Such Poet is Called Divine

Silence too has words,
There is a reference to a question.
Then drops gather to form the ocean,
And words play to form thoughts.
Then the words’ ocean yields to a world creative,
In the folds of words lies the essence of rhyme,
Such a poet is called divine.

Before knowing others, he knows self,
He doesn’t only see the laughter but recognizes the pain as well,
Then such a poet is called divine.

He takes depth from the ocean and heights from the cosmos,
And walks into the garden of thoughts,
Such a poet is called divine.

My Journey Begins

I spin my web, my journey begins,
Soul dances, and my life grins.
O, with you, Lord, I started now,
Soul with soul, let’s make it twins.

Let’s arise, awake, and win,
I know it’s arduous, let us be courageous.
Let’s not be ensnared in the web,
Make life marvelous, and on time attack.

It’s time to remember you,
Make this journey lovely,
Let my heart pursue,
So our spirits renew.

Always Feel Delight

"Leave thy beauty, leave thy shine,
If others are not at their cloud nine.
No beauty is born to blush
If someone's heart is crushed.
No beauty shines if happiness not align,
Tears fall from eyes, no joy can arise.
For happiness comes from share,
And aloof lives rare.
Share, share, share, share your care,
Align with nature, move outside,
Fill your heart with others' pain and sight,
Then you too be contented,
And always feel delight"

“Drops from the Ocean”
A Poetic Monologue

I often wonder…
What does it mean to read?
To truly read?
A writer writes with a soul’s whisper,
A perspective etched in ink—
But I, the reader,
I search with yearning eyes,
Knowing well
I can never hold every thought they birthed,
Every silence they sowed between the lines.
Literature—
It is a vast, infinite ocean.
And I?
I gather drops.
Tiny, trembling drops in my palm—
Drops of wonder, of wisdom,
Of truth dressed in fiction,
Of pain hidden in poetry.
But there are days…
Oh, there are days
When I feel like I haven’t even touched the water.
As if all my reading, all my seeking,
Has left me dry.
Anxious.
Inadequate.
And yet—
In that aching moment,
A quiet turning begins.
The soul leans closer.
The heart opens wider.
And I realize—
This emptiness is not the end.
It is the beginning.
A sacred pause before the next dive.
A readiness to collect not just drops,
But to drink with love,
With reverence.
For what I collect may be few,
But if gathered with love,
They are enough.

Yes, sleep is the rehearsal of death,
Where conscious moves away and hearts rest.
In the quiet dark, the soul is free,
Like waves of time, a silent sea.

Life is but a dream of night,
Life is but a dream of night,
After life, there is morning bright.
Not to fear, but to trust the flight,
As we sleep, we learn to say goodnight.

After life, our ego dies,
Superego wins in the game of dice.
We reach the eternal, soul feels light.

"You two embedded silver threads
Changed thousands of lives, me too glad
You, keeper of whispered secrets,
Carrying silent lovers’ laughter.

In your ripples, you murmur their confessions,
Through gentle waves, oh silent tears.
Fleeting embraces, absorbed in your depth,
You hold on to these secrets, soulmate’s best friend,
Carrying them forward with endless flow.

Star-crossed, they cling to your silver threads,
Bound by love, yet torn by fate.
Denied by those who gave them life,
They find solace in your endless embrace.

Like a mother cradling her lost children,
You carry them beyond sorrow’s reach,
Guiding them softly through your waves,
Until they become one with your depths."

I hold my pen tight, but no words come inside.
I think to write, but my thoughts collide.
The more I dive, the more I strive.
River of ideas come but go in a flash.
I chase them down, but they fade from light,
Like shadows vanishing before the night.
What I am facing is the writer's block,
A cage of silence, a ticking clock.
This moment of silence makes me sad.
Writer's block is a writer's death.
To be alive is to write endless.