"peepal" poems
A woman rests like a bud with poise
Smiling at the echoes of the posh world's voice
She is the cloud that carries the rain
Giving life to man's soul parched from anxieties and pain
Her value is more than all the world's treasures,
Not just the sum of scale's unit measures
To teach her the kiss of fame
And help her bloom in society like a flower
Few steps far to rule the science of space
Some working hard to make it swirl in daze
Some writing books down in the meadows
While some dance like divas casting beautiful shadows
And some are tender enough to tend to sick people
With supreme motherly love and the wisdom of peepal
Some express the feelings by the magic of their paint brush,
Which is auctioned pretty high to empty others purse
In the midst of these successful women
There does exist a fearsome creature we call men
When will the sun rise in the sky
And bring those hidden buds talents to life
To conquer the world with their passions
And make the world shiver in awe by their fashion
To come up in life with a mission
Possessing colorful profession
And one should understand that
A woman is the pillar of a temple foundation
Where a man comes and goes with renewed inspirations
A woman is the flesh that holds the seed
The miracle of birth fullfilling human need
A woman is the mother of a new generation
And only we can be the direction of that aspiration
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
"She smells raw mangoes
and chrysanthemums,
what a combination!
how exotic"
enamored city boy mused aloud,
kissing his newfound lover
a village belle,
under the shade
of a chattering peepal*
a rendezvous, so elating
he could never imagine.
"They didn't pay me much
to pick the mangoes, still not ripe;
had to pluck flowers in the afternoon,
for decent wages"
she candidly told.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Around Mayadevi Temple (Circa)
Surrounded by pillars of our age
Cultivated with reminiscence of a
graceful child and his mother
Smiling ruins reflecting the history
A child of destiny who stepped in
with his seven birth steps over lotus
A tribute from Ashoka,
Cylindrical pillar inscribing his regards,
To the one who chose world enlightenment
over easy royal luxury,
To the one who turned him knight of peace
from emperor of wars.
No Shoes Allowed Inside
Leave your turbulence and rush out the gate
The chanting of mantras will cool down your hot head
The cameras of tourist will bring smiles to face
And at reflection on sacred pool,
Where Mother Mayadevi shed down her motherly sorrows
Over the transformation of Beloved Prince to Holy Buddha,
Let you find the lost purpose in ripples of calmness
The place where Sidhhartha played as child
and grew up to be Light of Asia
Nurture again the true purpose as for being Human
For Peace , For harmony, For Love
As you nap under revitalizing shades of Peepal trees
Inhale today, the air that whistles your resolves
Inside garden of peace, Around Mayadevi Temple
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
A young pandit
with infinity
in his eyes
smiles
When I ask
if I may pour
the holy prasad
into the roots
of the sacred
Peepal tree
The heart-shaped
leaves dance
as I approach
silk sari
fluttering
colors
They dance
before
and
after
dance
always
all is bliss
to the devas
of this lovely tree
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
Teri Kalam se meine apni Kalam Ko dekha
Phir tum likhti Rahi jaise ki Mann me khuch **
Jo lagatar dilo dimaag me guldasta bana Raha **
Aur likhte likhte mein tumhe dekhta raha..
Raah e dhoondta tumhare madhur geet aur yeh mazbur Dil
Dooriyaan aur peepal ki patti ki tarah Pavitra tum
Yeh mera mann Nashe me ghumta bas pyaar hi pyaar me
Sitaro ka jhilmilana
O Dil e nadaan
aakash ko Nadi me dekhta Chand e Tamannah
Akhiyon me doobta hazaron sapne liye
Dhoondta Dil e Raaz ...
...
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
#*Green heart, slender tips
Dry skeletal leaf remains
A canvas to paint*#
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 8:46 AM UTC
I stared at the haunted castle, blood red & abandoned by mortals, the cursed colour falling off in mortared chunks, revealing a dead gray beneath the lively crimson.
A double-bricked mansion no longer used by the government, but still adds charm to the endless garden, untended & overgrown.
I stare back at my grandmother, sitting by the mansion stairs, greedily dunking a large chunk of bread in her thermos cup that swirled with piping hot tea, its steam circling her golden mane under the 7 am sun.
She breaks off another humongous chunk, and wiggles her finger at me. I sit beside her as she shoves a soggy tea-soaked bread inside my mouth, as the Bengali track-clad uncles stare at us with knowing smiles.
The fishermen call for their wives behind us, as they speed down the slippery stairs of the Ghat with wicker baskets.The kids dive inside the murky water **** naked, racing towards the boat, slicing through the waters in a frenzy.
I wait for my grandmother to resume our morning walk but she finds a cemented bench under the Peepal shade and lies down. I remember the instructions my mother sent me with - to make her walk like the doctor said.
But I dive in, lodging myself within the crook of her arms as she sleeps, finding my place like I always do. The thermos is empty, but our stomachs are full. Two clumsily torn packets of sweet bread get swept away with the dried leaves as I watch the sunlight play along with the canopies. And we both conspire about how we will boast to my mother about the long routes we took during our walks. And the new exercises we tried.
Nonetheless, she doesn't move a joint, and I don't know about a single exercise routine yet. But I'm in her arms, and it's a good day.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC