I AM THE VOTE

                I am the vote,
               The passport you need, 
               To enter the corridors of power,
               And enjoy all their privileges.
                

              I am given to you willingly. 
              By the people in the streets.
             Trusting you and your words.
              To get their hopes fulfilled.

             It's me that helps you reach,
             The status  you  occupy,
             It's me again that can pull you down,
             If you fail to deliver your promises.

             Wonder why you ignore this  truth
             And come to realise it,
             Only when you need me again,

             Too late to make amends then.

NOT A POEM

           It is not a poem,
       If it isn't born in the heart,
      And flows down like a river,
     To bless everyone on the way.

      It's hardly worth the name,
      If it fails to go deep down, 
      Into the heart of the reader, 
       Touching its softest spot.

      It's not a living poem, 
      Unless it does breathe out,
      Noble emotions like love,
      Empathy and compassion,

         It's not worth relishing,
         If loaded with heavy words,
         Does need to be explained, 
         Before making its way to your heart. 
   

   
    

MOUNTAINS.......

                   

                                                                                                                           Mountains are,
           The unwritten lessons,
            For us to learn,                                                               
            From the book of Nature.                                                                                                                                               

           The most impressive models,
           Of steadfast forbearance, 
           Inspiring without a word, 
           Teaching in deep silence. 

       " Take a right stand," they say,
        "And resolve to stay on it,,
          Never ever compromise with,
          What you think to be unjust. 

          Let nothing upset you ever,
         Or make you vulnerable,
          Whether snow or scorching sun, 
           Thunder or fierce lightning "

          There are mountains among us too,
          Who stand upright and  fight,
          Through all kinds of weathers
          To uphold what is right.

Photo credit
  Sumit Pant

IT IS THAT TIME OF THE YEAR

        It is that time of the year, 
      When the Sun comes rather late, 
       But, seems in a hurry to depart,
       Cutting short the warm daylight.

        It is that time of the year,
        When the hills wrap themselves,
         In clean, white robes and stand, 
         Waiting for the winter to pass.

          It is that time of the year, 
           When cold-blooded animals,
            Go into deep hibernation, 
            Lest they are frozen to death. 

          It is that time of the year,
         When birds from snowy climes,
        Come flying thousands of miles,
        To survive in sunny regions.

           It is that time of the year,
             Which the rich find most enjoyable,
             With all the weapons in their hands,
             To fight the cruel weather.

          But  for the poor and homeless,
          It's nothing short of a marauder,
          Which comes  just to torture them, 
            And make life even harder.
          

WINTER AFTERNOONS

      There is something really appalling, 
      About winter afternoons,
     That hurts and scares intensely,  
     Sparing hardly anyone.

Far on the western horizon, 
The sun goes sliding down,
Winding up its golden light,
As if in a hurry to resign.

Birds fly desperately towards trees, 
Flutter over and around them,
In search of safe shelters,
To spend their night hours.

Flowers and plants  around, 
Fold their leaves in caution,
And shrink themselves within,
For fear of being frostbitten.

 Whether  humans or animals, 
 All appear to be  in a haste,
To return to the safety of a home,
Before the onset of the cruel attacker.

गीता जयन्ती पर....

DECEMBER SUN ....

                  

The December sun  feels,
Like a hand from heaven  
Wiping out the  deadly frost,
From the face of  the earth,
With its soft, warm touch.

The December Sun is, 
Like the first cool showers,

After a long spell of summer,
Reviving hope of life,
In the landscape everywhere. 

December Sun is, 
Like the offer of a good job,
To  an unemployed  youth
 Struggling to be self-dependent,

To realise his long-cherished dreams.
 

The December Sun  is, 
Like the gift of a warm blanket,
By a stranger to the homeless beggar,
Shivering  on the footpath,
 On a freezing, cold night.