy. My sleepy grin turned into a look of shock at the sight of the clock. 8.50 AM!! My school bus would be down in ten minutes! I rushed out of my room clutching my toothbrush in hand into my parents’ bedroom to find them snoring peacefully. No wonder I’d slept in, then. I had a quick shower, shoved my books into my bag, tied my hair into a bun and ran out… …to find my school bus turning the corner and speeding away in a whirl of gravel and dust. I dejectedly began walking to school, sure that I was going to be late. As I made my sad way to school, the sky darkened and black clouds rushed in to hide the sun I had smiled at so happily earlier. Great, I thought. I’d always had this thing against rain. In the next five minutes, it was pouring and I was completely drenched. I stood under a tree and was lamenting my plight when I noticed a little boy and a woman across the road. It was hard to tell, but the woman appea

“Don’t let go!” I yelled, as I struggled to pull up Carin, my hiking partner, over the rocky mountain ledge. “Don’t let go, Carin, please, hold on,” I muttered as he, clinging onto the flimsy rope I had thrown down, swung in the ferocious gale, coming dangerously close to dashing the rock surface of the mountain. I pulled with all my might, praying that every tug of the rope would bring Carin closer to safety. He was being absolutely quiet – praying, perhaps, like I was, to be able to hold on. Slowly, slowly, he came up, and immediately scrambled onto the ledge. The both of us retreated to our cave and collapsed on the stone floor out of sheer exhaustion – and relief. A few hours later, I woke up. It was pitch-dark around me, and beside me, I could hear the deep, slow breathing of my companion. My glow-in-the-dark watch told me that it was eleven p.m. That explained the utter darkness that clung to the walls of the cave like soft mats of dark wool. I tried to go back to sleep b

It is the strong who live They who die are not weak But yet, I say, it is the strong who live. Those who live on, past tragedy Past pain, and loss, and hurt Past smiles and tears, hopes and fears It is them I salute. For they do not break down. Like the jasmine that only appears frail They continue to exude their fragrance Long after wilting in the heat of life. They who weep are not weak Just as they who laugh Need not be merry. Fleeting desires, crushed, do not weaken them Wild passions do not grip them They look upon life with a calm eye The eye of the hurricane, in the midst of storm. Strong willed, with a resolve to outlast All that life may plague them with A frame of iron, a heart of gold Mind of steel, and hands of velvet. And yet again I say, it is the strong who live They who lose everything And yet, along the way, Find themselves.

The young lass sat in solitude, Upon a rock, in the thick woods, Waiting, waiting for the lily o’ the night To make her appearance ‘midst the stars. Waiting, waiting for the full moon. And she came in all her glory, And the clouds parted as in awe. The maiden saw, and she laughed, And raised the flute to her lips. And as the first haunting note poured forth, They came. Their eyes gleaming out of the darkness Their paws making not a sound. Wolves. Rejoicing at the sight of the full moon. The melody flooded the clearing, As did the moonlight. Silver fur, sparkling jaws. And then, a howl. It rent the night. The melody, shattered, Into a thousand silver shards. And then, silence. As one, they leapt and bounded Into the sheer darkness. Bid their adieus to the lily of the night And slipped back into the shadows.                                          But those who left were one more Th