Scratching heads

Everyone's scratching heads.
Full of questions, curious, anxious,
marching ahead.
Seeking words, numbers, logic and purpose,
with mines under their feet,
they're looking at the stars,
harboring bruised hearts and eyes that are wet,
they're marching ahead.

Scratching heads,
over impalpable claps
the lost love
the old me.
Scratching heads,
over what is right and what is not,
with what shall be,
and what did not.
Those bleak conversations,
or that wrong sentence,
those weary words that we repent!
Scratching heads!
Scratching heads over what might have said.

Scratching heads
on how the green leaves grow on red and blue?
Both hands on his head,
pulling his hair hard,
letting them come through.
Joining the dots,
searching for that clue.

Empirical delusions
mathematical realities
numbers and figures
equations and theories.
Noise noise noise!
Men have read their own minds,
never have they plead,
oh dear lord,
such are the scratching heads.

They banged heads on walls
and found the right words
from where they bled.
They then let the blood drip down
and wore the earned words
as their crown.

With such efforts done
just to live and earn bread
there holds no doubt,
the lords are scratching their heads.

Colors to a blind eye

The colors wanted her to know them.

Source : pinterest.com

BLUE stood in front of her lifeless eyes and made her listen to her city's lights. She now knows of how AMBITION feels like.

RED had always mused over how she never knew of her HEART'S form. Now with a touch of Red, she knows how wonderfully it beats!

When her bare feet crushed an autumn leaf, BROWN had introduced her with what he had known the best - EARTH.

When a little boy with hands as small as the moon handed her his lollipop, GREEN with all his YOUTHFULNESS and GENEROSITY had waved her a "HI"

YELLOW lit fire for her. The flames handed over their warmth to let her know of the HOPE that yellow brings along.

GRAY greeted her with his OLD hands. That day, those two wrinkled hands had held her young fingers, giving life to her dead eyes.

Now BLACK had his turn. He stood in front of her, silently pondering on how he gave a darker shade to every color. She smiled and waved to her old friend.

How to write a poem

The word written on moon shall be the title.
The poem starts with what the mountains would have to say.
Hear them! Hear them, you writer and let your pen breathe.
And when your paper seems vacant,
the flowers shall give you the right metaphors.
The ocean, far and wide, will whisper through its waves,"there's never a perfect length of a stanza!"
The air will know how to rhyme.
Words floating on water shall have meanings that you will never know.
Coffee will make you end the poem.
Don't forget to glance the dried leaf once, you'll know what to omit.
Now write something with an invisible ink. People will never get to read it. Readers will understand.

And then, hold the paper with your hands as a champion holds her trophy and wonder how a paper could fit in the moon, the mountains, the ocean and flowers with your words.

source - www.speedyessays.com

The grey hedge of winter

The grey hedge of winter wants you to see what it bears.
It wants you to feel what it feels like to hold beauty.
There! You see a beautiful flower amongst the ordinary ones.
The flower, red as blood,
stands above the hedge as if it's the tallest soldier in a parade.

The grey hedge of winter knows,
that a lover must pluck the flower to prove what's fading slowly.
It knows!
that a kid must pluck it for he doesn't know how to calm his curiosities.
It knows!
that humans want to hold beauty in their hands but not let the beautiful live.
The hedge knows it all.

The grey hedge of winter knows while a lover or a child must come and take away its art, YOU will not!
You will stand and guard its beauty.
You will not let someone snatch it from the hedge of winter.
You'll make the others watch the beauty too!
Because you've already realized what the hedge wants us humans to learn - that little red flower is making the ordinary feel beautiful.

The Good Weed (Poem)

The skies were so cold that they made the moon look pale.
The sea couldn't help but watch the moon,
with the same old awe,
as the moon was still shaping its tides.

The skies were so cold that they made the blue sea look pale.
The water droplets resting on a leaf saw the diminishing blue.
But they smiled,
they rejoiced,
when the trees turned the sea into green.

The skies were so cold that they made the trees look pale.
But up above a thousand miles
stood the massive mountains,
who admired the tree's generosity for the air.
The air that was magic.
The air that made life.
The air that they could never feel.

The skies were so cold,
and every part of the nature looked pale.
There stood a weed. Straight. Strong. Inspired. With Hope. Holding a wish!

Mai Azad Ho (Poem)

Take me to the time,
When the trees were a little high
And the stars were a little low.
Take me to the time,
When the sun was a little shy,
And the streets were a little slow.
Take ME, to that time!

The time,
When rage could meet every eye,
When 'nation-love' was our greatest ally,
When the brave made the minds blow.
Take me to the time that was a little while ago!

There, among the yellow fields, a 5 year old sow sticks to turn them into guns.

Bhagat Singh

(source: www.eyeartcollective.com)

There, thousand miles away from his soil, a man sketches his nation as free.

Subhas Chandra Bose

(source: www.kamat.com)

There, hiding behind a tree, a warrior shoots himself as getting killed by whites is not in his nature.

Chandra Shekhar Azad

(Source;proud2bindian.blogspot.com)

Take me to that time,
When you'd kneel down and rest your ear on any man's chest,
with every sound of his heartbeat you'd hear a scream:
MAI AZAD HO

Let my motherland become a war zone,
and may the white blood wreck my land.
Their bodies will be buried in my soil,
And thus will come that day
When our kids would walk over the place
where the whites silently lay.
Come with me to the battle zone,
We'll sing a war cry together!
And when the enemy stands before us with a rifle in his hands,
we'll look him in his blue eyes and shout:
MAI AZAD HO.

Or Take me to that time,
Not to die,
but to meet those great men and tell them that now we hate half of the people they died for.

Inside creative minds

"There have been lives within the dirt,
Sow a seed and let them live again!"
He thought.
She thought.

"Let's start with a seed."
He thought.
She thought.

"A little kid with his friends might be the perfect people to sow that seed."
He thought.
She thought.

"The seed will sprout above into the darkness that the kids live in. Piercing through the soil, it'll introduce a pinch of green into that black."
He thought.
She thought.

"Little kids will be there to cherish the green they've made. They'll water the seedling until it grows into a healthy plant. During the same, they'll be oblivious of the greens that their own brown bodies were made of."
He thought.
She thought.

"The end should be tragic"
He decided.
She decided.

"A storm comes. The plant is gone. Little souls are now heavy."
He sighs.
She sighs.

"This will be a hit"
He smiles.
She smiles.

He took out his paintbrush while she searched for her pen.
He had a canvas.
She had a notebook.