Being Made to Believe

I was made to believe in all that’s right;
My elders told me good always prevails,
The day always follows the darkest night,
One succeeds despite all the times one fails;
They said keep faith, have strength, do the right thing;
Rise up each and every time you fall;
Trust in life, no matter what it may bring,
In time, tears do end, love does conquer all.

Now I’ve seen bad things happen to the good,
Seen fools prosper, the fatigue of the wise,
Though I lived just as I was told I should,
I acquired a heartache that never dies.
And yet I find I’ve this lesson to learn:
Those who leave, seldom, if ever, return.

They Warn Me

They warn me I speak too much of my heart:
I am too vocal about what I think:
I mention every thought right at its start:
Way before the mind and heart form a link.
They say I am too childlike and confess
All that I know; let my truth rule my voice;
And let my conscience turn its duress,
On certainties, both traumatic and nice.

I know not what power compels me so,
To hone neither tact nor diplomacy;
I love, I laugh, I cry, I feel, I show –
I may do it all quite complacently.
No burden of regret makes me believe;
I go on wearing my heart on my sleeve

If only I had loved him instead of you

If only I had loved him instead of you:
What all could have been different in me;
I would not have to become someone new,
Every time I hoped you would choose to see
How I looked to gain any affection
From your eyes that never softened on mine,
Or your hands that never sought direction
To touch me and still that moment in time.
If only I could love him. He looks at me
The way a thirsty soul seeks water
And the betrayal of hope that I see
Is of a lamb that knows it’s up for slaughter.
If only your love had been quite like his;
If only I could love him quite like this.

OLD FRIEND

I have nothing else to say to you now.
I have nothing more to offer or give.
I have spent my heart, I have kept each vow.
You forget all and I cannot forgive.
The torture of the heart (and there is one)
Is akin to a murder by drowning;
And all that was felt and said and done
Is now a matter for blackened mourning.
Words, like gales, seem to rush past as you leave,
Feelings, however, will not leave with you;
I have lost my faith, I cannot believe,
I cannot discern just which past was true.
And so, old friend, you have prepared me well:
I doubt heaven, I’m undaunted by hell.

I do

There are so many words you can tell me:
We can talk about solar system spheres,
The basic knowledge about biology,
Some soliloquy that is Shakespeare’s,
Talk of age old wars to current affairs,
Maybe speak about history’s mistakes,
Geographic cold global warming cares,
Or aquatic life in Scotland’s lakes.
There are so many things we can discuss,
Which may or may not cause an argument;
But there’s one thing that can contain a fuss,
Make one rejoice in flesh and firmament:
To end all I ask, “do you love me true?”
And you smile and say, “I do, love, I do.”

For Karandeep

I write poems for what lies close to my heart:

Sometimes when I’m happy, sometimes when sad,

Sometimes because loved ones have to depart

And good times are no longer to be had.

But time has its idiosyncrasies

And our past merges with the future,

Maybe fleeting moments will make us see

This leave-taking a fresh meeting nurtures.

There are many things left to do, feel, see;

But Time, it seems, has run so very short,

So I wish you many good things to be,

Many people who should love you a lot.

In time, as you look back at times we had,

Seek the Evening Star and be glad.

“I take a pencil and begin to write”

I take a pencil and begin to write

And will my defeated heart into flight:

It seeks and tests the newborn airs of spring;

But frightened it recoils back within.

The mind and the heart – they are never one!

One seems the moon and the other the sun:

One has layers and layers of being;

The other different ways of seeing;

In one matter, they’re affected the same,

When one has a limp, the other goes lame.

Poesy takes wing at times from burnt hope,

When the mind thinks with a million’s scope,

Crystalizing with the breaking of the heart,

Into words that represent tortured art.