Phases: A Collection of Poetry
A phase is defined as any stage in a series of events or a process of development; while we all go through different phases in life, at times we either forget to notice or simply become fearful of transitions, inadvertently being ignorant about the fact that this phenomenon is universal. In this short poetry collection, the blogger has attempted to capture this subtle yet powerful phenomenon – phases that are observable in every journey undertaken.
Here are the next three poems –
Glorious in this self-sacrificial act,
The sun spins silently on its spot
With an eye open and an eye closed,
Partly seeing the planetary drama and
Partly observing its blind burning core,
Loving-living the old eclipsing folklore.
Never out of tune or shying away
From that routine rotating pathway
As if in meditation and at peace,
Granting us our lives at lease.
We assume Time is standing still
Because of our sun’s steady will.
It is but a phase like the earlier ones
Where life played a different game and had won.
Like a wave gushing its way through
The barriers and entering our hearts,
The Moon loves playing the darts,
Winking, listening and inspiring like a true
Poet in practice, moonlight as ink
Together the moon-lovers drink.
Such is the friendship between the seekers
And the moon; safekeeping promises and secrets,
Along with a lonely soul’s rising hope
Of fulfilling a decorated dream and Co.
And this personification of moon into a friend
And a secret keeper, holding hands till the end
Is another phase, another image of the moon;
Quiet, calm, disciplined, it’s coming out soon.
On a great grand gargantuan pilgrimage,
Orbiting its way, the same old and unique,
Transforming, adjusting with every coming phase,
Our Earth, our only home, this blue-green maze,
Gravitationally inclined, time-space bound,
Nurtures with freedom the beings found
Inhabiting its being, its vision, its dream;
Rhythmically revolving, rising, but never asleep,
Timed its timing with Time, the Earth
Listens earnestly, abiding by the unknown.
How forgetful are we, who are just a phase,
A passing reality on the way to its pilgrimage…
We appear to be short sighted and too eager
To conquer the unconquerable, our planet, our nurturer.
- The Source
- In The Sundarbans
- The Knight’s Missing But The Horse’s Here
- Temple Food
- Walking and, Without Looking for it, Finding Narnia