Pages of Poetry

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.