Chasing Sunshine

Sometimes,
There is no answer
For why things happen,
Whether good,
Or downright bad;
And when it’s the latter,
One tends to wonder,
Whether one matters,
In the larger scheme
Of things
As they stand;
For if one did,
Would this have
Come to be?

Sometimes,
The things that happen,
Are not just bad,
But they are also
In essence,
Quite pointless;
They serve no purpose,
Not even
To teach one a lesson,
There are no stepping stones
To success,
Or even a semblance
Of peace.

Sometimes,
The best one can do,
Is to let go
Of the things that happened;
And one tries to,
One hopes,
That like sand
That slips through one’s hand,
Leaving no trace behind,
The bad
Will disappear;
But one may find,
That it sticks
Like mud
Instead.

Sometimes
Things happen,
At times for the good,
And at times for the bad;
It’s so much better,
If one steps
Into each new day,
Knowing that always,
There is something
Waiting to unfold,
Something waiting to happen.

Image Credit: Photo by Altered Reality on StockSnap

Resist
The urge to intervene,
It may appear insane
Not to,
The bridge may seem
On the verge of breaking,
The crack across its centre
Ever widening.

You believe you possess
The bonding glue,
Magic woven into
Its very essence;
In your effervescence,
To make things right, to mend,
You fail to see
The crack expanding,
Spreading its presence,
Across the length and breadth
Of this doomed bridge.

Sometimes a chasm
Isn’t meant to be bridged,
It exists,
Because the ends
Fail to meet,
Because they
Resist.

Image Credit: Photo by Daria on StockSnap

The four seasons

Each have their own hue,

The temperate ones

By far the most vibrant;

They deck up in every shade

Of red, orange and yellow,

A sight to behold,

In tiny gardens,

Or on either side of the road.

The harsh summer sun

Does wonders to the lawn,

Enhancing the sheen,

Of its carpet of green;

While the biting cold

Of the dreary winter morn,

Brushes the landscape

With the whites of frost,

And the black of the bare limbs

Of despondent trees,

That await the return

Of the sparkling green,

As also the chirruping birds

To herald the advent

Of a promising dawn.

Image Credit: Photo by Bob Richards on StockSnap

There are few things

That I treasure,

As much as I do,

Watching the lit windows

Of cozy, warm homes,

That are in the process

Of winding down.

After a busy day,

Doing chores

Around the house,

Or running errands,

A 9-5 or some more,

The tired folks

That return home,

Kindle the hearth

To prepare a meal

Or get a frozen one out

To thaw,

Turn on the TV,

Or maybe the music,

While the younger humans,

Settle down to homework.

As I walk down the street,

Or the village lane,

Wherever I am,

In the whole wide world,

I see variations

Of these warm scenes,

Play on repeat.

And so it is,

That I love so much,

To watch people

As they go on living,

To wind down yet another time,

Before giving in to sleep.

A lit up window,

Is so much more

Than just that,

It is uniquely human,

And always has been.

From the time that man

Made friends with fire,

He has lighted up his life,

To quell the darkness,

To keep it at bay,

Until it is just the right time,

To give in to it

And rest a while,

Before it’s time

To live another day.

Image Credit: Photo by Burst on StockSnap

I

When the maiden returned,

With a skip in her step,

Just like on the day,

When she had first been set

Out into the realm

That lay beyond;

At that precise moment

Of her return,

The sun set,

On the world

She had left behind.

II

They lit candles galore,

As they sat vigil,

Bemoaning the loss,

And of

Her gruesome, untimely departure;

But the light that had shone,

Was truly gone,

And the flickering flames

Of the candles they carried

Couldn’t quite tame,

The darkness that descended,

When she ascended,

Into the light

That stretches beyond,

And into the expanse

Of the world from whence

She had come

Not too long ago.

Image Credit: Photo by Nicola Fioravanti on StockSnap

I

Had I looked at the horizon,

At the rising sun –

And taken off into the distance,

Leaving behind my absence,

Perchance,

Nobody would’ve noticed

That I was gone;

But I chose not to,

Although it made sense,

To have traversed

That path,

Instead of the one

That I eventually did.

II

When in the pitch black,

Of the tumultous night,

I fumble for a smidge of light,

And finding none

Grope around in the dark,

I’m seeking to find,

Any path that leads

To the exit.

III

It would appear that

The path not taken

Back when,

Has left its vestige,

A stubborn remnant –

One that seeks to send me,

Incessantly down the trail

Of finding an escape.

Image Credit: Photo by Miki Czetti on StockSnap

I’m sat on a seat by the window,

In the very last carriage

Of a train,

That speeds through the rain;

My window pane,

Having become,

Blurry to the point

Of obscurity.

The once tiny streams

Of water droplets,

Have now transformed,

Into incessant sheets,

And I give up on trying,

To see anything

Through the translusence;

I choose to focus instead,

On the essence

Of what the rain means,

To the parched land,

That had become brittle

From the wealth of dryness,

Bestowed by the harshness

Of the brightest sunrays.

Until today,

Until now,

This watershed moment,

That has brought forth,

A veritable downpour –

And in its wake

Blessed relief.

Image Credit: Photo by Ghost Presenter on StockSnap

Seeking approval –

For as long as you go back,

In the time you’ve been around,

That you can remember –

This has been

First cab off the rank,

In all of life’s moments.

From when you were

A toddler barely off diapers,

Or still in them,

From seeking

In your carers’ eyes,

Joyous approval

For your baby steps,

Literal and metaphorical;

To the butterflies in your tummy,

As you waited for someone

To become your best buddy,

For the next several months

And every step of the way.

Every big moment everyday

Has been one of reckoning,

Sometimes with another,

Sometimes yourself;

That moment when you wondered,

If you were good

Enough;

If your actions and your words

Measured,

“Am I good?”

You learnt to ask,

Even before you knew

That was a thing.

Image Credit: Photo by Lukáš Rychvalský on StockSnap

Like horses galloping
Into the distant wild,
The days rush by,
As though in a bid
To get to the finishing line.

And we cannot hold our horses,
For they have bolted,
The gate behind us
Firmly held shut
By a heavy lock.

So all we can do,
Is to hold on tight,
Almost for our dear lives
At times,
And squeeze our eyes shut
If we must,
To keep at bay
The storm of dust
On a dreary day,
And also the blur
Of the rushing years.

Our course steadfast,
Aided by our North Star,
And the few score,
Of prized memories
That we hold dear.

Image Credit: Photo by Mary on StockSnap

On the night

That she lost her footing,

And slipped into the abyss,

Despite the darkness,

The utter dearth of light,

I saw her falling,

And I watched as if

It meant nothing;

Except,

It meant everything –

I did not intervene,

For I knew

The depths of her suffering;

The winds that blew

All around me,

Whispered the tale

Of the debilitating shame,

That had taken root

In her leaden belly.

So yes,

On that starless night,

When her guardian angel

Had taken flight

On the wings of escape,

And in doing so,

Sent her tumbling headlong,

Into the depths of oblivion –

I stood and watched,

Even as the tears

That seldom appear,

Rushed down my countenance.

Image Credit: Photo by Nature Backgrounds on StockSnap