You're There, Yet Not There

you're there and yet not there, 

like the moon of the amavasya sky,

but the high tides of the seas,

true to their spirit, always give it away 

you're there and yet never there, 

like dreams, that blossomed under the moon's stare,

but between the made-up stories and the real memories,

the drama always give it away

you're there, and yet never there, 

like eons back, when lives got fused from afar,

until after years and light years, when the beans were spilled,

god's script gave it all away

you're there, yet never there, 

like the fleeting faith - upon the tsunamis' scare,

but the scars that gape, when faith and trust were slayed,

always gave it away!

© sashikant mohanty

The Dreams That Shouldn't Have Been

 

the mountains look complete with the streams,

but the streams are destined only to flow over them,

not to belong, not to merge with them,

other than when their fates are frozen, 

simply to make believe they are one

they tug at my heart, as if missing, 

and they draw me towards them stronger than ever,

especially when a song dances through the snow-clad clippings,

but have you known a mountain, you'd go to, and enjoy alone?

there's none, i'm missing today, as if it's a vacuum, 

i'm sure, i'm not missed today, 

or was ever, as if i didn't exist, just like a stone,

but the mountain song from the eons back

made a chill rise through my spine, 

and rekindled a dream again, that shouldn't have been mine 

you could be a rock for some, or maybe a someone,

you might have been the mountain to a stream,

but never let hope weave a pipe dream -

for the stream, you're not their rock, or their mountains,

you're just a stone, to stride over and leave stains!

© sashikant mohanty 

Inner Voice

 

when her inner voice was muted

it was no suprise

that she gets sound sleep after robbing his:

it yelled through the patterns,

the snubs, the disdain and the hugs - as it suited

while the inner voice didn't hold her back,

and maybe, just maybe, it gave up;

it was a little wonder

that her rock, the one she once called god

was silenced, snapped, and the pattern haunted 

when the inner voice was gagged,

or, drowned in the noise of shallow pleasures,

it wasn't shocking, though the cycle repeating did surprise,

when the unselfish, unexpecting, unrelenting, 

the giving and forgiving

was repaid, again, with silencing and damning 

if his staying up despite the pains - and all else, 

so that she could sleep,

couldn't wake her up from the pretence of sleep,

what else could ever make the inner voice heard?

wake up - the ever trusted one,

the one for whom my heart skipped a beat,

sit by me, let my nerves feel you, and hear your inner voice speak,

help my eyes find sleep, an unending sleep!

© sashikant mohanty 

Every Single Time

where hope dangles from
the last strand of a battered thread,
when fear trumps belief,
and hope is all but lost,
he appears in unseen, unexpected ways,
breathing life into hope, 
breathing hope into life.
every single time

when living stops, 
and existence begins, 
when the guilt of karma 
weighs one down, 
when fear of loss is heavier
than the tallest of the mountains,
when breath becomes short,
and strength vanishes from the knees,
strange are his ways, 
he ushers blessings into the impossible
and ushers the impossible into blessings,
every single time

when the wounds are deep, 
and the pains, 
overflowing and overwhelming, 
when sleep fails, 
and tears flow like a gusty flood,
and prayers are relentless, 
he steps out of the stone,
and the wood,
scripts the unbelievable, 
weaves the surreal,
blessing miracles through healing,
blessing healing through miracles,
every single time

when hope is battered 
by storms,
and belief and faith and trust
by tsunamis,
when healings and memories,
face the peril of being washed away, 
he showers his melting,
and wields his pen, 
and scripts the game, yet again,
to finally toss the sunshine off the waves,
and wave the sunshine back to life,
to spring life into the wood,
and to spring life from the woods,
to add life to years, 
and to add years to life!
every. single. time.



© sashikant mohanty

Shades of Silence

silence means consent,

but it also reminds of deceit,

it is the language of submission,

of prayers, of spirituality,
and of being one with god,

was it also not the language of crooked,

the inept, the corrupt and the crafty?

if silence heals wounds that words can't

it also inflicts irreparable blows,

if silence is the language
that draws together lovebirds,

silence is also the last straw
between soulmates

if silence of winter nights is the stage,

decked with memories galore,

that play, and replay fond stories,

from both distant past, and near, 

and make warm tears roll,

the silence of still dark nights 

is also the altar,

where the angst, the nightmares, 

and the unkindest cut on the soul,

come alive from the rubble,

play, rewind and replay a hundred times,

but my soul is too dead to cry today 

​silence is powerful,

and yet the weapon of cowards,

in silence, the wise wear their prudence,

yet it's shades of silence,

that are the fools' best friends,

silence signals resignation, withdrawal,

and end of life,

yet, silence is also a lie,

when the least you could,
was to say an "aye"

unshaken and unconditional silence

could beat the scariest tsunamis,

and force the storms,
your fears and tears, to trace back,

but, in this race
where
one's virtue is the other's vice,
can silence, 

ever be the answer 

to a zillion unsolved puzzles?

© sashikant mohanty 

The Invisible Broken

​everyone notices 

when something is broken from outside,

a broken toy, a broken leg, 

a broken forehead,

when someone's hospitalized,

for a heart attack,

or bleeds from an accident

but do you ever notice,

when someone's broken from within,

of broken sleep, a broken life,

a broken heart, or a splintered soul,

when someone's wearing away,
biding his time through sleepless nights,
and not-happening days,

fighting destiny, 

right in front of you,
but without a drop of blood?

you can't not notice,

when the one in pain opens up,

or is, simply, in sight,

and the lucky ones get what they wished,

even as the thought shapes up,
in their thoughts,

as there's a someone
who's always kept them in their thoughts

but do you even notice

the one who coils back into shell,
every so often,
fighting the racing unformed tears,
and the invisible broken,
tired of life, and the unfair world,

yet puts up a smile,

even as he bears
the burden of destiny, in his heart,

and the brunt of merciless fate
on his shoulders,

day after day,

and still people envy him,

even for his stubborn smile?

​

© sashikant mohanty 

The Little Birdie

as the chill of the winter,
shook its last traces
of the season,
the little birdie
perched on a wrinkled roof,
and tried to gather its balance,
to avoid falling off,
from the rim of the roof

as the smoky cloud
cleared up,
and uncovered the azure blue skies
beyond the endless,
and the infinity,
the little birdie
whistled a note,
far sweeter than the flute,
as it rested,
on a nice cozy bunch of twigs,
and made up for the
sleepless nights, and restless days

as the train blared,
and emerged from the clearing,
as its soul rose,
as if from the holy dip of the kumbh,
the little birdie,
perched on the window rails,
and she was the toast
of the gaze,
as if there for a banter,
and a sip of chai,
to make up for the train journey
that never was

the little birdie,
had not given up, in a long time,
but, it couldn't anymore,
unable to withstand
its own weight,
it fell off from its perching,
the calm made way for a stirring,
and a stream gushed,
and swept over the cheeks,
as the bloodshot veins
of the sore eyes
gave it away,
as the storm in his soul
was met
by the storm
in a long-lost soul!




© sashikant mohanty