MYSTERIES

Tell me of secrets and mysteries untold,
of untraveled roads and turning lead to gold;
unravel the unseen before my eyes,
tell me the truth in the language of lies.

 Take me on a journey into lands unknown,
where mermaids have walked and dodos have flown;
guide me through rivers of magical dust
that dawdle delicately from dawn to dusk.

Lead me over a bridge that crosses an abyss,
down an invisible path that is impossible to miss;
across a mountain that touches the sky,
into a cave where honest treasures lie.

Let me revel in revelations of things remarkable and rare,
bring to light dark tales that do not frighten or scare;
on the candid canvas of silence, perceptively portray,
with the brush of wisdom, the imperceptible truths even the wise cannot say.

Artwork “Forest – The End of Marmara” © DarkSilverFlame (Deviantart)

LOVE IS AN UNCUT DIAMOND

If the nature of love
you wish to understand,
think of it
as an uncut diamond
held in your hand.

Sharp,
and full of rough edges;
if held too tightly,
it can cut  you
like a blade.

Strong and eternal;
if polished with care,
it holds the potential
of a beauty rare,
one, that will never fade.

It is as ancient
as the world that made it,
and yet, seems forever new;
complex, when analyzed,
yet, so simple, it’s untrue.

JUST ANOTHER FACE IN THE CROWD

He is pushed aside by a crowd
running to catch a glimpse of a movie star;
as he gets to his feet,
he promises himself that, one day, he too will go far;
he thinks of that day, when,
by his achievements, they will all be wowed,
a day when he is no longer
just another face in the crowd.

The star gets out of his black limousine,
he looks jaded and weak;
a hundred people surround him
and scream his name out loud,
they want to touch him,
get close to him, hear him speak,
but he would rather be someplace else,
somewhere, where he is just another face in the crowd.

© Sharan Rao 2011
Artwork by smashmethod, deviantart.com

THE POET

“Goodness gracious me!
Are you writing poetry?”

“Yes ma’am, I am. I enjoy it, I really do,
Every now and then, writing a line or two.”

“Another poet! Oh dear! The world will be ruined, I fear.
But of all places, why are you writing here?”

“I’m just awaiting my turn, I have the flu;
So tell me, what’s ailing you?”

“My mind’s in a spin and I have an aching head,
And it’s all because of some poems I read.
You poets are wicked, you really are,
Your poetry seems so simple from afar,
But if one actually tries to interpret what you’ve said,
The only reward is an aching head!”

“I’m so sorry to hear that; if you’d like, I can explain
The art of reading poetry without feeling any pain.
See, if you understand the entire poem, then that’s very good;
You’ve actually done better than the poet thought you would.

But if you understand only parts, or nothing at all,
Don’t fret or cry, or bang your head against the wall.
If it makes no sense to you, it’s probably written for another,
So to critically inspect, dissect or bisect it, don’t bother,
Just treat it like mail which you’ve opened by accident;
For a poem will always make sense to those for whom it is meant.”

The lady sighed, and rubbed her head,
“I’ll think about what you’ve told me,” she said,
“But then, I wonder where THAT POET must be,
Who writes poems that are meant for me!”

THE ONSET OF THE MONSOON II

There’s a freshness in the air,
anticipation everywhere,
can you feel the coming rain?
And if you feel its scent linger,
can you hear what its bringer,
the ocean wind, is saying?

There’s a freshness in the air,
anticipation everywhere,
can you see the coming rain?
From the flashes up there,
can you tell when and where
the rain-gods will be playing?

There’s a freshness in the air,
anticipation everywhere,
can you hear the coming rain?
A roar above is proof
That soon, on your roof,
The rain dance will begin again.