A Stiff Upper Lip

Gone are the days of assured belief,
In oneself, destiny and the immediate brief.
Vague are the horizons which we now seek,
Spirits once lively are now muted and meek.

Such is life and it's transitory script,
It ebbs and flows without so much as a tip.
Snuck upon and waylaid by this minx,
We struggle to overcome what feels like a jinx.

What we face though is a necessary blip,
Life sans faliure being a most unsavoury sip.
Throw caution to the wind, let the restraints rip,
Fortune favours those with a stiff upper lip.

-

Somethings are always meant to be,
Assuredly afloat amidst life’s roiling sea,
Nudged by cupid and then forced to flee,
Could second chances hold the key?
Hesitant, wary, unsure, we were all three,
Astonishingly, once united, we were set free,
Riling the other with love, such are we,
I wonder if you know, that you mean the world to me?

-

|She Is, She Was|

I sit and reflect on all that we had,
Love, laughter and all things mad,
When mere hours apart made us sad,
And the briefest glimpse made our hearts glad.

I remember our fights, those short-lived fads,
Tears, hurt and dollops of remorse to add,
Markers of passion and humour clad,
None of them able to shake the love that we had.

Today as I doodle a new name on a notepad,
And churn out poetry which I know to be bad,
Have I betrayed that lone, last comrade?
Only for you was this pen earlier unclad.

-

He wrote in a trance,
Body wracked with fever,
Of poetry, he proved an indomitable weaver.

-

Hovering in a dreamy trance,
I turn around and glance,
Bewitched by your sensuous dance.

-

1 Pandemic | 2 Indias

Calendar invites fly to and fro,
Out pours the rhetoric as I strive to grow,
Vexed over spreadsheets, onwards I plough,
Inundated with worries, I flex my brow.
Delayed promotion has me unable to crow,
1 friend starts making substantially more dough,
9 Tinder matches I've had to let go.

Calloused hands outstretched they hold,
On pavements and platforms, out in the cold,
Veterans of suffering, this time they're bowled,
Illness, unemployment and death unfold.
Discarded like carcasses once their votes were polled,
1 square meal they are unable to hold,
9 to a grave, they're fodder for mold.

-

Sickroom

Roses bloom in a lonesome vase,
Petals dewy yet lacking grace,
It's presence amiss, it's colour out of place,
Like stray stitching on intricate lace.

Books atop the monitor keeping pace,
Thrillers with plotlines as erratic as below trace,
They speak of adventures this heart can no longer chase,
Staring as it is at death's solemn face.

On the wall an outline, an empty space,
A missing photograph of an absent face,
The dust will encroach and reclaim it's place,
Her breath to never again tickle this face.

Once a witness to life's upbeat pace,
Now a coffin disguised as a familiar space,
The room where he once initiated the chase,
He now quietly waits to be taken out of the race.

-

All That Has Gone

Where have they gone?
Those dreams which assailed childhood dawns.
Grand schemes scrawled on pages torn,
Adventures and quests to which we were sworn,
Back when reality was met with scorn.

Why have they gone?
That easy confidence with which fates were drawn,
That fearlessness born of belief and not brawn,
When rules and regimen were met with yawns.

Will they ever return?
Those tenets of childhood we've had to unlearn.
Faced with life and it's lessons stern,
Toiling daily to live and earn,
We search for that youthful fire which once burnt.

-

Hello Late Twenties

There are always those early signs,
Waistline expanding with deepening lines,
Engrossed in work yet within confines,
Neither the lead nor on the sidelines,
Tinder & Bumble becoming stale wines,
You're hitting 27, get ready to whine.

Solemn, even somber as it might sound,
Eventually we all tend to come around,
Victories await and new people to be found,
Everlasting love as well if you're so wound,
Not to mention the drinks yet to be downed!

-

A Burgled Heart

Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling,
You come to mind amidst the fan's persistent squealing.
It's early still for the wounds to begin healing,
But impatient fingers fly on Tinder in endless dealing.
Between those restive swipes, arises a feeling,
One of self-loathing which leaves me reeling.
Each swipe uncovers possibilities, potentially appealing,
Invariably ending with me being cold and unfeeling.
In this world laid bare, there is no concealing,
There's been nothing left to give since you've finished stealing.

-